"Would you care to take part in the staff play?" asked the polite young schoolmaster who had called upon me. 

The marriage which had connected me with the school was still so recent that I could not help feeling flattered at the invitation. My husband had told me that the staff play was a recognised feature of the annual concert, and that, to avoid the difficulties of female impersonation, we wives were for the occasion, recognised as members of the staff. But with so many to draw upon, it seemed strange that the newest-joined bride should be asked, and it was with some diffidence I accepted. Should I perhaps be hurting someone's feelings? The young men misread my hesitation. 

"I know it isn't a very nice part," he murmured. "Mrs. X has the only decont women's part." 

“What sort of part is it, then?" I asked, and he blushed a little. 

"I thought you had seen the play,” he explained, " it's a cook - fat and fussy - a dowly sort of person, you know, very fat.” 

He caught my hasty glance at the mirror, and reassured me, "That's all right,” he smiled. “We can pad you a lot, and turn your hair white.” 

There dawned in my mind a suspicion that this part might have been rejected already by my seniors, a suspicion which was confirmed as rehearsals began. A book having been thrust into my hand, it was pointed out that the scene opened with Cook clearing breakfast and singing. 

"But I can't sing!" I objected, conscious of complete absence of musical ability. 

“All the better," said the senior master who was acting as stage manager.

 “ I sound desperately out of tune.”

 “That's fine," he beamed. "Don't hurry to come on, Mrs.X. Let her sing three lines.” 

The play went on. From tho top of a desk the young science master who was acting plumber's mate, grinned down at me. 

"I have to hit you now with a lump of plaster," he announced."Be close up so that I can't miss you."

 “But will it be really plaster?" I gasped, end, over my head, he consulted with the stage manager. 

“Plaster?" said the latter, casually, “Oh, probably rice pudding." Seeing my face he added, in a surprised tone."It won't hurt, of course.” 

Rehearsals went on, each one an eye opener. It was revealed that the leaky pipe would not only leak, but would shower freely across the stage. Proudly they explained the mechanism by which some two gallons of water would rush forth, supplemented by a boy with a siphon.

 “Of course we shall all get frightfully wet," said the ‘plumber's mate’ happily. "But we shall have old clothes on.” He would, of course, but what about me? Solemnly they sat in conclave and considered me from all angles, devising a costume no self-respecting cook could wear.

 "Button boots," said one. "White stockings," said another, with visions of Nellie Wallace, “And specs - steel rims, I should think?" put in a third. "Couldn't you wear a red flannel petticoat and let it show?” asked the ‘plumber mate, hopefully. I could not, and said so.

 Disguised beyond all knowledge, and incredibly fat, I took the stage on the first night. The rice pudding was well and truly aimed and caught me on the back of the neck, sliding gently down inside my frock. But that was not the worst. That is responsible plumber's mate let loose the leak a moment too soon and, getting it full in the face, I slipped and fell, amid roars of applause. 

As i wrung the water from my borrowed frock, and wiped from my hair the queer paste formed by wet powder, a cheerful voice called outside the doors "Same time tomorrow night.” Then, in an undertone through the crack: "That fall of yours was great. Can you do it again,” 

“With some satisfaction I remembered that a wedding had been arranged. Next year it will be Mrs, Scieneoemaster who is flattered into the staff play. And may she enjoy it!