Free New Albion by Dwayne Brenna

the two hind legs of his wooden chair and put his boots up on the table before him. “His Nibbs’ advice was fer me to read the Bible and the Newgate Calendar . He said the two of ‘em should be essential readin fer me. Said they would provide me with moral instruction and corrective tutelage.”
    As luck would have it, Mr. Farquhar Pratt made an appearance in the backstage area the next day. He was looking sober and bleached after his tussle with King Laud last week. His eyes were dull, his face was grayer than usual, and his chin was a maze of razor cuts from a shave he’d probably given himself earlier in the day. I asked him when we might expect to see the script for Yoyayeyayowowhatchumacallit , and he looked at me with feigned innocence. “Oh, I’ve left the writing of that in the capable hands of young Tyrone,” he said.
    I could not contain my incredulity. “But Mr. Tyrone has only been with us for a week. He can hardly be expected to take on the New Albion pantomime with so little training.”
    Waving his downstage hand abstractly, the old man said, “I beg your pardon, Mr. Phillips, but the good Mr. Wilton has led me to believe that this young man is the new Ben Jonson, nay, in fact, the new Shakespeare. There is nothing young Master Tyrone cannot do. Ask him to fight a tiger. Scale Olympus. He will do it.” Pratty toddled off into the dark recesses of the backstage area and appeared to be enthralled by something up in the rigging, where Mr. Sharpe and Mr. Manning were whistling to one another and untying ropes.
    Usually, the best course of action is to reason with the old man, to employ a Socratic dialectic with him, and to show him the illogic of his arguments by way of reductio ad absurdem . I followed him into the backstage area. “Have you provided Mr. Tyrone with the benefit of your wisdom in these matters?”
    “Indeed I have.” Pratty’s eyes never left mine. The only hint of his inner rage was that his gray cheeks began to crimson slightly.
    “Well,” I said, ”Mr. Tyrone tells me that you left him with a Bible and the Calendar and ordered him to read. I hardly think that that is adequate preparation for the writing of a pantomime.”
    “The Bible and the Calendar are preparation for life, my dear man.” The old man’s voice was booming now. “And life is the only preparation for a playwright. Since Master Tyrone has led a varied life, which has included, by his own account, bricklaying, street vending, and roughing up theatre managers who’ve dared to compete with Mr. Wilton, I have to conclude that he is eminently qualified to replace me as stock playwright at this establishment.”
    Pratty was immoveable; there was no way but for me to complain to Mr. Wilton. I went to his office later that afternoon. He was in his customary place, at his oaken desk, sorting through the liquor receipts of the previous evening. If Mr. Wilton had his way, he would spend every hour of the day out of doors, leaving this desk and this theatre far behind him. He looked up at me with a pained expression. “This business with Mr. Bancroft and Mrs. Simpson,” he said. “Shameful behavior. We’ll have to keep it quiet. Something like this is only adding faggots to the fire for Mr. Mayne of the Police Commission. Do you know what he said to me last Friday?”
    “Who, sir?” I was a trifle overwrought.
    “Mr. Mayne. He said to me that after months of study, it has become apparent to him that our little theatre is a hotbed for prostitution and thievery.”
    “Sir, did you alert him to the fact that our theatre is situated in Whitechapel? Half the resident population consists of prostitutes and thieves. The rest are weavers and furniture makers.”
    I wasn’t entirely certain how Old Stoneface would take this, and I was relieved when he commenced to chuckle. “Yes, that’s a good one, Phillips. I’ll use that the next time I see Mr. Mayne. That is, if he doesn’t close us down before I see him