"Any luck at the agent's, daddy?"

Mr. Mackwayte shook his head.

"These revues are fair killing the trade, my dear, and that's a
fact. They don't want art to-day, only rag-time and legs and all
that. Our people are being cruelly hit by it and that's a fact.
Why, who do you think I ran into at Harris' this morning? Why,
Barney who used to work with the great Charles, you know, my
dear. For years he drew his ten pound a week regular. Yet there
he was, looking for a job the same as the rest of us. Poor
fellow, he was down on his luck!"

Barbara looked up quickly.

"Daddy, you lent him money...."

Mr. Mackwayte looped extremely uncomfortable.

"Only a trifle, my dear, just a few shillings.... to take him
over the week-end.... he's getting something.... he'll repay me,
I feel sure...."

"It's too bad of you, daddy," his daughter said severely. "I gave
you that ten shillings to buy yourself a bottle of whiskey. You
know he won't pay you back. That Barney's a bad egg!"

"Things are going bad with the profession, replied Mr. Mackwayte.
"They don't seem to want any of us old stagers today, Barbara!"