ain,
whereupon William advanced to the front and, pointing an accusing
finger in the direction of the original "piper," shouted, "I'm on to
you, Tom Edwards: everybody knows you're so bow-legged you wouldn't
dare wear anything but long pants." It took the audience some time to
recover its equilibrium, but eventually the play proceeded to the scene
where Eliza made the perilous trip across the floating ice.

Eliza, a buxom girl with a heavy tread, carrying a large rag doll, made
the flight very slowly. She didn't trust "them cakes of ice," knowing
full well that packing cases, however stoutly built, and however ably
disguised in white cheese cloth, were parlous things for a lady of her
weight. The prompter urged her in an audible voice to get a move on,
to which she retorted sharply, "Shut up, I ain't going to break any of
my legs for fun."

But when the baying of the bloodhounds, faithfully imitated by the
entire company, only partially concealed in the wings, was joined by
the barking of the real live dog in the show, she began to move a
little faster. She moved faster still when the real dog, a fair-sized
animal of uncertain breed, wearing a stout muzzle, broke away from the
"crool slave masters" and dashed towards her, and just as she lit on
the last cake of ice it gave way. The excited and hilarious applause
of the audience, together with Eliza's frantic screams, struck panic to
the heart of the already frightened dog, which, turning towards the
foot-lights, made a flying leap into the audience. Fortunately it
landed on the stout knees of William's Pa, and that worthy, firmly
grasping it by the neck, and thus effectually stopping its barking,
carried it to the main door and threw it into the street. Whereupon
the scene proceeded, the stage carpenter and his staff of one having
meanwhile extricated Eliza from the cake of ice and started her on the
concluding portion of her journey to safety. It was then that William,
burning to distinguish himself, and having a vague notion that "Chuck"
Epstein, who was in the audience, had once declared that the actor who
could interpolate telling lines in his part was on a fair way to fame,
advanced solemnly to the front, regardless of the dropping curtain
which landed on his shoulders and flopped ungracefully around him, to
declare in his loudest voice, "And I wish to say, that the man what
hits a woman is a coward." William and the curtain were somehow parted
by the no