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But even Bobby did not outdo the rest of us in willingness. Alice’s efforts were obvious tokens of remorse; she waited on Philip, was attentive to Mr. Clinton (who, I think, to this day believes that he made himself especially acceptable to “the young ladies”), and surpassed herself on the stage. Charles does not “come round” so quickly, but at the last moment he came and offered to yield the white plume. I confess I was rather vexed with Mr. Clinton for accepting it, but Alice and I despoiled our best hats of their black ostrich feathers to make it up to Charles, and he said, with some dignity, that he should never have offered the white one if he had not meant it to be accepted.

One thing took us by surprise. We had had more trouble over the dressing of the new Prince than the costumes and make-up of all the rest of the characters together cost–he was only just torn from the big looking-glass by his “call” to the stage, and, to our amazement, he seemed decidedly unwilling to go on.

“It’s a very odd thing, Miss Alice,” said he in accents so pitiable that I did not wonder that Alice did her best to encourage him,–“it’s a most extraordinary thing, but I feel quite nervous.”

“You’ll be all right when you’re once on,” said Alice; “mind you don’t forget that it depends on you to explain that it’s an invincible shield.”

“Which arm had I better wear it on?” said Mr. Clinton, shifting it nervously from side to side.

“The left, the left!” cried Alice. “Now you ought to be on.”

“Oh what shall I say?” cried our new hero.

“Say–‘Devastating Monster! my arm is mortal, and my sword was forged by human fingers, but this shield is invincible as —-‘”

“Second Prince,” called Charles impatiently, and Mr. Clinton was hustled on.

He was greeted with loud applause. He said afterwards that this put his part out of his head, that Alice had told him wrong, and that the shield was too small for him.

As a matter of fact he hammered and stammered and got himself and the piece into such confusion, that Philip lost patience as he lay awaiting his cue. With a fierce bellow he emerged from his cask, and roaring, “Avaunt, knight of the invincible shield and craven heart!” he crossed the stage with the full clatter of his canvas joints, and chased Mr. Clinton off at the left centre.

Once behind the scenes, he refused to go on again. He said that he had never played without a proper part at his uncle’s in Dublin, and thought our plan quite a mistake. Besides which, he had got toothache, and preferred to join the audience, which he did, and the play went on without him.

I was acting as stage-manager in the intervals of my part, when I noticed Mr. Clinton (not the ex-Prince, but his father, the surgeon) get up, and hastily leave his place among the spectators. But just as I was wondering at this, I was recalled to business by delay on the part of Bobby, who ought to have been on (with the lights down) as the Twelfth Traveller.

I found him at the left wing, with all the twelve hats fitted one over another, the whole pile resting on a chair.

“Bob, what are you after? You ought to be on.”

“All right,” said Bob, “Philip knows. He’s lashing his tail and doing some business till I’m ready. Help me to put this cushion under my cloak for a hump-back, will you? I didn’t like the twelfth hat, it’s too like the third one, so I’m going on as a Jew Pedlar. Give me that box. Now!” And before I could speak a roar of applause had greeted Bobby as he limped on in his twelve hats, crying, “Oh tear, oh tear! dish ish the tarkest night I ever shaw.”

But either we acted unusually well, or our audience was exceptionally kind, for it applauded everything and everybody till the curtain fell.