"But I owe everything to you!" cried Paul, boyishly. "If it hadn't
been for you, I should still be working in that factory at
Bludston."

Bill winked and nodded acquiescence as he finished his tankard.

"I've often wondered--since I've grown up--what induced you to
take me away. What was it?"

Bill cocked his head on one side and regarded him queerly. "Now
you're arsking," said he.

Paul persisted. "You must have had some reason."

"I suppose I was interested in them parents of yours," said Barney
Bill.

And that was all he would say on the subject.

The days went on. The piece had run through the summer and autumn,
and Paul, a favourite with the management, was engaged for the next
production. At rehearsal one day the author put in a couple of
lines, of which he was given one to speak. He now was in very truth
an actor. Jane could no longer taunt him in her naughty moods
(invariably followed by bitter repentance) with playing a dumb part
like a trained dog. He had a real part, typewritten and done up in a
brown-paper cover, which was handed to him, with lack of humour, by
the assistant stage manager.