and of course it was laughed at; but three nights later another letter came—­oh, well, it was just a letter.  The writer was very diffuse, and evidently had plenty of paper and ink and time at his disposal.  He dwelt on his sufferings as each day passed without a letter from me.  He explained just what efforts he had made, vainly made, to secure sleep each night.  He did not live in a large city when at home, and he described how nearly he had come to being run over in trying to cross our biggest street—­while thinking of me.  Oh, Mr Fix!  He bravely admitted he was due at the store out home, but he kept a-thinking I might not have got that first letter, or maybe I wanted to look him over before writing.  So he had waited and was coming to the theatre that very night, and his seat was in the balcony,—­No. 3, left side, front row,—­and for fear I might not feel quite sure about him, he would hold high to his face, in his left hand, a large white handkerchief.

It didn’t seem to occur to him that such an attitude would give him a very grief-stricken aspect; he only desired to give me a fair chance “to look him over.”  Without a second thought, I read that portion of the letter in the greenroom, and the laughter had scarcely died away when that admirable actor, but perfectly fiendish player of tricks, Louis James, was going quietly from actor to actor arranging for the downfall of A. Fix.

So it happened that James, Clarke, and Lewis, instead of entering in a group, came on in Indian file, each holding in the left hand a large pocket-handkerchief.  I being already on the stage, there was of course a line spread of canvas in the balcony.  The audience, ever quick to catch on to a joke, seeing each man glance upward, followed suit, spied the enormous handkerchief held high in the left hand, and realizing the situation, burst into hilarious laughter.  Uselessly I pleaded; at every possible opportunity the white handkerchief appeared in some left hand, while the stage manager vainly wondered why the audience laughed in such unseemly places that night.

The next day that young person, whom I had treated as a common “masher,” heaped a whole shovelful of hot, hot coals upon my guilty head by writing me a letter less carefully dotted and crossed, somewhat more confused in metaphor than before, but beginning with:  “I am afraid you are cruel.  I think you must have betrayed me to your mates, for I do not remember that they did such things before last night with their handkerchiefs.”

Then, after telling me his home address, his business, and his exact standing socially, he laid these specially large hot coals carefully upon my brow, “So, though you make a laughing-stock of me, now don’t think I shall be mad about it; but remember if any trouble or sickness comes to you, no matter how far from now, if you will just write me one word, I’ll help you to my plumb last cent,” and truly Mr. Fix left me ashamed and sorry.