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thoughtfully. 'What was he like? Short? Tall? Red-haired?'
    But Trim couldn't remember,
though he swore he would know him again if he saw him for but a second. 'He was
small. Dirty, of course. But aren't they all? He wore a scabby short coat and
boots out at the toes. A red handkerchief around his neck, showman style.
Remains of a hat - what do they call them? A flat poke, I think. Maybe a tooth
or two missing. I don't really know. I didn't get a very good look at him.'
    Will laughed. 'But you
took in everything at a glance! Woe betide us all! Witnesses?'
    'None,' Trim said
quickly. 'Not one. No one around at all. Unless - but I can't see how he had
anything to do with the business - there was a strange-looking creature who
delivered a page into my hands.'
    The clock ticked, the
fire crackled and spluttered, Brutus and Nero snored lustily. We were warm and
snug for now, but opening up a mystery, had we but known it, which would affect
all our lives.
    We
waited and, after a moment's thought, Trim explained.
    'He gave me a page from
the drama, Elenore the Female Pirate. I'd dropped the whole lot, as I told
you, and there was paper scattered everywhere. I thought I'd collected them
all, but one escaped, I suppose, and he rescued it and gave it back to me. A
strange-looking creature. Perhaps I should try and find him.'
    'In
what way strange?'
    Trim wriggled in his
seat. 'Well, to begin with, he was enormously large,' he said, 'like a pudding
about to burst, and with a head as round and smooth as a cannon ball. And he
was strangely dressed. All pale. He might have been an actor. You fellows can
be extravagant in your costumes.'
    Will seemed not at all
put out, though he was affecting a rather large collar and a scarf which was
also oversize. And, of course, his hair was long and curling about his neck. In
an actorly fashion.
    'Was
he foreign, perhaps?'
    'No, not foreign, but
not regular either. He had an odd way of talking, rather overdone.'
    Lovegrove stared at our
friend and ran a hand through those glossy locks with such careless elegance
that I could have been envious. 'My dear fellow, his size and his bald pate,
and what might be an actor's lisp to boot - this stranger must stand out like
an honest man in parliament! We will make enquiries. He seems a prime
candidate.'
    Trim shook his head and
gazed at us, by turn, with an anxious expression.
    'No, no. You are very
kind. Good friends both. But I fear,' he said with a dramatic emphasis that
Lovegrove could never have taught him, 'I very much fear that I shall never see
him, nor the boy, nor The Vulture's Bride again.'
    He
was, of course, completely wrong.

 

    The
Pavilion Theatre
     
    My dogs and I are
comfortably seated at the side of the stage of the Pavilion Theatre. Mr Carrier
has requested our attendance in connection with some occasional work in the
forthcoming Christmas extravaganza written by that talented dramatic author, F.
H. Trimmer, Elenore the Female Pirate; or the Gold of the Mountain King. We
are as pleased as a dog with two tails - Brutus and Nero in partic.! - and not
just because it puts some extra shillings our way for the penny bank. No, it's
the novelty of a theatre show, for we haven't had so much as a sniff of
greasepaint for almost a year - since we were usurped at the Bower Saloon by
our friend Mr Matthews and 'Devilshoof - and, according to Trim, it is a
buster, and will reach the pages of the Era and the notice
of other managers. All in all, a good thing. So we
are happily waiting upon the manager and our friend Will Lovegrove, who has yet
to arrive, but who I am certain we have to thank for this opportunity.
    Mr Carrier has
certainly taken a risk on Trim's Christmas piece and has dispensed with the Harlequin
theme altogether, and Will says he is the only London manager to do so.
'Traditional' and 'time-honoured' are bywords for the pantomime, and woe betide
the man who will contemplate an alternative. We are used to Harlequin King Rumbledetum and