for its beauties. I
overheard from a sun-tanned gentleman in the dress circle near whom
I sat one useful trifle in the way of criticism. When Mr. Stuart
Willoughby entered with his swag on his shoulder my neighbour whispered
to _his_ neighbour that _that_ fellow had never learned to hump
his bluey in Otago. 'I'll bet my head,' he added, 'that chap's
an Australian.' And so he was. The future Stuart Willoughbys were
instructed in this particular, and the most critical New Zealander could
have found no fault with the style in which Mr. David James, junior,
carried his belongings in the Otago bushland of the Globe Theatre,
London.

'Chums' hit the New Zealand fancy, and the little play was kindly
received in many places. I had begun to write another drama of a much
more serious sort, and was working pretty busily as well at a revised
edition of my first effort, when a serious accident befell us. My
manager and I were travelling together to Dunedin (for we had formed a
definite scheme of partnership, and had arranged to spend a year or two
in the preparation of a _repertoire_ of pieces which might be fit to
face the lights of London by the time we got there), when a telegram
found us at a railway station _en route_. It told us that an important
member of the company had seceded. I know now the story of his
secession; but I have some slight acquaintance with the law of libel,
and the history is of no particular interest to anybody.

We were announced to open in Dunedin in 'Jim the Penman,' and our
missing man was to have played the part of Baron Hardfeldt The town was
billed, seats were booked; there was no going back from the engagement
without disaster. Then I had a goodly number of friends in Dunedin who
were coming to see my own play, and there was a financial loss to be
encountered into the bargain. Personally I experienced a keen sense of
disappointment; but the manager was in despair. There was no filling
the place of the recalcitrant for love or money--there was very little
capital behind the concern; and, in short, it looked as if we had found
a finish for our enterprise. Then it was that I bethought me, 'Why the
dickens shouldn't I play Baron Hardfeldt?'

I communicated my idea to my companion, who grasped at it as a drowning
man grips a straw. We consulted together. We found it possible to begin
to study at midnight, and we arranged for a rehearsal on the morrow. I
had seen the piece once, and recalled its gener