Part 12 (1/2)
”It was a clever touch,” Mr. Clarkson agreed, ”to introduce so hideous a creature immediately before a Beauty Show. The strange thing is that the dog's ugliness only enhanced the sympathetic affection of the audience.
Yet beauty leads us by a single hair.”
”You wait before you start talkin' about beauty or hair either!” said Albert.
The curtain then rose upon a long green-baize table placed at the back of the stage. Behind it were sitting eleven respectable and portly gentlemen in black coats. One in the centre, venerable for gold eye-gla.s.ses and grey side-whiskers, acted as chairman.
”Are those the beauties?” asked Mr. Clarkson ironically, recalling the Garden Suburb discussion as to the superiority of the masculine form.
”'Ear that, Albert?” said the big man again. ”Judges,” he added, in solemn pity.
”On what qualification are they selected as critics?” Mr. Clarkson asked.
”Give prizes,” said the big man.
”That qualifies them for Members of Parliament rather than judges of beauty,” said Mr. Clarkson, but he was shown that on the table before each judge stood a case of plated articles, a vase, a candlestick, or something, which he had contributed as a prize.
An authoritative person in a brown suit and a heavy watch-chain festooned across his waistcoat came forward and was greeted with applause, varied by shouts of ”Bluebeard!” ”Crippen!” and ”Father Mormon!” In the brief gasps of silence he explained the rules of the compet.i.tion, remarking that the entries were already unusually numerous, the standard of beauty exceptionally high and accordingly he called upon the audience by their applause or the reverse to give the judges every a.s.sistance in allotting as desirable a set of prizes as he had ever handled.
”The first prize,” he went on, ”is a silver-plated coffee-set, presented by our ardent and lifelong supporter, Mr. Joseph Croke, proprietor of the celebrated grocery store, who now occupies the chair. The second prize is presented by our eminent butcher, Mr. James Collins, who considers his own stock unsuitable for the occasion, and has therefore subst.i.tuted a turquoise necklace, equivalent in value to a prime sirloin. For third prize Mr. Watkins, the conspicuous hairdresser of the High Street, offers a full-sized plait of hair of the same colour as worn by the lady.”
”Thoughtful!” observed the big man approvingly.
”He could hardly give black hair to a yellow-haired woman,” Mr. Clarkson replied.
”I said thoughtful,” the big man repeated; ”always thoughtful is Watkins, more especial towards females.”
”Besides these superb rewards,” the showman continued, ”the rest of the judges present sixteen consolation prizes, and Mr. Crawley, the eminently respected provision-merchant round the corner, invites all compet.i.tors to supper at twelve o'clock to-night, without distinction of personal appearance.”
”Jolly good blow-out!” said Albert's girl, with satisfaction.
”Rather a gross reward for beauty,” Mr. Clarkson observed.
”And why shouldn't nice-lookin' people have a good blow-out, same as you?” inquired the girl, with a flash of indignation. ”They deserves it more, I 'ope!”
”I entirely agree,” said Mr. Clarkson; ”my remark was Victorian.”
A babel of yells, screams, and howlings greeted the appearance of the two first candidates. The Master of the Ceremonies led them forward, by the right and left hand. Pointing at one, he shouted her name, and a wild outburst of mingled applause and derision rent the air. Shouting again, he pointed at the other, and exactly the same turmoil of noise arose. Then he faced the girls round to the judges, and they instantly became conscious of the backs of their dresses, and put their hands up to feel if their blouses were hooked.
But the chairman, with responsible solemnity, having contemplated the girls through his eyegla.s.ses, holding his head slightly on one side, briefly consulted the other judges, and signalled one girl to pa.s.s behind the table on his right, the other on his left. The one on his left was recognised as winner, and the house applauded with tumult, the supporters of the defeated yielding to success.
Before the applause had died, two more girls were led forward, and the storm of shouts and yells arose again. One of the candidates was dressed in pink, with a s.h.i.+ny black belt round her waist, a huge pink bow in her fluffy, light hair, and white stockings very visible. When the Master shouted her name, she c.o.c.ked her head on one side, giggled, and writhed her shoulders. Cries of ”Saucy!” ”Mabel!” ”Ain't I a nice little girl?”
and ”There's a little bit of all right!” saluted her, and the approval was beyond question. He pointed to the other, and a rage of execration burst forth, ”O Ginger!” ”Ain't she got a cheek?” ”Lock her up for the night!” ”Oh, you giddy old thing!” were the chief cries that Mr.
Clarkson could distinguish in the general howling. A band of youths behind him began singing, ”Tell me the old, old story.” In the gallery they sang ”Sit down, sit down,” to the tune of the Westminster chimes.
Half the theatre joined in one song, half in the other, and the singing ended in cat-calls, whistles, and shrieks of mockery. The red-haired girl stood pale and motionless, her eyes fixed on some point of vacancy beyond the yelling crowd.
”Terribly painful position for a woman!” said Mr. Clarkson.
”Ill-advised,” said the big man, shaking his head; ”very ill-advised.”
”Good lesson for her,” remarked Albert. ”These shows teach the ugly ones to know their place. Improve the breed these shows do--same as 'orse-racing.” And having shouted ”Ginger!” again, he added, ”Bandy!”