When I entered the Fresher’s room I found Lord St. Ronots and another St. Union’s man called Hawkes, Downey of Lichfield, and a certain Italian Count by the name of Imarisa. Reggie and Accrington had also come in, but as they were busily engaged playing different tunes upon the same piano, I do not include them among the respectable people. As we commenced operations upon the inevitable lobster salad, and the Fresher succeeded in inducing his scout, who had three other parties on the staircase, to attend to us for fully two consecutive minutes, St. Ronots remarked that the panto at the Suburban was not covered with dust to any appreciable extent, which for St. Ronots, and still more for the Suburban, is a great concession. Downey said that he intended going to see the show, and when Reggie in his usual charming way mentioned that I was going with him and several other people, I began to realise that most of the very best would patronise the Suburban that night. We decided to make a circular tour of the ancient and moth-eaten city after lunch for the purpose of beating up recruits, but meanwhile we were perforce constrained to turn our attention to the ‘savoury viands’—as the late W. Shakespeare would probably have said.
There was no lack of incident to vary the monotony of mere eating, for the Fresher persisted in consuming noxious Virginian cigarettes between each dish, while Reggie accompanied every entry of the scout by martial airs upon the piano. It may perhaps be as well to mention that this did not necessitate any exceptional exertion on Reggie’s part, or he would certainly never have done it, but he merely leant back in his chair and played the piano with ease, the dimensions of the Fresher’s apartment being somewhat restricted.
After lunch was over we all went round in a body to St. Union’s and other Colleges in search of joyful souls to join us for the evening’s jaunt, and while passing through the Corn on our way to Thomas’, we met Elgar of King’s and two titled foreigners, who informed us that they were ‘looking for trouble.’ This sounded promising, and so we enlisted their services immediately and invited them to coffee at our digs after dinner. We extended a like invitation to most of the other people we met that afternoon, and then hastened back to the Pilot-House—as Reggie now calls our establishment—to order a festive little dinner.
Our dinner party was a small one. There were only de Beresford, Evelyn, and Farmborough, besides our three selves, but the real fun began when Elgar turned up about half-past seven with an old pair of pyjamas, which he proceeded to don, and then treated us to a wild breakdown, regardless of the surrounding crockery and the unfortunate Mary Ellen, who waited upon us in fear and trembling. As Mrs. McNab often says to the Pilot, ‘It ain’t you three gentlemen what makes all the rampagingses, but it’s them there harum scarum friends of yours,’ which only shows how skilfully we conceal our little weaknesses from the powers below, who are in this case the Dig-Master and his wife. When we reached the coffee stage our little party increased very rapidly. Many of the gentlemen assembled appeared to find coffee insipid, and it was at this juncture that I discovered a bottle of Chartreuse in the cellarette, which I seized with the intention of serving out a few liqueurs, but there was no need for thimble glasses, as Stanhope and Freddy took their allowance in coffee, Squiff mixed his with champagne in equal proportions, while Elgar, who couldn’t find anything smaller, lapped up a half tumbler of the fire-water with much pomp. Finding that the bottle was quite empty I went to the window to see if any more visitors were in sight, and beheld for the first time an enormous array of cabs stretching for quite a healthy distance up and down the High. As the liquid refreshment was completely exhausted and it was growing late, I suggested an adjournment to the Suburban, and we left for that festive old barn in a body, three men in each hansom. On our arrival we soon skipped out and arranged to owe our cab fares, but taking tickets was a slower affair. The ticket office at the Suburban is modelled exactly upon those at railway stations, that is to say, it is placed so as to present the minimum of accessibility with the maximum of draught, but by dint of a little perseverance we eventually obtained two dozen stalls and streamed along the passage to the door of the House. When we got inside we were astonished to find more than a hundred Undergrads, instead of the usual contingent of anything from five to half-a-dozen, and this crowding unfortunately compelled us to divide our party. We exchanged friendly greetings with the various people known to us, and placed Elgar in an unobtrusive seat where he would not readily catch the Manager’s eye, and then prepared to watch the show itself. A most remarkable sort of Sister Anne person made his appearance upon the stage soon after our arrival, and some people who were outside the pale of the Elect assailed him with certain strange missiles, chiefly horticultural specimens, which must have stirred up Woodbine the manager, for immediately there descended upon us a shower of leaflets setting forth that ‘nothing must be thrown upon the stage,’ that ‘bouquets left at the office would be handed on to their destination,’ and that any one guilty of disorderly conduct ‘Would be Instantly Ejected.’ This unfortunate notice had exactly the contrary effect to what was intended, and two Gloucester men near me, who had brought a liberal supply of tangerines, immediately prepared for action. It was patent to the meanest intelligence that trouble was brewing, and Woodbine’s myrmidons closed up their serried ranks adjacent to the door. I noticed that our little party was sadly scattered, but was glad to see that Elgar was surrounded by several most stalwart allies. At this moment Downey, who was sitting in front of me and close to the outside of the House, on the left, rose in his seat and proceeded to conduct the orchestra with a folded programme. Now, though this is a form of amusement by no means uncommon at the Suburban, and not altogether unknown even at the theatre, it is often allowed to pass unnoticed and never evokes anything more than a polite remonstrance, but on this particular occasion the melancholy Woodbine is evidently on the war-path.
He advances to Downey, but instead of requesting him to leave off his peculiar amusement, snatches wildly at the programme itself, and in his anger falls over the men in front of him; then finding his own efforts unavailing, he summons the staff of porters who wear the livery of the establishment, and directs them to eject the self-appointed conductor. As this motley crew advances, and Woodbine himself very cautiously concentrates upon the rear, all the ’Varsity men in that part of the House rise in their places and make it impossible for the mercenaries to reach Downey, who is in the middle of a row, unless they first clear the intervening seats by force. Woodbine, foiled a second time, now summons O.P. 134, an enormous ‘peeler,’ who has been standing just outside the door on the other side of the House. The Bobby advances and endeavours to reach Downey, but is prevented by the men before him, who have resumed their seats, but make an impassable barrier by setting up their legs against the seats in front.
The officer of the law does not attempt to force his way through, but enters the row behind, where the inhabitants are disinterested strangers, and seizes Downey; then meeting with no opposition from the occupants of that row, he grips his victim firmly by the collar, and, pulling him over the back and top of his seat, proceeds to remove him from the House.
But at this moment St. Ronots, who conceals a desperate character beneath a mild and almost saintly exterior, took two flying leaps and caught the Bobby round the neck while Hawkes jerked him neatly off his feet. The gentleman in blue, as I have mentioned before, was of colossal height, and also suitably proportioned, so that his sudden fall brought down and completely demolished two rows of stalls, while some dozen chairs were carried away by a sudden rush of the men behind, who feared the impact of such an Herculean mass.
At this juncture I feared a really serious tumult, which would undoubtedly have ensued but for two reasons. In the first place Downey was seated quite close to the further exit, and, secondly, most of our mightiest men of valour were too far from the scene of action to take a hand. Though, as Accrington afterwards remarked, ‘It’s a cold deal that leaves me out.’
This was a very cold deal, for poor Downey was only a carcase in the grip of the monumental policeman, who soon regained the perpendicular and hustled him out of the auditorium with most creditable speed. The tumult, however, was not quelled in an instant, and Woodbine, who had incautiously anticipated the Bobby’s victory, received a chair-back just amidships, and went down among the dead men, to the detriment of his pince-nez and eternal cigarette. Reggie, having nobly retained his grip on Downey’s leg, was cut off by the sudden and quite unintentional fall of a respected greengrocer, who tumbled off his chair and bore poor Rex to the ground, while Hawkes, who had been endeavouring with Elgar and St. Ronots to release Downey from the grip of the law, was struck violently in the eye by something with the regulation number of features. After these casualties, O.P. 134 got his man out into the entrance, where he and No. 154 mounted guard over him until the Proctor, for whom Woodbine had telegraphed, should arrive.