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Updated: May 7, 2025
Within a minute he was talking to the managing director of the Mammoth Syndicate Halls on the telephone. In five minutes the managing director had agreed to pay Prince Otto of Saxe-Pfennig five hundred pounds a week, if he could be prevailed upon to appear.
That master-strategist, Prince Otto of Saxe-Pfennig, realising that if he wished to reach the Metropolis quickly he must not go by train, had resolved almost at once to walk. Though hampered considerably by crowds of rustics who gathered, gaping, at every point in the line of march, he had made good progress.
They are like Destiny Pitiless, Unmoved, Purposeful, Silent. Those menials. "A crash from the orchestra. Turn number sixteen has begun...." Prince Otto of Saxe-Pfennig stood in the wings, shaking in every limb. German oaths of indescribable vigour poured from his lips. In a group some feet away stood six muscular, short-sleeved stage-hands.
Yet here a great number of them were in perhaps as embarrassing a position as ever diplomatists were called upon to unravel. When nine dogs are assembled round one bone, it is rarely on the bone alone that teeth-marks are found at the close of the proceedings. Prince Otto of Saxe-Pfennig set himself resolutely to grapple with the problem.
Voices were heard in the hall, and next moment the door opened and the servant announced "Mr. Prinsotto and Mr. Aydycong." "Or, rather," said the first of the two newcomers, a tall, bearded, soldierly man, in perfect English, "Prince Otto of Saxe-Pfennig and Captain the Graf von Poppenheim, his aide-de-camp." "Just so just so!" said Mr. Chugwater, affably. "Sit down, won't you?"
It is estimated that quite two-thirds of each army must have perished in that last charge of the Germans up the Hampstead heights, which ended in the storming of Jack Straw's Castle and the capture of the Russian general. Prince Otto of Saxe-Pfennig lay sleeping in his tent at Tottenham. He was worn out.
These menials carry sheets of cardboard. But not blank sheets. On each sheet is a number. "The number 15. "Who is number 15? "Prince Otto of Saxe-Pfennig. Prince Otto, General of the German Army. Prince Otto is Number 15. "A burst of applause from the house. But not from the Russians. They are silent. They are waiting. For what? "The orchestra plays a lively air. The massive curtains part.
He produced a copy of the paper from the pocket of his great-coat which hung from the door, and passed it to his bounding brother. "Read it out, old sort," he said. The other took it to the light and began to read slowly and cautiously, as one who is no expert at the art. "'What the Encore would like to know: Whether Prince Otto of Saxe-Pfennig didn't go particularly big at the Lobelia last week?
Prince Otto of Saxe-Pfennig went to bed that night, comfortably conscious of a good work well done. He saw his way now clear before him. But he had made one miscalculation. He had not reckoned with Clarence Chugwater. Part Two Night! Night in Aldwych!
A tall, handsome military figure strides on to the stage. He bows. This tall, handsome, military man bows. He is Prince Otto of Saxe-Pfennig, General of the Army of Germany. One of our conquerors. "He begins to speak. 'Ladies and gentlemen. This man, this general, says, 'Ladies and gentlemen. "But no more. No more. No more. Nothing more. No more. He says, 'Ladies and Gentlemen, but no more.
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