AT THE PIT DOOR.

Lyttelton Times, Volume XCVI, Issue 11051, 1 September 1896, Page 2

AT THE PIT DOOR.

[By W. Pett Ridge.} (St James's Gazette.)

The long file of people, two abreast, waiting resignedly for the hour of 7.30 pan., look round sharply at the open space beside them when the girl with the guitar gives a preliminary strum. They are prepared to welcome anything calculated to chase monotony, for even halfpenny comic papers after a time cease to amuse, and those reminiscent of past performances develop, when they pass a certain line, into first-class bores. This is why the guitar girl comes opportunely, and, when she lifts up her chin and sings in a raucous voice to a tum-tum accompaniment, the two-abreast crowd listens with all its ears. E 913, at the end of the queue, looks on tolerantly, being a man with musical tastes, and consequently. of a genial disposition When you meet-a nice youug person, and you feel you’ve seen a worse one. And you seek an interduction, don’t you know. You are puzzled how to greet her, though no lady could he neater, So very shy and.strietly comilfo. • • You puzzle all your mind and brains, you take a deuced lot of pains, You ponder and consider, and you think. It’s a foolish, silly waste of time, take this advice, dear hoys of mine, For all you’ve got to do is—give a wink. Give a wink, boys— The long line that reaches to the pit doors finds itself forced to hum the enticing chorus, either in shrill soprano or growling bass, and one youug lady by herself, with a pince-nez and opera glasses for only chaperon, screws up her lips to whistle it. The guitar girl gives a second song —a sentimental one this time, with good-byes for ever and weeping sweetheai-ts and departing emigrants, and a waltz refrain, and nearly everybody dead and done for in the last verse. Then the guitar girl brings a scarlet plush bag that suggests the offertory, and, going down the line, gleans as much as eightpence-halfpenny. A stout man in a tweed cap and loose tweed suit, that cries aloud at elbows and knees for the darning-needle. He has a Windsor chair with him, and a slip of carpet, and these he places on the ground with much caro and particularity. Throws then his tweed cap on the ground, slips his jacket off, thumps himself on his broad chest, and bows to his audience. “ Ladies and gentlemen. I propose this evening to clime your kind indulgence whilst I submit to your notice a few feats of strength. I don’t prefess to do anything that’s not done perfectly striteforward, and I invite your attention to watch whether I do anything that, can be called trickery. If anyone can bowl me out at pretending to do something I don’t do, why i’ll forfait —” here the stout man slaps an apparently empty pocket—“ I will forfeit five golding sovereigns.” The long line has been a little unconcerned at the acrobat’s lecture; but the mention of as much as five pounds seems to quicken its interest. The heads turn round and watch the stout man acutely. “ I first take up the chair between my teeth— thus.” The Windsor chair is swung to and fro in the air. “ I then place the foot of one of its legs on my chin — thus.” The Windsor chair turns lazily round on its perilous axis. “ I now place my head between my knees, and I ’old the chair in my month — thus.” The stout man contorts himself into a preposterous position and does a kind of flag-signalling with the Windsor chair. “ 1 now put the chair a one side, and I venture to trespass on your valuable time for a few minutes whilst I show you some feats equal to those ’’—(the stout man for the first time speaks with acerbity)— “ equal to those that so-called aeribats at the music halls are getting their thirty pounds a week for.” The stout man holds one foot high and dances round on the other foot in the manner of the ladies at the Moulin Eouge; he performs the unattractive “ splits,” he stands on his head for a few moments; he walks about on his hands; he does nearly everything that nobody else wants to do. After each achievement he blows a quick kiss to the patient crowd. “ Thanking you one and all. ladies and gentlemen, for assisting me by yonr kind attention, I now ast you to remember that a man’s got his livin’ to make, although p’raps we may ’ave different ways of doing it. Can, you oblige, miss, by starting the subscription list with a copper? If I can only get a good-looking Thank you kindly, miss. And you, sir.” A melancholy staring boy on the pavement opposite. It is quite clear that he is about to do something; it is by no means clear what that something is to be. When the stout man has put on his coat and shouldered his Windsor chair and lifted his tweed cap to the crowd politely,, the melancholy boy moistens his lips and grasps the lamp-post with one hand. Then he whistles. He whistles, truth to say, extremely well, and he goes stolidly through the overture to “ Zampa,” and a frivolous polka, closing with “ Rule Britannia ” in such a spirit as to make every youth in the waiting line feel that unless he gives the melancholy youth at least a penny, he is nothing better than a traitor to his country.

A rattling of bones ! A banging of tambourines ! A ping-pong of banjoes ! Six men in straw hats and white canvas suits with scarlet stripes and perspiring blackened.- faces are in a semi-circle exchanging noisy repartee and—when they can think of no repartee—shouting loudly “ Ooray! ” “ D’you ’member that lil song of yours, Bones, that used to make people cry ?” “ Do I ’member ? ” inquires Bones (in the Ollendorfian manner) “ that lil song of mine that used to make people cry P Yes, sir; Ido ’member that lil song of mine that used to make people cry.” “Will you ’blige me by singing of it now ? ”

Bones is a short boy with a stubbled sandy moustache showing through the lamp-black on his face. He steps out of the semi-circle, makes a bow that is almost obsequious, whilst the others clatter and twang through the symphony. Then Bones looks up at the side of the theatre, and with a sort of ferocious pathos sings.—

Little Nellie’s joined the inegels. She has flown to realms above; Never more shall we "ere see her; Gorn’s the little soul we love.

But the mem’ry of her features, A Iways wif us will remine. And the sahnd of tiny voices. Lingers in our ears agine. The semi-circle joins in, taking its several parts in a strenuous way. Qorn gorn is she, gorn from all earthly strife, Free from all sorrer * * *

The lugubrious song has three verses, and the number is enough. The line of pit patrons becomes quite depressed, and sniffs a good deal, and one lady, borrowing her husband’s handkerchief, weeps openly and without restraint.

“ Song and dence ! ” shouts Tambourine, “ entitled ‘ Hev you seen a coloured coon called Pete ”

Again a noisy prelude. It is Tambourine himself who steps out this time, and he dances a few steps on the gravelled space as earnest of what is to come, and to a redfaced white-capped servant who is gazing intently out of the side-window of a neighbouring hotel he waves affectionate greetings and hugs his left side as though the sight of the red-faced domestic had affected his heart. I'm a sassy nigger gal, anil me frunt name it is

Sal. Soft chorus from the semi-circle: — Hey ye seen a coloured coon called Pete ? Tambourine continues: — And the games we darkies play, in the night and in

the day. Soft chorus as before : Hev ye seen a coloured coon called Pete ? But I want to ask you suthin’ and—

' The long straight crowd is beginning to look at its watches. The hour is 7.30 precisely, and what the crowd asks with much impatience is, that if they don’t mean to open the doors at 7.30, what on earth makes them put up 7.30 in the papers for ? The worst of theatres is that you can never— . .

A sound of moving holts. A closing up in the ranks of the long line. A warning word from.E 243. The song stops and the

minstrels hurry forward to the movin crowd with their straw hats outstretched. It is too late. The crowd is so much engaged in feeling for its half-crowns and in keeping a steady eye on the gaping open doorway that it cannot trouble about any more gifts to entertainers. “ ’Pon me blooming oath,” says Tambourine with much annoyance, “ if this ain’t jest like my adjective luck.”