more often, the fair are resistless with great men."

He took a final look at himself in the glass, adjusted his scimiter;
and, well satisfied with himself and the conceit of his epigram unheard
save by himself, he also departed, to take up his cue.

CHAPTER III

_He took them from Castlemaine's hand to throw to you._

The greenroom seemed like some old forest rent by a storm. Its
furniture, which was none too regular at best, either in carving or
arrangement, had the irregularity which comes only with a tempest, human
or divine. The table, it is true, still stood on its four oaken legs;
but even it was well awry. The chairs were scattered here and there,
some resting upon their backs. To add to all this, oranges in confusion
were strewn broadcast upon the floor.

A storm in fact had visited the greenroom. The storm was Nell.

In the midst of the confusion, a jolly old face peeped cautiously in at
the door which led to the street. At the sound of Manager Hart's
thunderous tones coming from the stage, however, it as promptly
disappeared, only to return when the apparent danger ceased. It was a
rare old figure and a rare old dress and a rare old man. Yet, not an old
man either. His face was red; for he was a tavern spirit, well known and
well beloved,--a lover of good ale! Across his back hung a riddle which
too had the appearance of being the worse for wear, if fiddles can ever
be said to be the worse for wear.

The intruder took off his dilapidated hat, hugged his fiddle closely
under his arm and looked about the room, more cautiously than
respectfully.

"Oons, here is a scattering of props; a warfare of the orange-wenches!"
he exclaimed. "A wise head comes into battle after the last shot is
fired."

He proceeded forthwith to fill his pockets, of which there seemed to be
an abundance of infinite depth, with oranges. This done, he calmly made
a hole in the next orange which came to his hand and began to suck it
loudly and persistently, boy-fashion, meanwhile smacking his lips. His
face was one wreath of unctuous smiles. "There is but one way to eat an
orange," he chuckled; "that's through a hole."

At this moment, Hart's voice was heard again upon the stage, and the
new-comer to the greenroom liked to have dropped his orange. "Odsbud,
that's one of Master Hart's love-tones," he thought. "I must see Nell
before he sees me, or it will be farewell Strings." He hastened to
Nell's tiring-room and