ver tired of telling it.

Once when Frohman gave out an interview about his friends in Marlow, he
sent the clipping to his friend Clark, who wrote him a letter, which
contained, among other things:

_I can assure you I quite appreciate your kindness in sending the
cutting to me. When the township of Marlow has obtained from His
Majesty King George the necessary charter to become a county
borough, and you offer yourself for the position of Mayor, I will
give you my whole-hearted support and influence to secure your
election._

Then, too, there was Jones, the Marlow barber, who shaved Frohman for a
penny because he was a regular customer.

"Jones is a great man," Frohman used to say. "He never charges me more
than a penny for a shave because I am one of his regular customers.
Otherwise it would be twopence. I always give his boy a sixpence,
however, but Jones doesn't know that."

Indeed, the people of Marlow looked upon Frohman as their very own. He
always said that he wanted to be buried in the churchyard by the river.
This churchyard had a curious interest for him. He used to wander around
in it and struck up quite an acquaintance with the wife of the sexton.
She was always depressed because times were so bad and no one was dying.
Then an artist died and was buried there, and the old woman cheered up
considerably. Frohman used to tell her that the only funeral that he
expected to attend was his own.

"And mark you," he said, for he could never resist a jest, "you must
take precious good care of my grave."

His wish to lie in Marlow was not attained, but in tribute to the love
he had for it the memorial that his friends in England have raised to
him--a fountain--stands to-day at the head of High Street in the little
town where he loved to roam, the place in which he felt, perhaps, more
at home than any other spot on earth. Had he made the choice himself he
would have preferred this simple, sincere tribute, in the midst of
simple, unaffected people who knew him and loved him, to stained glass
in the stateliest of cathedrals.

* * *

Charles cared absolutely nothing for honors. He was content to hide
behind the mask of his activities. He would never even appear before an
audience. Almost unwillingly he was the recipient of the greatest
compliment ever paid an American theatrical man in England. It happened
in this way:

One season when Frohman had lost an unusual amount of money,