Poor lady! no wonder her worn nerves gave way when all unexpectedly that dread scene was reproduced before her, and worse still before the staring public.

Then Mr. Charles Matthews, the veteran English comedian, came over to act at Mr. Daly’s.  His was a graceful, polished, volatile style of acting, and he had a high opinion of his power as a maker of fun; so that he was considerably annoyed one night when he discovered that one of his auditors would not laugh.  Laugh? would not even smile at his efforts.

Mr. Matthews, who was past seventy, was nervous, excitable,—­and, well, just a wee bit cranky; and when the play was about half over, he came “off,” angrily talking to himself, and ran against Mr. Lewis and me, as we were just about “going on.”  Instantly he exclaimed, “Look here! look here!” taking from his vest pocket a broad English gold piece and holding it out on his hand, then added, “And look there! look there!” pointing out a gentleman sitting in the opposite box.

“Do you see that stupid dolt over there?  Well, I’ve toiled over him till I sweat like a harvest hand, and laugh—­he won’t; smile—­he won’t.”

I remarked musingly, “He looks like a graven image”; while Lewis suggested cheerfully, “Perhaps he is one.”

“No, no!” groaned the unfortunate star, “I’m afraid not!  I’m—­I’m almost certain I saw him move once.  But look here now, you’re a deucedly funny pair; just turn yourselves loose in this scene.  I’ll protect you from Daly,—­do anything you like,—­and the one who makes that wooden man laugh, wins this gold piece.”

It was not the gold piece that tempted us to our fall, but the hope of succeeding where the star had failed.  I seized one moment in which to notify old man Davidge of what was going on, as he had a prominent part in the coming scene, and then we were on the stage.

The play was “The Critic,” the scene a burlesque rehearsal of an old-time melodrama.  Our opportunities were great, and Heaven knows we missed none of them.  New York audiences are quick, and in less than three minutes they knew the actors had taken the bit between their teeth and were off on a mad race of fun.  Everything seemed to “go.”  We three knew one another well.  Each saw another’s idea and caught it, with the certainty of a boy catching a ball.  The audience roared with laughter; the carpenters and scene-shifters—­against the rule of the theatre—­crowded into the entrances with answering laughter; but the man in the box gave no sign.

Worse and worse we went on.  Mr. Daly, white with anger, came behind the scene, gasping out, “Are they utterly mad?” to the little Frenchman whom he had made prompter because he could not speak English well enough to prompt us; who, frantically pulling his hair, cried, “Oui! oui! zey are all mad—­mad like ze dog in ze summer-time!”

Mr. Daly stamped his feet and cleared his throat to attract our attention; but, trusting to Mr. Matthews’s protection, we grinned cheerfully at him and continued on our downward path.  At last we reached the “climax,” and suddenly I heard Mr. Matthews say, “She’s got him—­look—­I think she’s won!”