Certainly the lady’s idea of an appropriate gift was open to criticism, but not so her pie.  That was rich perfection.  Its fruity, spicy interior was evenly warmed with an evident old French brandy,—­no savagely burning cooking brandy, mind,—­and when the flaky marvel had stood upon the heater for a time, even before its cutting up with a paper-knife, the odour of goose grease was lost in the “Araby the Blest” scent of mince meat.

CHAPTER X

J.E.  OWENS’S “WANDERING BOYS.”  “A HOLE IN THE WALL” INCIDENT_

The late John E. Owens, while acting in Cincinnati, had a severe cold.  He was feverish, and fearing for his throat, which was apt to give him trouble, he had his physician, an old friend, come to see him back of the scenes.  The doctor brought with him an acquaintance, and Mr. Owens asked them to wait till the next act was over to see how his throat was going to behave.

It’s always a dangerous thing to turn outsiders loose behind the scenes; for if they don’t fall into traps, or step into paint pots, they are sure to pop on to the stage.

Mr. Owens supposed the gentlemen would stop quietly in his room, but not they.  Out they wandered on discovery intent.  A well-painted scene caught the doctor’s eye.  He led his friend up to it, to take a better look; then as only part of it was visible from where they stood, they followed it along.

Mr. Owens and I were on the stage.  Suddenly his eyes distended.  “What in the devil?” he whispered.  I looked behind me, and at the same moment the audience burst into shouts of laughter; for right into the centre of the stage had walked, with backs toward the audience, two tall gentlemen, each with a shining bald head, each tightly buttoned in a long black overcoat, and each gesticulating with a heavy cane.

I whispered to Mr. Owens, “The two Dromios”; but he snapped out, “Two blind old bats.”

When they heard the roar behind them, they turned their heads, and then a funnier, wilder exit I never saw than was made by these two dignified old gentlemen; while Owens added to the laughter by taking me by the hand, and when we had assumed their exact attitude, singing “Two wandering boys from Switzerland.”

I am reminded that the first performance I ever saw in my life had one of the most grotesque interruptions imaginable.  At a sort of country hotel much frequented by driving parties and sleighing parties, a company of players were “strapped,”—­to use the theatrical term, stranded,—­unable either to pay their bills or to move on.  There was a ballroom in the house, and the proprietor allowed them to erect a temporary stage there and give a performance, the guests in the house promising to attend in a body.

One of the plays was an old French farce, known to English audiences as “The Hole in the Wall.”  The principal comedy part was a clerk to two old misers, who starved him outrageously.