With Harrasford it was always “And next?” like a man who never has more than just so many minutes to spare, because his train’s waiting.
It was a curious sight to see the two talking together in low voices, with an occasional glance at the door when some indiscreet person looked in. They might have been taken for a pair of conspirators plotting a move; no one would ever have suspected that they were composing a performance, unique of its sort, which would be famous to-morrow. Everything was provided for: scenery, music, the color of the dresses, effects of light, the alternate doses of laughter or grace or terror to be served up to the audience; everything was discussed then and there, in all its details, down to those two sketch-comedians, with faces streaked red and white, against a back-drop representing an old English street, two drunken sports, with hats mashed in, coats turned inside out, ten minutes of mad tricks and inhuman cries; for the audience must have its pittance of the grotesque as well.
There was a herd of comic elephants, five enormous animals in a Hindoo setting; and no master on the stage, no boss, no prof: they all obeyed a whistle blown in the wings. And, conducting the orchestra with an air of unspeakable gravity, a monkey, Mozart II., a caricature of an infant prodigy, made the huge brutes perform their evolutions, to the Soldiers’ Chorus from Faust. Then, in his enthusiasm, Mozart sent his desk flying into the air, followed by his coat, his shoes, his conductor’s baton, and ended by seizing his tail in his hand and beating time with that.
“That dishes Orpheus and Mad-darewski,” said Harrasford. “And next?”
The entr’acte came next, with portraits and biographies of the artistes distributed among the audience.
“Yes, yes,” said Harrasford, laughing. “Old English families ... clergymen’s daughters....”
“Learned all that with their governesses, as a surprise for their Pa and Ma!” continued Jimmy. “Mozart II., a favorite of the king of Lahore; Patti-Patty, a descendant of the Queen of Sheba: we’ve got to do it. There’s no getting away from it.”
“We must hide the bruises,” said Harrasford. “And next?”
“Next, I hope to have the Bambinis: ten minutes of rosy mirth; real biographical babies, born with that in their blood, brother and sister, two marvels. I shall obtain permission for them to appear, though they’re under the age; the old father is dying, the famous Martello.”
“We must engage them for my tour,” said Harrasford.