“Boss!” said Spike plaintively.
“Remember—every single one of them, just where it belongs. See?”
“Very well, boss.”
The dejection in his voice would have moved the sternest to pity. Gloom had enveloped Spike’s spirit. The sunlight had gone out of his life.
It had also gone out of the lives of a good many other people at the castle. This was mainly due to the growing shadow of the day of the theatricals.
For pure discomfort there are few things in the world that can compete with the final rehearsals of an amateur theatrical performance at a country house. Every day the atmosphere becomes more heavily charged with restlessness and depression. The producer of the piece, especially if he is also the author of it, develops a sort of intermittent insanity. He plucks at his moustache, if he has one; at his hair, if he has not. He mutters to himself. He gives vent to occasional despairing cries. The soothing suavity which marked his demeanour in the earlier rehearsals disappears.
He no longer says with a winning smile, “Splendid, old man, splendid! Couldn’t be better. But I think we’ll take that over just once more, if you don’t mind.” Instead, he rolls his eyes and snaps out, “Once more, please. This’ll never do. At this rate we might just as well cut out the show altogether. What’s that? No, it won’t be all right on the night! Now, then, once more; and do pull yourselves together this time.” After which the scene is sulkily resumed; and conversation, when the parties concerned meet subsequently, is cold and strained.
Matters had reached this stage at the castle. Everybody was thoroughly tired of the piece, and, but for the thought of the disappointment which (presumably) would rack the neighbouring nobility and gentry if it were not to be produced, would have resigned their places without a twinge of regret. People who had schemed to get the best and longest parts were wishing now that they had been content with First Footman or Giles, a villager.
“I’ll never run an amateur show again as long as I live,” confided Charteris to Jimmy, almost tearfully. “It’s not good enough. Most of them aren’t word-perfect yet.”
“It’ll be all right——”