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performance, Brontie was deemed safe enough to attempt to eat me. I said my line (and a silent prayer), the monster’s head camedown, my leaf-covered torso disappeared into its jaws, Mr Ernest grasped my arms, and we all swung up into the flies.
    Despite the triumphant cheers and whistles from the rest of the company, I had a strong suspicion that my first appearance on the stage could easily turn out to be my last.

    Come the opening night the New Theatre was packed to the rafters with students and local townsfolk, all drawn by the Rotter’s proclamation that this was to be the first time a great dinosaur had been portrayed on the live stage anywhere in the world.
    Mr Luscombe and I peeked out through a small gap in the curtain at the crowd milling about, finding their seats.
    “I say,” Luscombe hissed. “Did you hear?”
    “Hear what, sir?” I whispered.
    “Word is that some big noise from London has come up on the train specially to see Brontie in action.”
    “What sort of big noise?”
    “Oh, our director has contacts, you know, in the London theatre. Sssh! Here he comes…!”
    The Rotter shoved his big, square rugger-pug face in between ours and surveyed the scene.
    “Full house! Good luck, gentlemen, which is to say, confound it,
bad
luck. Break a leg, I mean. Break all your legs!”
    He shovelled us ahead of him into the wings and gave Mr Ernest the signal to begin. The curtain rose, and we were off.
    The show itself trundled along agreeably enough to begin with. The Rotter stomped around backstage as his small army of cavemen galloped on and off for the various scenes and musicalnumbers. Every now and then there would be an unexpectedly big laugh, and he would note down what had provoked it on his script with a scrawled tick. Then he would resume his nervous pacing, occasionally pausing to give a silent pat of encouragement to someone with a huge paw.
    Although the audience were enjoying themselves, there was a palpable air of anticipation about the place. Everyone was waiting to see this much-vaunted brontosaurus. The Rotter himself was pacing nervously, sometimes reaching up to twang one of the control ropes above our heads.
    Finally, towards the end of the evening, it was the moment. A flurry of hushed activity suddenly bustled around the contraption, and Mr Ernest and Mr Kenyon wriggled into its neck. The ropes were pulled taut, and the eight stagehands took the strain. I hadn’t time to watch any more, because I had to be onstage.
    Trinity cave were having a secret pow-wow, discussing their plans for the big contest on the morrow. Suddenly they noticed that a small shrub was inching towards them, as if to hear better. In a trice I was exposed, I stood up, and I delivered my line, my only line of the show: “I did what I did for the sake of the cave! The dear old cave!”
    Brontie let out a terrifying roar (which is to say, a stagehand called Nicholas bellowed into a barrel). This was the cue for everyone else in the scene to scarper, except me. One or two ladies in the audience let out an excited shriek of anticipation.
    And nothing happened.
    I glanced over, and saw the Rotter frantically lashing one of the ropes backwards and forwards. It seemed to have snagged in its pulley high up in the ceiling. The Rotter waved desperately atme to fill, and booted young Nicholas up the backside. Brontie promptly let out another, slightly aggrieved, dinosaurific roar.
    I remembered something I’d heard, and for want of anything better to say decided to impart it to the audience.
    “Uh-oh! That sounds like it might be a brontosaurus, you know,” I said, putting on my best scared face. “Those of you who have been keeping up with your studies will know that the name brontosaurus means ‘Thunder lizard’. So named, I’m told, for its terrifying roar…”
    Nick, obligingly, let loose with another blood-curdling bass bellow, and the audience looked expectantly over to the side of the stage. I could see what