“Of course; but that was when I was a strolling actor in Clark’s corps.  We used to go the western circuit, and by that means got the name of ’the Connaught Rangers.’  There was a queer fellow in the company, called Ned Davis, an honest-hearted fellow he was, as ever walked in shoe leather.  Ned and I were sworn brothers; we shared the same bed, which was often only a ‘shake-down’ in the corner of a stable, and the same dinner, which was at times nothing better than a crust of brown bread and a draught of Adam’s ale.  I’ll trouble you for the bottle, doctor.  Thank you; may I never take worse stuff from your hands.  Talking of Ned Davis, I’ll tell you, if you have no objection of a strange adventure which befel us once.”

“Bravo! bravo! bravo!” was the unanimous cry from the members.

“Silence, gentlemen!” said the chairman imperatively; “silence for Mr. Connor’s story.”

“Hem!  Well then, some time about the year—­never mind the year—­Ned and I were playing with the company at Loughrea; business grew bad, and the salaries diminished with the houses, until at last, one morning at a rehearsal, the manager informed us that, in consequence of the depressed state of the drama in Galway, the treasury would be closed until further notice, and that he had come to the resolution to depart on the following morning for Castlebar, whither he requested the company to follow him without delay.  Fancy my consternation at this unexpected announcement!  I mechanically thrust my hands into my pockets, but they were completely untenanted.  I rushed home to our lodgings, where I had left Ned Davis; he, I knew, had received a guinea the day before, upon which I rested my hopes of deliverance.  I found him fencing with his walking-stick with an imaginary antagonist, whom he had in his mind pinned against a closet-door.  I related to him the sudden move the manager had made, and told him, in the most doleful voice conceivable, that I was not possessed of a single penny.  As soon as I had finished, he dropped into a chair, and burst into a long-continued fit of laughter, and then looked in my face with the most provoking mock gravity, and asked—­

“What’s to be done then?  How are we to get out of this?”

“Why,” said I, “that guinea which you got yesterday!”

“Ho! ho! ho! ho!” he shouted.  “The guinea is gone.”

“Gone!” I exclaimed; and I felt my knees began to shake under me.  “Gone—­where—­how.”

“I gave it to the wife of that poor devil of a scene-shifter who broke his arm last week; he had four children, and they were starving.  What could I do but give it to them?  Had it been ten times as much they should have had it.”

I don’t know what reply I made, but it had the effect of producing another fit of uncontrollable laughter.

“Why do you laugh,” said I, rather angrily.

“Who the devil could help it;” he replied; “your woe-begone countenance would make a cat laugh.”