of his auditors would not laugh. Laugh? would not even smile at his
efforts.

Mr. Matthews, who was past seventy, was nervous, excitable,--and, well,
just a wee bit _cranky_; and when the play was about half over, he came
"off," angrily talking to himself, and ran against Mr. Lewis and me, as
we were just about "going on." Instantly he exclaimed, "Look here! look
here!" taking from his vest pocket a broad English gold piece and
holding it out on his hand, then added, "And look there! look there!"
pointing out a gentleman sitting in the opposite box.

"Do you see that stupid dolt over there? Well, I've toiled over him till
I sweat like a harvest hand, and laugh--he won't; smile--he won't."

I remarked musingly, "He looks like a graven image"; while Lewis
suggested cheerfully, "Perhaps he is one."

"No, no!" groaned the unfortunate star, "I'm afraid not! I'm--I'm
almost certain I saw him move once. But look here now, you're a deucedly
funny pair; just turn yourselves loose in this scene. I'll protect you
from Daly,--do anything you like,--and the one who makes that wooden man
laugh, wins this gold piece."

It was not the gold piece that tempted us to our fall, but the hope of
succeeding where the star had failed. I seized one moment in which to
notify old man Davidge of what was going on, as he had a prominent part
in the coming scene, and then we were on the stage.

The play was "The Critic," the scene a burlesque rehearsal of an
old-time melodrama. Our opportunities were great, and Heaven knows we