'Put dem back, boss!' he faltered.
'Every single one of them.'
'Boss!' said Spike, plaintively.
'Remember. Every single one of them, just where it belongs. See?'
'Very well, boss.'
The dejection in his voice would have moved the sternest to pity.
Gloom had enveloped Spike's spirit. The sunlight had gone out of his
life.
It had also gone out of the lives of a good many other people at the
castle. This was mainly due to the growing shadow of the day of the
theatricals.
For pure discomfort, there are few things in the world that can
compete with the final rehearsals of an amateur theatrical
performance at a country-house. Every day, the atmosphere becomes
more heavily charged with restlessness and depression. The producer
of the piece, especially if he be also the author of it, develops a
sort of intermittent insanity. He plucks at his mustache, if he has
one: at his hair, if he has not. He mutters to himself. He gives
vent to occasional despairing cries. The soothing suavity that
marked his demeanor in the earlier rehearsals disappears. He no
longer says with a winning smile, 'Splendid, old man, splendid.
Couldn't be better. But I think we'll take that over just once more,
if you don't mind.' Instead, he rolls his eyes, and snaps out, 'Once
more, please. This'll never do. At this rate, we might just as well
cut out the show altogether. What's that? No, it won't be all right
on the night! Now, then, once more; and do pull yourselves together
this time.' After this, the scene is sulkily resumed; and
conversation, when the parties concerned meet subsequently, is cold
and strained.
Matters had reached this stage at the castle. Everybody was
thoroughly tired of the piece, and, but for the thought of the
disappointment which (presumably) would rack the neighboring
nobility and gentry if it were not to be produced, would have
resigned their places without a twinge of regret. People who had
schemed to get the best and longest parts were wishing now that they
had been content with 'First Footman,' or 'Giles, a villager.'
'I'll never run an amateur show again as long as I live,' confided
Charteris to Jimmy almost tearfully. 'It's not good enough. Most of
them aren't word-perfect yet.'
'It'll be all right--'
'Oh, don't say it'll be all right on the night.'
'I wasn't going to,' said Jimmy. 'I was going to say it'll be all
right after the night. People will soon forget how badly the thing
went.'
'You're a nice, comforting sort of man, aren't you?' said Charteris.
'Why worry?' said Jimmy. 'If you go on like this, it'll be
Westminster Abbey for you in your prime. You'll be getting brain-
fever.'
Jimmy himself was one of the few who were feeling reasonably
