“That’s his part, and he’s got to put it together and do the talk.
“Then the manager turns to Ormaloff and Augerstoff, and says: ‘Now, you two play the smugglers, do you hear? You’re to try and poison the young fellow, and you’re defeated.’
“Then he say to the wild woman: ‘You’re kept as a prisoner aboard the beacon, where your husband has been murdered. You have refused to become the wife of Ormaloff. Your child has been thrown overboard. You discover him in Frederick, and you scream when they are about to stab him, and also when he’s about to drink. Make as much of it as you can, please; and don’t forget the scream.’
“‘Winslade, you know your part. You’ve only got to follow Junk.’
“‘You’re to play the lady, you Miss. You’re in love with Frederick. You know the old business: ‘What! to part thus? Alas! alas! never to this moment have I confessed I love you!’’
“That’s a true picture of a mumming rehearsal, whether it’s fair or private business. Some of the young chaps stick in their parts. They get the stage-fever and knocking in the knees. We’ve had to shove them on to the scene. They keep on asking what they’re to say. ‘Oh, say anything!’ we tell ’em, and push ’em on to the stage.
“If a man’s not gifted with the gab, he’s no good at a booth. I’ve been with a chap acting ‘Mary Woodbine,’ and he hasn’t known a word of his part. Then, when he’s stuck, he has seized me by the throat, and said, ‘Caitiff! dog! be sure thou provest my wife unfaithful to me.’ Then I saw his dodge, and I said, ‘Oh, my lord!’ and he continued—‘Give me the proof, or thou hadst best been born a dog.’ Then I answered, ‘My lord, you wrong your wife, and torture me;’ and he said, ‘Forward, then, liar! dog!’ and we both rushed off.
“We were acting at Lock’s-fields, Walworth, once, doing private business, when we got into trouble, and were all put into prison for playing without a license. We had built up in a piece of private ground—in a dust-yard known as Calf’s—and we had been there eleven months doing exceedingly well. We treated the policeman every night, and gave him as much, with porter and money, that was equal to one shilling a-night, which was taken up from the company. It was something like a penny a-piece for the policeman, for we were rather afraid of something of the kind happening.
“It was about the time that ‘Oliver Twist’ was making such a success at the other theatres, and so we did a robbery from it, and brought out our version as ‘The Golden Farmer.’ Instead of having an artful dodge, we called our comic character Jimmy Twitcher, and made him do all the artful-dodgery business. We had three performances a-night in those days. We was in our second performance, and Jimmy Twitcher was in the act of getting through the window, and Hammer, the auctioneer, was asleep, saying in his sleep, ‘Knock ’em down! going! going! gone!’ when I saw the police in private clothes rising from the front seats, and coming towards the stage. They opened the side door, and let the other police in, about forty of them. Then the inspector said, ‘Ladies and gentlemen, I forbid any of you to move, as I arrest those people for performing without a license.’ Nobody moved. Three police took hold of me, one at each arm, and one at the back of the neck. They wouldn’t allow us to change our dresses, nor to take our other clothes, though they were close by. They marched us off to the Walworth station, along with about a hundred of the spectators, for some of them got away. My wife went to fetch my clothes for me, and they took her, too, and actually locked her up all night, though she was so near her pregnancy that the doctor ordered her pillows to sleep on. In the morning they took us all before the magistrate. The audience were fined one shilling a-head, or seven days; but they paid the shilling. We were all fined twenty shillings, or fourteen days. Some paid, but I couldn’t raise it, so I was walked off.
“We were all in an awful fright when we found ourselves in the police-cell that night. Some said we should get six months, others twelve, and all we could say was, ‘What on earth will our old women do?’