“I had just got through my inspection when I saw old Jack coming in from the hall. There was no one about at that hour, and the stage was dark. But dark as it was I could see that the old man was ghastly pale. I didn’t speak, for I wasn’t near enough, and as he was moving very silently behind the scenes I thought that perhaps he wouldn’t like anyone to notice that he had been away. I thought the best thing I could do would be to clear out of the way, so I went back and had another cup of tea.

“I came away a little before the men, who had nothing to think of except to be in their places when Haliday’s whistle sounded. I went to report myself to my master, who was in his own little glass-partitioned den at the back of the carpenter’s shop. He was there bent over his own bench, and was filing away at something so intently that he did not seem to hear me; so I cleared out. I tell you, Ladies and Gents., that from an apprentice point of view it is not wise to be too obtrusive when your master is attending to some private matter of his own!

“When the ‘get-ready’ time came and the lights went up, there was Haliday as usual at his post. He looked very white and ill—so ill that the stage manager, when he came in, said to him that if he liked to go home and rest he would see that all his work would be attended to. He thanked him, and said that he thought he would be able to stay. ‘I do feel a little weak and ill, sir,’ he said. ‘I felt just now for a few moments as if I was going to faint. But that’s gone by already, and I’m sure I shall be able to get through the work before us all right.’

“Then the doors was opened, and the Saturday night audience came rushing and tumbling in. The Victoria was a great Saturday night house. No matter what other nights might be, that was sure to be good. They used to say in the perfesh that the Victoria lived on it, and that the management was on holiday for the rest of the week. The actors knew it, and no matter how slack they might be from Monday to Friday they was all taut and trim then. There was no walking through and no fluffing on Saturday nights—or else they’d have had the bird.

“Mortimer was one of the most particular of the lot in this way. He never was slack at any time—indeed, slackness is not a harlequin’s fault, for if there’s slackness there’s no harlequin, that’s all. But Mortimer always put on an extra bit on the Saturday night. When he jumped up through the star trap he always went then a couple of feet higher. To do this we had always to put on a lot more weight. This he always saw to himself; for, mind you, it’s no joke being driven up through the trap as if you was shot out of a gun. The points of the star had to be kept free, and the hinges at their bases must be well oiled, or else there can be a disaster at any time. Moreover, ‘tis the duty of someone appointed for the purpose to see that all is clear upon the stage. I remember hearing that once at New York, many years ago now, a harlequin was killed by a ‘grip’—as the Yankees call a carpenter—what outsiders here call a scene-shifter—walking over the trap just as the stroke had been given to let go the counter-weights. It wasn’t much satisfaction to the widow to know that the ‘grip’ was killed too.