When called upon to hoist and lower it, Ben and Dickey showed evident signs of nervousness; but they succeeded, after some considerable time, in getting it up and down without tearing it, although it was plain to be seen that they were relieved when it was up for the second time, and Mopsey had ordered it left there.
The foot-lights had been arranged by nailing narrow strips of board on the under side of the stage, and allowing them to project about six inches beyond where the curtain would come when it was lowered. On these strips the bottles, some large and some small, were to be placed, each with a candle in it. Ben was confident that they would remain there safely enough, provided no one walked very heavily on the stage; he also suggested to Mopsey that he should have as little fighting as possible in the play, because of the insecurity of these bottle foot-lights. This piece of advice, however, caused the author to frown severely, as if he felt that some of his best scenes would thus be interfered with.
No one had thought of lighting the main body of the hall until Ben and Dickey noticed the omission, and supplied it by tying candles around two barrel-hoops, and hanging them up like chandeliers, which added greatly to the general appearance and finish of the place. After all these things had been inspected the party adjourned to dinner, in order to fortify themselves for the trying mental labor before them, and Dickey remained as the guest of his partners, having been specially invited by them and Mrs. Green.
When the dinner was ended--and the members of the dramatic company made short work of it in order to begin their professional duties as soon as possible--Mopsey Dowd fully realized that he was about to pass in judgment before his partners. Whether he was entitled to it or not, he had some considerable fame as an author, and for that reason he had taken upon himself, voluntarily and even eagerly, the task of preparing an original play for the great event; which goes to show, perhaps, more than anything else, that Mopsey's fame resulted from chance rather than merit.
When he rose from the table he knew that every eye was upon him, and that each one present expected to hear him say something relative to the brain-effort he was making. He was a genius, and would be until his friends found him out, which occurrence would not be very far off if he should say anything then, for the very good reason that he did not know what to say. He knew that something must be done, and that speedily, which would bear out his claim to distinction, and, with a view to gaining time, he said: