which the manager tells the cold truth: whether
the show is good, whether it "went," how much salary it is worth, and
whether it is worth a re-booking.

It is, like journalism, a hard, hard life and thankless for every one
concerned, from bill-topper to sweeper; yet there is a furious colour
about it, and I think no one connected with it would willingly quit. The
most hard-worked of all are the electricians. First in the hall of an
evening, they, with the band and the janitors, are the last to leave.
Following them, at about half-past five (in the case of the two-houses
halls), come programme girls, barmaids, call-boy, stage-manager,
shifters, and all other stage hands.

All are philosophers, in their way, and all seem to have caught the tang
of the profession and to be, subconsciously, of the mummer persuasion. I
once had a long, long talk with the chief electrician of a London hall,
or, to give him the name by which he is best known, the limelight man. I
climbed the straight iron ladder from the wings to his little platform,
with only sufficient foothold for two people, and there I stood with him
for two hours, while he waggled spots, floods, and focuses, and littered
the platform with the hastily scrawled lighting-plots of the performers.

The limes man is really the most important person in the show. Of
course, the manager doesn't think so, and the stage-manager doesn't
think so, and the carpenter doesn't think so, and the band doesn't think
so. But he is. Many of the music-hall favourites, such as La Milo and La
Loie Fuller, would have no existence but for him. Skilful lighting
effects and changes of colour are often all that carries a commonplace
turn to popularity; and just think of the power in that man's hands! He
could ruin any young turn he liked simply by "blacking her out"; and, if
he feels good, he can help many beginners with expert advice. The young
girl new to the boards, and getting her first show, has hardly the
slightest idea what she shall give him in the way of lighting-plot;
very generously she leaves it to him, and he sees her show and lights it
as he thinks most effective.

Long before the doors open he is moving from box to box, in wings and
flies, fixing this, altering that, and arranging the other; and cursing
his assistants--usually lads of sixteen--who have to work the colours
from wings, roof, circle, and side of the house. Lights are of three
kinds: spot, focus, and flood. The spot is