New Albion by Dwayne Brenna Page A

up to resemble either a weather-ravaged saddlebag or the visage of an aged frontiersman, momentarily contorted and became a gargoyle’s portrait, then, little by little, returned to an approximation of the character he was playing. Mr. Hicks dropped several lines over the course of the evening, but when he came to “brought about her ruin and cursed your dotage,” he articulated the consonants so fiercely that he sent a shower of spittle across Neville Watts’ face. Spittle, I might add, so substantial that Mr. Watts had to close his eyes to endure the deluge. When the line was finally said in its entirety, there was a string of spittle hanging from the tip of Neville Watts’ nose.
    Mr. Watts turned away with a start, as if he had given up and was retiring to the Green Room once again. Equally as suddenly, he turned round to the unsteady Mr. Hicks and, with a backhanded slap which might have made any Restoration gallant proud, he sent Mr. Hicks reeling into the scenery. Shaking his head furiously, as if he was not quite certain what had just transpired, Mr. Hicks said, in a magnificently rich voice, free of the slur and the wet glottal stops to which he had been prone over the course of the evening, “I think you have loosened my teeth, sir, and now I am about to loosen yours.” A comedic chase sequence followed, during which Mr. Hicks knocked the metal plates off the frontiersman's rough table and fell face-first on top of the stove which, according to the pretense of the play, had been red-hot only moments earlier. Catching hold of Mr. Watts’ collar, at last, Mr. Hicks delivered a set of blows which would have gladdened the heart of any enthusiast of the pugilistic arts.
    Somebody in the audience called out, “Hit him once for me, Seymour! That’ll teach the little ponce for thinking he could take your place.” The shenanigans were only stopped when myself and Mr. Simpson rushed from the wings and got between the pulverized Neville Watts and Mr. Hicks. By that time, several altercations had broken out in the gallery, between the rough supporters of Mr. Hicks and the more genteel supporters of Neville Watts. The police were eventually called, and a complete riot was, thankfully, avoided.
    It appears there will have to be another company meeting soon.
    Friday, 18 October 1850
    “There comes a point,” Mr. Wilton whispered to me, as we sat together in that conglomeration of tattered wallpaper and grimy windows which passes for our rehearsal hall, awaiting the reading of the new pantomime, “when one has to decide between a family business and an industrially evolved enterprise. I believe this theatre is at such a juncture. Shall we maintain our allegiances within this little theatrical family and satisfy ourselves that we represent the interests of the community aptly? Or shall we let true competition reign – bring in the great stars of today and tomorrow – and watch our little theatre become a standard bearer in the rise of the national drama?” His broad, mutton-chopped face was earnest, and his conversation had the secretive air of two businessmen conferring in a place where business was not understood or cared for.
    We were seated amid a gaggle of expectant actors and props and costume personnel. Mr. Wilton leaned forward, his ruddy face earnest, as though he urgently wanted a confidential reply. “I think that balance and equilibrium in all things is highly desirable,” I replied, as secretively as possible in such a gathering.
    Any furtherance of this conversation was prevented when the door flew open and Mr. Farquhar Pratt breezed in, looking younger than his sixty-eight years for the first time in a long while. Colin Tyrone trailed behind him, carrying a few yellowing papers in one hand as though they were dirty handkerchiefs. “I apologize outright for my tardiness in presenting to you my latest manuscript,” Pratty bellowed, motioning derisively at Mr. Tyrone to deliver it post haste. “Delays