from. Miss Thackeray was our ingenue. A trifle large for that sort of
thing, perhaps, but--very sprightly, just the same. She's had her full
growth upwards, but not outwards. Tommy Gray, the other member of the
company, is driving a taxi in Hornville. He used to own his own car in
Springfield, Mass., by the way. Comes of a very good family. At least,
so he says. Are you all ready? I'll lead you to the dining-room. Or
would you prefer a little appetiser beforehand? The tap-room is right
on the way. You mustn't call it the bar. Everybody in that little
graveyard down the road would turn over completely if you did.
Hallowed tradition, you know."

"I don't mind having a cocktail. Will you join me?"

"As a matter of fact, I'm expected to," confessed Mr. Dillingford.
"We've been drawing quite a bit of custom to the tap-room. The rubes
like to sit around and listen to conversation about Broadway and
Bunker Hill and Old Point Comfort and other places, and then go home
and tell the neighbours that they know quite a number of stage people.
Human nature, I guess. I used to think that if I could ever meet an
actress I'd be the happiest thing in the world. Well, I've met a lot
of 'em, and God knows I'm not as happy as I was when I was WISHING I
could meet one of them. Listen! Hear that? Rushcroft is reciting Gunga
Din. You can't hear the thunder for the noise he's making."

They descended the stairs and entered the tap-room, where a dozen men
were seated around the tables, all of them with pewter mugs in front
of them. Standing at the top table,--that is to say, the one farthest
removed from the door and commanding the attention of every creature
in the room--was the imposing figure of Lyndon Rushcroft. He was
reciting, in a sonorous voice and with tremendous fervour, the famous