of potheen punch, after "the feast of shells" was over, when somebody
happened to mention the name of Edmund Kean, with the remark that he had
once played in a barn in that very town.

"True enough," said Tom. "I played in the same company with him."

"You! you!" exclaimed several voices.

"Of course; but that was when I was a strolling actor in Clark's corps. We
used to go the western circuit, and by that means got the name of 'the
Connaught Rangers.' There was a queer fellow in the company, called Ned
Davis, an honest-hearted fellow he was, as ever walked in shoe leather.
Ned and I were sworn brothers; we shared the same bed, which was often
only a 'shake-down' in the corner of a stable, and the same dinner, which
was at times nothing better than a crust of brown bread and a draught of
Adam's ale. I'll trouble you for the bottle, doctor. Thank you; may I
never take worse stuff from your hands. Talking of Ned Davis, I'll tell
you, if you have no objection of a strange adventure which befel us once."

"Bravo! bravo! bravo!" was the unanimous cry from the members.

"Silence, gentlemen!" said the chairman imperatively; "silence for Mr.
Connor's story."

"Hem! Well then, some time about the year--never mind the year--Ned and I
were playing with the company at Loughrea; business grew bad, and the
salaries diminished with the houses, until at last, one morning at a
rehearsal, the manager informed us that, in consequence of the depressed
state of the drama in Galway, the treasury would be closed until further
notice, and that he had come to the resolution to depart on the following