So that matter was attended to, and all was well, as I fondly thought. But next night, when I arrived at the theatre, the dismissed lanternist was there, raising no end of a bobbery and threatening everybody concerned with all sorts of dire revenge if he were not reinstated. He had been a lanternist for so many years, and no one had ever found any fault with him before, and so on, and so on. Finally he worked himself up into a mad rage, and we were obliged to send for the police to remove him. On their appearance he cooled down at once, and we saw that it was only bluff on his part. Still, a watchful eye was kept upon him, and we were not further molested. Neither was there any more trouble with the lantern.
Away back at the beginning of my lecturing experiences, before I had thought of lecturing as a source of income, I had conceived the idea of giving a lecture at our little hall, the converted cowshed at Peckham, which the irreverent called Troy Town Cathedral. It was a great effort in which all our little band took part, and we proposed to have a collection, which might, or more probably would not, pay for the gas. A neighbouring chapel very graciously lent us a lantern, a magnificent tri-unial, and our genial little chimney-sweep superintendent assured us that he was a perfect lanternist. Ascertaining that twelve feet of gas would be ample for a two hours’ show, I went to Brins’, in Horseferry Road, purchased a cylinder of that size, and with great pains conveyed it to the hall. We hired a blind organist who was a street musician but had a wonderful repertoire of sacred music and a very nice organ flutina, to be our orchestra, and issued our invitations.
The honorary lanternist and his friends were well on time, and got all the gear fixed up, so that when I arrived all was ready for the pictures. And the audience turned up in very satisfactory numbers. So far everything was splendid, and I commenced my address with great confidence, getting everybody’s attention from the commencement. But at the third slide I noticed that the light was so poor that the outlines of the picture could not be seen, and the following colloquy between the lanternist and myself ensued:
“Can’t you give us a little better light, Tommy?”
“I can’t, bruvver. I’ve tried all manner of ways, an’ I can’t get it no better. I don’t know what can be the matter wi’ it.”
“Well, if the pictures can’t be seen, I can’t go on,” I argued. “It’s no use me attempting to explain without the pictures.”
There was a hideous pause, which was improved by the organist softly improvising, until suddenly the lanternist cried, with a despairing note in his voice:
“There’s no more gas, that’s what’s the matter. I thought there was some’ink wrong.”
“But twelve feet of gas ought to last two hours,” I protested.
“I don’t know anyfink about that, I only know there ain’t no more ’ere. An’ that’s all there is about it.”