[Illustration:  Clara Morris in “The Sphinx"]

The victim, rushing from the room, reached the stage at the very moment his cue was spoken, and made his entrance so short of breath he could scarcely speak.  The act was very long, the gum in his shoes dried nicely, the curtain fell.  He went below to his room to dress for the street.  He tried to remove and lay aside his patent leathers.  Alas, alas! he laid aside instead his manners, his temper, his self-restraint, his self-respect.  The gum proved itself worthy of his praise; it stuck, it held.  The shoes were willing to come off on one condition only,—­that they brought both sock and skin with them.

Three men, with tears in their eyes, had pencils, and kept tally of his remarks as he danced about after each frantic tug at a glued-on shoe.  One took down every wounding, malicious word.  A second caught and preserved every defamatory word.  While the third and busiest one secured every profane word that fell from his enraged lips.

Finally he poured the contents of the alcohol bottle into his shoes and, swearing like a madman, waited for the gum to soften.  And the manager, who was not deaf, proved that his heart was harder than the best gum and could not be softened at all.  And to this day no member of the company knows how much of the victim’s salary was left to him that week after forfeits for bad words were all paid up.  But some good came from the affair, for the actor was never again so late in arriving as not to have time to look into his shoes for any strange substance possibly lurking there.

Personally, I detest the practical joke, but I have, alas! never been above enjoying my share of the greenroom fun.  Some members of Mr. Daly’s company were very stately and dignified, and he would have been glad had we all been like them.  But there were others who would have had fun with the tombs of the Egyptian kings, and who could wring smiles from a graven image.  Mr. Daly forfeited at last so recklessly, that either the brakes had to be put upon our fun or some one would have to do picket duty.  The restless element had a wait of an entire long act in one play, and among those who waited was a tiny little bit of an old, old man.  He wore rags in his “part,” and on the seat of his trousers was an enormous red patch.  He had been asked to stand guard in the greenroom door, and nothing loath, he only argued deprecatingly:  “You’ll all get caught, I’m afraid.  You see, Mr. Daly’s so sharp, if I cough, he’ll hear me, too, and will understand.  If I signal, he’ll see me, and we’ll all get forfeited together.”

For a moment we were silently cast down.  Then I rose to the occasion beautifully.  I took the wee little man and placed him in the greenroom doorway, leaning with his back against the door-jamb.  When he saw Mr. Daly in the distance, he simply was to turn his bright red patch toward us—­we would do the rest.