New Albion by Dwayne Brenna Read Free Book Online Page A

Claudius to Macready’s Hamlet by the familiar manner in which he spoke of the Great Actor, but I happen to know through inside sources that he was Horatio with most of his lines cut on the evening. Mr. Hicks pretended to be listening and enjoying the story, but when Pratty arrived with the pages of dialogue, and after he had measured hi s own stack of pages against Watts’, he retired to the men’s dressing room for a wee snog of gin and a more thorough perusal of his lines.
    Mr. Wilton escorted the new apprentice to Mr. Farquhar Pratt’s side. Pratty tried to ignore both the young man and Mr. Wilton; he pretended to be engrossed in Mr. Watts’ narrative, and he began to tell Mr. Watts the same story he has faithfully told all of us – how he had understudied Kean at Exeter in 1813. “Kean, let me tell you sir,” Pratty expounded in the most forceful voice he could muster, “was an actor’s actor. As Arlecchino, he was able to perform back flips whilst simultaneously bringing a tear to your eye. As Hamlet –”
    “Excuse me, Ned,” Mr. Wilton interrupted, “I would like to introduce you to –”
    “He could make women faint, as far back as the third row,” Mr. Farquhar Pratt continued, as though he had not heard the voice of his employer, “with his histrionics.”
    Mr. Wilton is not a man to be kept waiting, certainly not by his own employees. “Mr. Farquhar Pratt!” he fairly shouted. “I would like you to meet your new apprentice. Colin Tyrone.”
    Pratty glanced at the apprentice, and his eyes slid off the young man like drizzle off newly kilned shingles. “I’m sorry, Thomas,” the old man said rather sweetly, “I haven’t the foggiest conception of what you are talking about. You had asked me, some time ago, about the possibility of hiring an apprentice, and I responded, at that time, that I had no need of one.”
    This infuriated Mr. Wilton. “Damned insolence, sir!” he declared, red-faced. “You will be a very fortunate man, Mr. Pratt, if I do not have you thrown out of the theatre this instant.”
    The young apprentice eyed Mr. Farquhar Pratt in a sinister manner. “Do you want me to do the darty deed for ya?” he asked Mr. Wilton.
    “No, damn me, I do not want you to do anything but learn the craft of play-writing from Mr. Pratt here.”
    “You forget,” responded Pratty, in a voice low and well mod ulated, “that I am he who saved your theatre from degradation and despondency. Shame on you! On your knees, you came to me, on your knees, begging me to retire from a lucrative contract with the Royal Victoria –”
    “They were happy to see the back of you!” Mr. Wilton interjected hotly. “Osbaldiston begged me to take you off his hands!”
    Stung by this, Pratty continued with his tirade. “How dare you, sir, for shame! How dare you! I was the acknowledged Master of the Domestic Melodrama. London was at my feet. I could have had a posting at Covent Garden if I had pleased.”
    “A posting at Covent Garden? Yes, as doorman! Mr. Farquhar Pratt, your reputation as Master of the Domestic Melodrama, as you so charmingly phrase it, was founded upon a single play which ran for six weeks at the Vic. I hardly think that The Vicissitudes of a Servant Girl makes you the savior of the English stage.”
    “I, sir, am a Member of the Playwrights’ Society,” protested Mr. Farquhar Pratt. “I will not be condescended to by a dilet tante who buys theatres so that he can fornicate with their leading actresses!”
    Mr. Wilton turned crimson and then white with rage. It was clear that Pratty had gone too far. Jowls shaking with fury, Mr. Wilton barked, “You will regret saying such a thing, sir, and I must ask you to apologize for it immediately.”
    “I will not apologize to you or any man.”
    Mr. Wilton’s eyes darkened, lowered over by his savage unkempt eyebrows. “Then I must ask you, Mr. Pratt, to visit me in my office at your earliest convenience.”
    * * *
    I was not privy to