"By G——," said Davidge, "I never let him out of the box!"
On reflection, they had certainly finished the pantomime without him, although it did not strike them at the time, because, as he was no great actor, the business of the last two scenes had been arranged entirely between Davidge and Grimaldi. They lost no time in inquiring after the chest, and it was at length discovered in a cellar below the stage. On raising the lid, the Pantaloon was discovered, and a truly pitiable object he looked, although they were both not a little relieved to find he was alive, for, not knowing that the chest was perforated in various places, they had entertained some serious fears that when he did turn up, he might be found suffocated. Every necessary assistance was afforded him, and he never suffered in the slightest degree from his temporary confinement. He said that he had shouted as loud as he could, and had knocked and kicked against the sides of his prison, but that nobody had taken the least notice of him, which he attributed to the incessant noise and bustle behind the scenes. With the view of keeping the stage as clear as possible, everything used in a pantomime is put away at once; the chest was lowered by a trap into the cellar, notwithstanding the shouts from the Pantaloon, who, knowing that he would be released next day, went to sleep very quietly.
This was the version of the story given by the ingenious Mr. Coombes, and in this version Grimaldi was an implicit believer. We are rather disposed to think that Mr. Coombes might have thrown an additional light upon the matter by explaining that he had got into the chest that morning to turn the tables upon his assailants, the more so, as he received various little presents in the way of compensation for his imprisonment, with which he expressed himself perfectly satisfied.
This "Billy Coombes," or whatever the man's name may have been, once said a very ludicrous thing upon the stage, which convulsed the audience with laughter. The play was Romeo and Juliet, and he was cast to perform Sampson. The wardrobe of the theatre being very scanty, he was habited in a most absurd and ridiculous dress, every article of which had evidently formed a portion of a different suit, and which was, moreover, full three sizes too large for him, especially the coat, the cuffs of which, instead of ornamenting his wrists, dangled over his fingers' ends. In this disguise, "Billy," who waxed extremely wroth at the figure he cut, presented himself to the audience, and was, of course, received with a loud laugh.
Now, in the first scene of the play, Sampson, according to the stage-direction, has to bite his thumb at Abram, a servitor of the rival house, upon which the following dialogue ensues:—
"Abram. Do you bite your thumb at us, sir?
"Samp. (aside) Is the law on our side if I say ay?
"Gregory. No.
"Samp. No, sir, I do not bite my thumb at you, sir; but I bite my thumb sir."
Billy Coombes very coolly omitted biting his thumb at all but the actor who played Abram, desirous to carry on the business of the scene, thought it best to take it for granted that the stage-direction had been complied with, and turning indignantly round, said,
"Do you bite your thumb at us, sir?"
"No, sir," replied Billy Coombes, in a clear and loud voice; "I would, sir, with pleasure, only my master puts me into such a queer coat, sir," holding up one of the long sleeves, "that I can't get at my fist for the life of me."
The audience roared, the actors laughed, and for some minutes the stage-business was at a complete stand-still: Billy meanwhile making many apparently sincere and laboured attempts to uncover his hand, in which at last he thought proper to succeed, and giving the right cue, the play went on.