I compromise the matter,
therefore, by sending out sixpence to the Silvery-voiced Tenor,
begging Mrs. COBBLES to give as heartrending a description as possible
of my exhausted condition, which has the effect of wringing from the
MARIO of Torsington an expression of sympathy, and an intimation that
he will finish "_Fra Poco_" round the corner.
[Illustration]
But ill news travels apace, and within ten minutes the discarded
Christy Minstrel with the concertina that is somewhat out of order,
and the Town Band (reduced to three), as if by common consent,
together with the man in black velvet spangled tights, a short
walking-stick, wash-hand basin, and small square of carpet, draw up,
as if by magic, before Mrs. COBBLES' lodgings, and with the un-earning
increment of Torsington-on-Sea as audience, commence a simultaneous
_matinee_ for my special benefit at twenty-five minutes and a half to
ten.
Mrs. COBBLES' assurance that the poor gentleman has "not closed his
eyes all night" seems only to stimulate them to further effort. As
I feel that even twenty minutes of this recreation will certainly
drive me mad, I beg Mrs. COBBLES to send the boy who comes to clean
the boots and knives to disturb the One Policeman in his first sweet
slumber. If nothing else will stir him, he is to be.
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