"There is no avalanche, and it is impossible to be finished without." "Can't you cut it out?" "Impossible." The manager fell into a brown study for a few moments. Then suddenly brightening up, he said, "I have it; but they must let the green curtain down instantly on the extraordinary effect. Hanging up in the flies is the large elephant made for 'Blue Beard;' we'll have it whitewashed." "What?" exclaimed Power. "We'll have it whitewashed," continued the manager coolly; "what is an avalanche but a vast mass of white? When Frankenstein is to be annihilated, the carpenters shall shove the whitened elephant over the flies--destroy you both in a moment--and down comes the curtain." As there was no other alternative, Power e'en submitted. The whitened elephant was "shoved" over at the right moment, the effect was appalling from the front, and the curtain descended amidst loud applause. Not quite so successful was a hoax perpetrated by Elliston, during _his_ management of the Birmingham Theatre, many years previously. Then, also, business had been very bad, and he was in great difficulties. Let us give the managers their due. They do not, as a rule, resort to swindles except under strong pressure; then they soothe their consciences with the reflection that as an obtuse and ungrateful public will not support their legitimate efforts, it deserves to be swindled. And a very good reflection it is--from a managerial point of view. No man was more fertile in expedients than Robert William Elliston; so after a long continuance of empty benches, the walls and boardings of the town were one morning covered with glaring posters announcing that the manager of the Theatre Royal had entered into an engagement with a BOHEMIAN of extraordinary strength and stature, who would perform some astonishing evolutions with a stone of upwards of a ton weight, which he would toss about as easily as another would a tennis-ball. What all the famous names of the British drama and all the talents of its exponents had failed to accomplish, was brought about by a stone, and on the evening announced for its appearance the house was crammed to the ceiling. The exhibition was to take place between the play and the farce, and scarcely had the intellectual audience patience to listen to the piece, so eager were they for the noble entertainment that was to follow. At length, much to their relief, the curtain fell. The usual interval elapsed, the house became impatient, impatience soon merged into furious clamour. At length, with a pale, distraught countenance, Elliston rushed before the curtain. In a moment there was a breathless silence. "The Bohemian has deceived me!" were his first words. "_That_ I could have pardoned; but he has deceived you, my friends, _you_;" and his voice trembled, and he hid his face behind his handkerchief and seemed to sob. Then, bursting forth again, he went on: "I repeat, he has deceived me; he is not here."