The programme was long enough already; and, besides, Florry’s sense of dramatic fitness made her look on a repetition of her prologue as something like barbarism. So Teddy and Lilla were told to go on again and bow their acknowledgments; which they did, kissing their hands ere they finally retired.
They had paved the way admirably for the others, and the fairy play was throughout a brilliant success. The curtain was rung down on a most picturesque tableau, while Max burned red fire at the wings, and the orchestra discoursed sweet music. Three times the curtain was raised before the audience would be satisfied; and even then there were calls for the “author”, and Florry was pulled on to the stage by a group of enthusiastic little fairies.
A big sigh of satisfaction seemed to come from everybody; and the onlookers were still assuring each other that nothing could beat the fairy play, when the orchestra struck up a familiar melody. All the boys on the benches began to hum appreciatively; and the curtain slowly rose, while across the stage in a couple of bounds sprang the First Little Nigger. His age was twelve, his face and hands were sooty-black; he wore a costume of scarlet-and-white striped cotton jacket, green knickerbockers, one scarlet and one white stocking, a white collar of enormous proportions, and a lovely horse-hair wig. After him came his nine brothers, in similar raiment, and in gradations of size, which ended in Teddy Bevers, who informed his hearers that he was the “Tenth Little Nigger Boy!”
Mr. Carlyon had written a new version of the historic ditty—a version strictly topical, and full of harmless local allusions, which won peals of laughter from the benches. The actors had been taught some amusing by-play; and their antics drew shrieks of delight from small boys and girls, who had gaped in uncomprehending wonderment at the Fairy Godmother. It was of no use to try to refuse an encore for the Ten Little Niggers, so Mr. Carlyon sent them on again to repeat their fun and frolic for the benefit of the little ones in front.
The niggers had brought the younger portion of the audience into such an uproarious condition that the feelings of the First Violin were sadly tried by the hubbub amid which she stepped on to the platform. But now, if ever, Woodend was on its good behaviour; and, as the elders wanted to “hear the music”, they coaxed and scolded the juniors into a restless silence. However, the melting strains of Raff’s “Cavatina” were not beyond the appreciation of anybody; and those who did not admire her plaintive performance for its own sake, were full of wonder at the skill of the First Violin. The next item on the programme was a vocal duet by Frances and her brother. Austin sang well in a charmingly fresh treble, with which his sister’s alto blended very prettily; and the pair had practised most conscientiously. This was the only number of the programme in which Frances’s name appeared. The girl had declined to be put down for anything which would give her prominence, because she knew her mother would prefer to see Austin to the fore, and Frances had a delicate instinct which warned her not to court jealousy by claiming too much for the Morland family. Austin had played one of the best parts in the fairy piece, was to play Hamlet in some scenes selected by Mr. Carlyon from Poole’s “Travesty”, and besides his duet with Frances, had a solo to sing. Nobody grudged the bright, good-natured boy his many appearances, but Frances felt that they ought to suffice for both.
The concert swung gaily on its way. The First Little Nigger, still sooty of face and brilliant of attire, sang Hard times come again no more to his own banjo accompaniment, and was rewarded by the sight of many pocket-handkerchiefs surreptitiously drawn forth. There was a flute solo from Guy Gordon, a musician whose fancy usually hovered between the jew’s-harp and the concertina; but on this occasion he gave a “Romance” for his more classical instrument, and moved to emulation every rustic owner of a penny whistle. Three little lads, dressed as sailor-boys, were immensely popular in a nautical ditty, which cast a general defiance at everybody who might presume to dispute the sovereignty of The Mistress of the Sea; and three little girls with three little brooms joined in a Housemaid’s Complaint, which set forth in touching terms the sufferings of domestics who were compelled to be up by ten, and to dine on cold mutton and fried potatoes. Songs, humorous and pathetic, filled up the concert programme, until it terminated in a costume chorus, How to make a Cake.
This item was an exemplification of the picturesque possibilities of familiar things. A table in the middle of the stage was presided over by Betty, attired in print frock, cap, and apron. In front of her on the table stood a big basin. To her entered a train of boy and girl cooks, carrying aloft bags and plates containing materials for cake-making. A lively song, descriptive of the action, accompanied Betty’s demonstration of the results of her cookery studies; the cake was mixed, kneaded, disposed of in a tin, and proudly borne off to an imaginary stove by Guy Gordon, the biggest baker. The song continued, descriptive of the delightful anticipations of the cake-makers; and when Guy returned carrying a huge plum-cake, this was promptly cut into slices by Betty and distributed among her helpers, who, munching under difficulties, marched round the stage to a triumphant chorus of “We’ll show you how to eat it!”
Max was to appear as Laertes in the Travesty, and had hitherto taken no more distinguished part in the entertainment than the playing of what it pleased him to call “twentieth fiddle” in the orchestra. But he now found greatness thrust upon him. No sooner had the cooks acknowledged their call and vanished, than Harry the giant uprose in his place, and boldly addressed Mr. Carlyon.
“Axing parding, sir, if I may make so bold, there’s some of us ’ere—me and my mates—wot knows as ’ow the young Doc’ can sing a rare good song. And we takes the liberty of askin’ Master Max to favour us.”
Harry’s speech created an immediate sensation; but his sentiments were upheld by prolonged applause from his “mates” and the audience generally.