e to look into his shoes for any strange substance possibly lurking
there.

Personally, I detest the practical joke, but I have, alas! never been
above enjoying my share of the greenroom fun. Some members of Mr. Daly's
company were very stately and dignified, and he would have been glad had
we all been like them. But there were others who would have had fun with
the tombs of the Egyptian kings, and who could wring smiles from a
graven image. Mr. Daly forfeited at last so recklessly, that either the
brakes had to be put upon our fun or some one would have to do picket
duty. The restless element had a wait of an entire long act in one play,
and among those who waited was a tiny little bit of an old, old man. He
wore rags in his "part," and on the seat of his trousers was an enormous
red patch. He had been asked to stand guard in the greenroom door, and
nothing loath, he only argued deprecatingly: "You'll all get caught, I'm
afraid. You see, Mr. Daly's so sharp, if I cough, he'll hear me, too,
and will understand. If I signal, he'll see me, and we'll all get
forfeited together."

For a moment we were silently cast down. Then I rose to the occasion
beautifully. I took the wee little man and placed him in the greenroom
doorway, leaning with his back against the door-jamb. When he saw Mr.
Daly in the distance, he simply was to turn his bright red patch
_toward_ us--we would do the rest.

It was a glorious success. We kept an eye on the picket, and when the
red patch danger signal was shown, silence fell upon the room. Forfeits
ceased for a long time. Of course we paid our watchman for his
services--paid him in pies. He had a depraved passion for bakers' pies,
which he would not cut into portions, because he said it spoiled their
flavour--he preferred working his way through them; and that small grey
face seen near the centre of a mince pie whose rim was closing gently
about his ears was a sight to make a supreme justice smile.

But our evil course was almost run: our little pie-eater, who was just a
touch odd, or what people call "queer," on Thanksgiving Day permitted
himself to be treated by so many drivers of pie wagons that at night he
was tearful and confused, and though he watched faithfully for the
coming of Mr. Daly, while we laughingly listened to a positively
criminal parody on "The Bells," watched for and saw him in ample time,
he, alas! confusedly turned his red patch the wrong way, and we, every
one, came to g