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148
The Diary of a Nobody
·
George Grossmith Weedon Grossmith
15
We
arrived
at
theatre,
where,
curiously
enough,
all
our
’bus-load
except
an
old
woman
with
a
basket
seemed
to
be
going
in.
I
walked
ahead
and
presented
the
tickets.
The
man
looked
at
them,
and
called
out:
“Mr.
Willowly!
do
you
know
anything
about
these?”
holding
up
my
tickets.
The
gentleman
called
to,
came
up
and
examined
my
tickets,
and
said:
“Who
gave
you
these?”
I
said,
rather
indignantly:
“Mr.
Merton,
of
course.”
He
said:
“Merton?
Who’s
he?”
I
answered,
rather
sharply:
“You
ought
to
know,
his
name’s
good
at
any
theatre
in
London.”
He
replied:
“Oh!
is
it?
Well,
it
ain’t
no
good
here.
These
tickets,
which
are
not
dated,
were
issued
under
Mr.
Swinstead’s
management,
which
has
since
changed
hands.”
While
I
was
having
some
very
unpleasant
words
with
the
man,
James,
who
had
gone
upstairs
with
the
ladies,
called
out:
“Come
on!”
I
went
up
after
them,
and
a
very
civil
attendant
said:
“This
way,
please,
box
H.”
I
said
to
James:
“Why,
how
on
earth
did
you
manage
it?”
and
to
my
horror
he
replied:
“Why,
paid
for
it
of
course.”
This
was
humiliating
enough,
and
I
could
scarcely
follow
the
play,
but
I
was
doomed
to
still
further
humiliation.
I
was
leaning
out
of
the
box,
when
my
tie—
a
little
black
bow
which
fastened
on
to
the
stud
by
means
of
a
new
patent—
fell
into
the
pit
below.
A
clumsy
man
not
noticing
it,
had
his
foot
on
it
for
ever
so
long
before
he
discovered
it.
He
then
picked
it
up
and
eventually
flung
it
under
the
next
seat
in
disgust.
What
with
the
box
incident
and
the
tie,
I
felt
quite
miserable.
Mr.
James,
of
Sutton,
was
very
good.
He
said:
“Don’t
worry—
no
one
will
notice
it
with
your
beard.
That
is
the
only
advantage
of
growing
one
that
I
can
see.”
There
was
no
occasion
for
that
remark,
for
Carrie
is
very
proud
of
my
beard.
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