Daly contract. The bridling, simpering
idiot replied, "She had seen several, and such numbers of silly rules
she had never seen before, and--"

"That's it," blandly broke in Le Moyne, "there's the explanation of the
whole thing--see? 'L' Article 47' is a five-act dramatization of the
47th rule of Daly's contract."

"Did you ever?" gasped the woman.

"No," said Le Moyne, reaching for bread, "I never did; but Daly's up to
anything, and he'd discharge me like a shot if he should ever hear of
this."

It was almost impossible to get Mr. Daly to laugh at an actor's joke; he
was too generally at war with them, and he was too often the object of
the jest. But he did laugh once at one of the solemn frauds perpetrated
on me by this same Le Moyne.

On the one hundred and twenty-fifth performance of "Divorce" I had
"stuck dead," as the saying is. Not a word could I find of my speech. I
was cold--hot--cold again. I clutched Mrs. Gilbert's hand. I whispered
frantically: "What is it? Oh! what is the word?" But horror on horror,
in my fall I had dragged her down with me. She, too, was
bewildered--lost. "I don't know," she murmured. There we were, all at
sea. After an awful wait I walked over and asked Captain Lynde (Louis
James) to come on, and the scene continued from that point. I was
angry--shamed. I had never stuck in all my life before, not even in my
little girl days. Mr. Daly was, of course, in front. He came rushing
back to inquire, to scold. Every one joked me about my probable
five-dollar forfeit. Well, next night came, and at that exact line I did
it again. Of course that was an expression of worn-out nerves; but it
was humiliating in the extreme. Mr. Daly, it happened, was attending an
opening elsewhere, and did not witness my second fall from grace. Then
came Le Moyne to me--big and grave and kind, his plump face with the
shiny spots on the cheek-bones fairly exuding sympathetic commiseration.
He led me aside, he lowered his voice, he addressed me gently:--

[Illustration: _W.J. Le Moyne_]

"You stuck again, didn't you, Clara? Too bad! too bad! and of course you
apprehend trouble with Daly? I'm awfully sorry. Ten dollars is such a
haul on one week's salary. But see here, I've got an idea that will help
you out, if you care to listen to it."

I looked hard at him, but the wretch had a front of brass; his
benevolence was touching. I said eagerly: "Yes, I do care indeed to
listen. What is the idea?"

He beamed wi