“I managed very well till it came to the nose-thumbing bit, when I realized with horror that it was my own nose flesh I was thumbing. I had forgotten the mask! Unforgivable! So as soon as I could get away from Macgregor during the interval for the scene-change, I rushed to find Sir John and make my apologies. He had gone out into the stalls of the theatre, and was surrounded by a group of friends, who were congratulating him in lively tones, and I didn’t need to listen for long to find out that it was his performance on the rope they were talking about. So I crept away, and waited till he came backstage again. Then I approached him and said my humble say.

“Milady was with him and she said, ‘Jack, you’d be mad to throw it away. It’s a gift from God. If it fooled Reynolds and Lucy Bellamy it will fool anyone. They’ve known you for years, and it deceived them completely. You must let him do it.’ But Sir John was not a man to excuse anything, even a happy accident, and he fixed me with a stern eye. ‘Do you swear that was by accident? You weren’t presuming? Because I won’t put up with any presumption from a member of my company.’ ‘Sir John, I swear on the soul of my mother it was a mistake,’ I said. (Odd that I should have said that, but it was a very serious oath of Zovene’s, and I needed something serious at that moment; actually, at the time I spoke, my mother was living and whatever Ramsay says to the contrary, her soul was in bad repair.) ‘Very well,’ said Sir John, ‘we’ll keep it in. In future, when you walk the rope, wear your mask up on your head, as I do mine. And you’d better come to me for a lesson in make-up. You look like Guy Fawkes. And bear in mind that this is not to be a precedent. Any other clever ideas that come to you you’d be wise to suppress. I don’t encourage original thought in my productions.’ He looked angry as he walked away. I wanted to thank Milady for intervening on my behalf, but she was off to make a costume change.

“When I went back to Macgregor I thought he looked at me very queerly. ‘You’re a lucky laddie, Mungo Fetch,’ said he, ‘but don’t press your luck too hard. Many a small talent has come to grief that way.’ I asked him what he meant, but he just made his Scotch noise—‘Hut’—and went on with his work.

“I don’t think I would have dared to carry the matter any further if Holroyd and Frank Moore had not borne down on Macgregor after the last act. ‘What do you think of your Mungo now?’ said Frank, and once again they began to talk exactly as if I were not standing beside them, busy with a time-sheet. ‘I think it would have been better to give him another name,’ said Macgregor; ‘a fetch is an uncanny thing, and I don’t want anything uncanny in any theatre where I am in a place of responsibility.’ But Holroyd was as near buoyant as I ever saw him. ‘Uncanny, my eye,’ he said; ‘it’s the cherry on the top of the cake. The Guvnor’s close friends were deceived. Coup de théâtre they called it; that’s French for a bloody good wheeze.’ ‘You don’t need to tell me it’s French,’ said Macgregor. ‘I’ve no use for last-minute inspirations and unrehearsed effects. Amateurism, that’s what that comes to.’