k it would be more fun to go on a 'bus."

With the unused tickets for the Theatre Francais in his waistcoat, and
the smart little victoria still waiting in front of the Meurice (for
Frohman forgot to order the man home), the two friends started for the
country fair, where they spent the whole evening throwing balls at what
the French call "Aunt Sally." It is much like the old-fashioned
side-show at an American county fair. A negro pokes his head through a
hole in the canvas, and every time the thrower hits the head he gets a
knife. When Frohman and Barrie returned to the Meurice that night they
had fifty knives between them. The next night they repeated this
performance until they had knives enough to start a hardware-store. This
was the simple and childlike way that these two men, each a genius in
his own way, disported themselves on a holiday.

One more incident will show the amazing accord between Frohman and
Barrie. They were constantly playing jokes on each other, like two
youngsters. One day they were talking in Frohman's rooms at the Savoy
when a certain actress was announced.

"I would like to know what this woman really thinks of me," said Barrie.
"I have never met her."

"All right," said Frohman, "you pretend to be my secretary."

The woman came up and had a long talk with Frohman, during which she
gave her impressions, not very flattering, of British playwrights in
general and Barrie in particular. All the while the little Scot sat
solemnly at a near-by desk, sorting papers and occasionally handing one
to Frohman to sign. When the woman left they nearly exploded with
laughter.

One of Frohman's delights when in England was to go to Barrie's flat in
London, overlooking the Victoria Embankment. He liked this place, first
of all, because it was Barrie's. Then, too, he could sit curled up in
the corner on a settee, smoking a fat, black cigar, and look out on the
historic Thames. Here he knew he would not have to talk. It was the
place of Silence and Understanding. He was in an atmosphere he loved. In
the flat above lives John Galsworthy; down-stairs dwells Granville
Barker; while just across the street is the domicile of Bernard Shaw,
whose windows face Barrie's.

When Barrie wanted to notify Shaw that Frohman was with him, he would
throw bread-crusts against Shaw's window-panes. In a few moments the
sash would fly up and the familiar, grinning, bearded face would pop
out. On one of the occasions Shaw ye