COMPETITIONS

Otago Witness, Issue 3003, 4 October 1911, Page 68

COMPETITIONS

AND A CHAMBER OF HORRORS. “Beg pardon, sir. No, you can’t come in. My orders. Who are you, anyway, and what do you want?” “If I were to tell you that I was Lord Beverley or the Earl of Broncaster, or the Nasty Kid, you wouldn’t believe me, and it wouldn’t be true —and what s the use, anyway?” . It was as black as the pit at the stage door, and a keen, searching wind whistled eerily round the corner. I was frozen to the marrow, and spotted with gooseflesh. I was all croapy, and the air was full of ghosts. A churchyard yawned in the distance, and the hoot" of a mo re pork sounded at tho back of Royal terrace. - Through a bridal veil of mist emerged two figures. I crouched beside the stage door and reoogjiioed thi©ni under tho sickly glimmet of la single gas jet. Undbmeath their dress cloaks gleamed thp Red Button and the order of the Double Dragon, while dangling from watchguards were free passes to the Hall of a Thousand Storks. . The impromptu speeches were about to commence. Already the orators were assembled. Wrapped in a great-coat, I slouched my 'hat, made a noise _ Like a successful competitor, and passed in It was a close call, but my troubles were not over. In the half-light of the stage entrance the lynx-eyed Cerberus recognised me. . , , t -j “So you’re here again. I thought 1 said you couldn’t get in?” “You spoke truth, Cerberus. I am here, but I’m not in,” . Some trick of manner and inflection of voice betrayed me, and the dawn of recognition lit up tho faithful keeper of the gate. “What, you! The Roman critic who lived a thousand years before the birth of musical comedy, before the safety bicycle, the ‘Merry Widow’ waltz, and ‘Yip-I-Addy’ back again !” No Roman critics or newspaper chaps to be allowed on the stage during the run of the Competitions, but it was cold and cheerless with the Lost Souls outside. In an obscure corner were the figures of Madame Tussaud’s Waxworks. Hastily throwing off my great-coat and wrapping a muffler round my throat, I pulled a can over my eyes, and stood, a graven im a g o, amongst the other wax figures in Madame Tussaud's. .The impromptu speeches were in full awing by this 'time, and I could hear the roars of laughter from the crowded house. I scarce dared move or blink an eyelid, but curiosity tempted me to see who were my companions. On my right was Palmar, the- coiner—a respectable enough chap in his way. On my left was a villainous creature with a scraggy black beard. A dirty red handkerchief was knotted round his throat, and - he had little beady black eyes that glinted snake-like. I shuddered as I recognised in him a noted murderer. I thought ho gave the merest semblance of a wink. Maybe it was only fiancy, yet he seemed, despite his murderous appearance, inclined to be friendly. I was about to ask him, casual like, how was business in his line, when the curtain was lowered and the judges went in front to announce their decisions. I could hear the audience applauding to the echo ©very time a popular competitor was

announced as (having won a place. As I was taking a note of the judge's remarks the stage was suddenly plunged in darkness.

Before I could make my escape the Stage Hands' Union was upon us. Palmer, the coiner, was dragged from his place and rushed across the stage. A lady with peroxide hair, whom I had not previously notiosd, but whose acquaintance I was to make later, was similarly treated. I was about to rush to her assistance when I remembered that Madame Peroxide—a noted baby-farmer—was a waxwork. My pal, the murderer, was torn from my side and propped up against the Coiner's Den. Again I lapsed, and tossed him a glance of pity. From his corner he seemed to smile back in grateful recognition. It came to my turn. A brawny propertyman seized me from behind, pinioned my arms, and clasped me so tightly that' had I not been a wax-work I would have screamed in very agony. Rushing in the dark, my head was banged up against the Coiner's Den, and 1 nearly knocked over the murderer.

I fancied I detected a steely glitter in his eyes, and was about to beg his pardon when the property man bore me aloft and plunge me down in a kind of. rostrum. I grabbed the top of the barrier, and stared straight ahead, trembling to hear the order "Lights!" My knees knocked together, and great" beads of cold perspiration broke out on my forehead. I had experienced the torture of stage-fright when playing the villain in a sensational melodrama in aid of the Boer War Fund, but this had stage fright beaten to death. So far I had heard nothing of the competitions, and for all the torture I was going through I had only made the acquaintance of a peroxide ladv who was a baby-farmer and a murderer in a waxworks 1

“Lights!” The click of the electric switch followed the order instanter. The stage was flooded. The life of that electrician who worked the switch would not have been worth a moment’s purchase had it been in the power of one miserable wretch in the Chamber of Horrors. “House lights!” 1 Another click of the switch-button, and the theatre was ablaze. It seemed to me that all the lights in all the world had been switched on, exposing my utmost soul. The buzz of expectation of the great house was as the roa.r of the ocean. It thundered in my ears, and drowned all other senses. I felt rather than eaw the sea of up-turned faces, pale and grinning in the white light. Then I knew that I was in the prisoner’s dock, in a vast hall of Justice in the City of Skulls I “Hey, mister, wake up! It’s time you werS home,” “Eh! w,hat’s that?” “Time your were home. The competitions are over long, ago.” I grabbed my hat and rushed down the stairs of His Majesty’s Theatre to see the red light of the last car for St. Clair disappear over the hill.