It was not a dress rehearsal but the too solid Prince wore his hair low on his neck and a golden fillet bound his brows.  Silent, he was noble.  His walk as he came in at the end of a procession of court ladies and gentlemen was magnificent—­slow, dejected, imperious, aloof.  But Wittenberg had a great deal to answer for, if he had contracted his accent there.

Gertrude, Queen of Denmark, was a Hyacinth who worked daily at hooks and buttonholes for an East Broadway tailor.  On this night she wore none of her regalia save her crown and the King had done nothing at all to differentiate himself from Susie Lacov who officiated as waitress in a Jewish lunchroom.

The Hyacinths had wisely decided to edit Hamlet.  In this they followed an almost universal principle and their method was also time-honored.  All the scenes in which unimportant members of the club or cast “came out strong,” were eliminated.  So far the Hyacinths were orthodox, but Rosie Rosenbaum, Prince, President and Censor, went a step further.

“Git busy.  Mix her up, why don’t you!” she commanded later from the wings.  The other players were laboriously wading through persiflage and conversation.  “You folks ain’t done nothin’ the last ten minutes only stand there and gas.  Is that actin’?  Maybe it’s wrote in the book.  What I want to know is—­is it actin’?” Burgess sat suddenly erect and his eyes glowed.  Miss Masters half rose to assume authority but he restrained her.

“You shut up and leave me be,” Polonius cried.  “Ain’t I got a right to say good-bye to my son?”

“You can say good-bye all right,” Rosie reminded her, “without puttin’ up that game of talk.  Give him a ‘I’ll be a sister to you’ on the cheek an’ git through sometime before to-morrow.  Cut it, I tell you.”

This “off with his head” attitude on the President’s part delighted Burgess.  But the caste enjoyed it less and when the ghost was docked of a whole scene it grew rebellious.

“If you give me any more of your lip,” said the princely stage manager, “I’ll trow you out altogether.  There’s lots of people wouldn’t believe in ghosts anyway.  Me grandfather seen this play in Chermany and he told me they didn’t use the ghost at all.  Nothin’ but a green light with a voice comin’ out of it.”

“Well, I could be the voice, couldn’t I?” the ghost argued; and it was at this point that Miss Masters took charge of the meeting and introduced Mr. Burgess.

“Who has offered,” she went on in spite of his energetic pantomime of disclaimer, “to help us with our play.”

“That’s real sweet of you, Mr. Burgess,” said the President graciously.

“Not at all—­not at all,” he answered.  “It will be a pleasure, I assure you.”