ailed a cabby who was driving a battered old fly.

"Where to, Governor?" asked the man.

"Number 5 Henrietta Street," said Frohman.

"No such place in Maidenhead," said the driver.

"Oh, I mean the place opposite Covent Garden in London."

The old cabby wasn't a bit flustered, but he said, "I will have to get a
new horse."

He changed horses and they made the long way to London, arriving there
considerably after nightfall. When Frohman asked for his bill the old
man said, with some hesitation:

"I'm afraid it will cost you five pounds."

"That's all right," said Frohman, and paid the bill.

To his great surprise, the cabby showed up next morning, saying: "I like
London. I think I'll stay here." It was with the greatest difficulty
that Frohman got rid of him. When the cabby finally started to go he
said:

"Well, Governor, if you want to go back to Maidenhead I'll do it for
half-price."

A short time after this incident Frohman, whose purse was none too full
then, asked some people to dine with him at the Hotel Cecil. By some
mistake he and his party were shown into a room that had been arranged
for a very elaborate dinner. Before he realized it the waiter began to
serve the meal. He soon knew that it was not the menu he had ordered,
and was costing twenty times more. But he was game and stuck to it. It
was midwinter, and when the fresh peaches came on he said to the woman
on his right:

"This will break me, I know, but we might as well have a good time."

Frohman almost invariably took one of his American friends to England
with him. It was usually Charles Dillingham, Paul Potter, or William
Gillette.

On one of Gillette's many trips with him Frohman got up an elaborate
supper for Mark Twain at the Savoy and invited a brilliant group of
celebrities, including all three of the Irvings, Beerbohm Tree, Chauncey
M. Depew, Sir Charles Wyndham, Haddon Chambers, Nat Goodwin, and Arthur
Bouchier. In his inconspicuous way, however, he made it appear that
Gillette was giving the supper.

Midnight arrived, and Twain had not shown up. It was before the days of
taxis, so Dillingham was sent after him in a hansom. After going to the
wrong address, he finally located the humorist in Chelsea. He found Mark
Twain sitting in his dressing-gown, smoking a Pittsburg stogie and
reading a book.

"Did you forget all about the supper?" asked Dillingham.

"No," was the drawling reply, "but I didn't know where the blamed thin