straits, and doing both him and other members of the company many
little acts of kindness and simple hospitality. In the lower
submerged world of the theatrical profession in which Paul found
himself he had met with many such instances of awful poverty. He had
brushed elbows with Need himself. That morning he had given, out of
his scanty resources, her railway fare to a tearful and despairing
girl who played the low-comedy part. But he had not yet come across
any position quite so untenable as that of Wilmer. Forty odd years
old, a wife, five children, all his life given honestly to his
calling--and threepence half-penny to his fortune.

"But, good God I" said he, after a pause, "your kiddies? If you have
nothing--what will happen to them?"

"Lord knows," groaned Wilmer, staring in front of him, his elbows on
the back of the chair and his head between his fists.

"And Mrs. Wilmer and yourself have got to get back to London."

"I've got the dress suit I wear in the last act. It's fairly new. I
can get enough on it."

"But that's part of your outfit--your line of business; you'll
want it again," said Paul.

Wilmer had played butlers up and down the land for many years. Now
and again, when the part did not need any special characterization,
he obtained London engagements. He was one of the known stage
butlers.