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have always striven for as much excellence as my health and intellectual capacities would allow.”
    Mr. Wilton cleared his throat and said, “I have been thinking, Mr. Farquhar Pratt, that it is the responsibility of the management of this theatre to see that the wisdom garnered during such a distinguished career is, at last, passed on.”
    Pratty intuited what would be next. His small eyes began to dart about the room, from Mr. Wilton to me and back to Mr. Wilton. “My plays are my legacy, sir,” he declared. “Let whomever will read them learn the elements of my craft.”
    “Yes,” said Mr. Wilton, “and that is no small tutelage.”
    “By my count, some five hundred plays and more have to this date emanated from my pen.”
    Mr. Wilton cleared his throat again. He stood up and went to the window behind his desk. I could tell that he longed for the field of battle; he longed to be anywhere but here as he looked out over the grey tenements of Whitechapel. “I am thinking,” he said, “of allowing you to impart your store of knowledge in a more direct manner.”
    “In what manner?” Mr. Farquhar Pratt gave each syllable extraordinary emphasis. He was fairly shaking; he could scarcely steady himself by grasping the arms of his chair.
    Mr. Wilton thought it best to march into the line of fire rather than retreating to fight another day. “I am thinking,” he continued, “of offering the gift of your wisdom to a worthy apprentice.”
    “An apprentice!” Pratty said the word as though it were syn onymous with “prigger.”
    “Yes,” said Mr. Wilton, his jaw set as though he were facing down a shipload of convicts in Moreton Bay.
    “I have scarcely enough time for my own work, much less the work of others. Now that I am no longer paid to act.”
    Mr. Wilton was losing his patience. “That was inevitable, Mr. Farquhar Pratt. What else could I do?”
    Seeming chastised by this, Mr. Farquhar Pratt glanced at me and replied, “I do not say that relieving me of my line of business was unwarranted. But please, sir, do not erode my last means of earning a living in this theatre.”
    Pratty’s response seemed to calm Mr. Wilton, as well. “I have no intention of doing that,” he said, evenly. “You will be paid two pounds per week, for a period of six weeks, merely to teach this apprentice. Any plays you produce during that time will also be remunerated at the new rate.”
    “I will not have time to write plays and teach, as well.”
    Mr. Wilton chose to disregard this. “Perhaps this new apprentice can help you write the Christmas panto?”
    This stopped the old man in his tracks. It was as though Mr. Wilton had desecrated the altar at Westminster. “No, sir,” said Pratty, almost with an air of disbelief in his voice, “no apprentice you can offer will be of any help to me in that. He will only be a hindrance.”
    “Damn it, Ned!” shouted Mr. Wilton, in a sudden battlefield fury. I was wondering when Mr. Wilton would finally cry havoc and let slip the dogs of war.
    “And who might this apprentice be?” Pratty continued. He was also suddenly quite angry. “I presume that you have someone in mind?”
    “It is none of your business who the apprentice might be. But know that there will be an apprentice.”
    “I will be heard, sir!” The old man was actually banging on Mr. Wilton’s desk with his tiny fist.
    I went to Mr. Farquhar Pratt’s side and attached myself to his elbow. “I think that we should let cooler heads prevail, should we not?”
    “Now, if you’ll excuse me,” said Mr. Wilton, regaining some of his composure, “I have other business which is also of some import.”
    I was gradually moving the old man toward the door.
    “I will be heard, sir,” reiterated Mr. Farquhar Pratt. But by then he was standing in the hall as Mr. Wilton’s office door closed behind him.
    Saturday, 5 October 1850
    Catastrophe!
    I was downstairs in the dressing room last night during the final act of