“I wish I was!” cried poor Sam, glancing upward with tearful eyes and clasping his hands.
“Come now. You’ve joked enough. Go on and do your part,” said the puzzled manager.
“But I tell you I’m not joking. I couldn’t sing just now if you was to give me ten thousand pounds!”
It might have been the amount of the sum stated, or the tone in which it was stated—we know not—but the truth of what Sam said was borne so forcibly in upon the manager, that he went into a violent passion; sprang at Sam’s throat; hustled him towards a back door, and kicked him out into a back lane, where he sat down on an empty packing case, covered his face with his hands, bowed his head on his knees, and wept.
The manager returned on the stage, and, with a calm voice and manner, which proved himself to be a very fair actor, stated that Signor Twittorini had met with a sudden disaster—not a very serious one—which, however, rendered it impossible for him to re-appear just then, but that, if sufficiently recovered, he would appear towards the close of the evening.
This, with a very significant look and gesture from Ned Frog, quieted the audience to the extent at least of inducing them to do nothing worse than howl continuously for ten minutes, after which they allowed the performances to go on, and saved the keeper of order the trouble of knocking down a few of the most unruly.
Ned was the first to quit the hall when all was over. He did so by the back door, and found Sam still sitting on the door-step.
“What’s the matter with ye, youngster?” he said, going up to him. “You’ve made a pretty mess of it to-night.”
“I couldn’t help it—indeed I couldn’t. Perhaps I’ll do better next time.”
“Better! ha! ha! You couldn’t ha’ done better—if you’d on’y gone on. But why do ye sit there?”