“Comin’ on from the city,” said Uncle Phil.
CHAPTER V
IN WHICH THE GENTLE READER IS TAKEN
TO THE PANTOMIME IN THE COMPANY OF
MARGE AND TIMOTHY AND ALICE CLARA
AND DICK AND THE BABE AND HELEN
AND LUCY NANNA, AND WE HOPE YOU’LL
ENJOY IT AS MUCH AS THEY DID
The door of Marge’s taxi was opened by a benevolent bewhiskered policeman, who, being himself a family man, lifted her out as if he was pleased to see her. Uncle Phil then handed out Timothy and Alice Clara; and then he got out himself and performed an action which we are forced to view with regret. He opened the little purse which he kept in the pocket opposite to the gold hunting repeater, and presented a whole “bar” to the member of the criminal classes whose number we have so unfortunately omitted to take. And that dark-visaged misdemeanant, who, if every man had had his due would have had the blood of half the West End of London on what he was pleased to call his conscience, spat for luck on his guilty emolument when no one was looking, and thought of the new hat he would be able to buy the missus. At least we hope he did, although Mr. G-lsw-rthy rather has his doubts.
Shoals of other kids were converging upon the portals of Drury; kids in taxis, kids in growlers, kids on foot. It was 1:28, and all were frightfully anxious to be in their places by the time the curtain—the real, not the fireproof curtain—went up. Timothy and Alice Clara were inclined to hustle round a bit, but Marge had such implicit faith in Uncle Phil that to her mind hustling was not called for and was therefore unladylike.
In justice to Marge, it is only fair to say that her faith in Uncle Phil was justified. Crowds of arrivals were in the vestibules; kids with their fathers, kids with their mothers, kids with their nannas, kids with their maiden aunts. But straight as a die Uncle Phil cut out a course for his convoy. In double file his party of seven—five kids and two quite nice-looking nannas—followed in the wake of his astrachan collar and whanghee cane with silver mountings. At 1:29 Marge was seated in Box B, next to the stage and on a level with the dress circle. Timothy and Alice Clara and Dick and the Babe were seated beside her—certainly a great triumph for all concerned, including the criminal eating his dinner out of his handkerchief within a stone’s throw of the editorial office of the Spectator.
Uncle Phil bought a programme and paid a shilling for it, although sixpence was the price.
“Cinderella, I see. Rippin’.”
Marge knew it was Cinderella. She had dreamed that it was. Besides all the best pantomimes are Cinderella. But where was Daddy? Why didn’t he make haste? There was Mr. Lover—loud applause—the orchestra was tuning up. Oh, why didn’t Daddy—
Oh, joy! Oh, providence! Daddy came into Box B just as Marge was inquiring for him, in his tall hat, fresh from Mincing Lane. A rather tired and sad-looking Daddy, a little hollow in the cheeks and with rings under his eyes, although fortunately Marge didn’t notice them. But as soon as he caught sight of the heir to the barony, which his other name is Uncle Phil, a smile seemed to come right over him.
“Damned good of you, old boy,” he said, as he hung up his tall hat beside the very latest performance on the part of Messrs. Scott. “Ungodly hour to begin,” said Daddy. “Hope you got your lunch all right.”