bore the company's badge, I was now turned into a civilian.
"Now for a pot-hat," cried I, "and I'm all ready to pass for a 'light comedian.'"
The eventful morning arrived. At half-past ten I found myself ushered into the presence of a very pale, thin-faced, clean-shaven, mouse-colored man who was sitting at a table busy opening letters taken from a pile scattered in front of him. He looked up for an instant, and then, resuming his work, said in rather a soft, pleasant voice:
"You wish to see me, Mr.—Mr.—?"
"Kyrle, Harold Kyrle, sir," I broke in as he took up the little piece of paper on which my name was written.
"Kyrle—Kyrle, I don't think I know the name," he said, still gazing at the piece of paper. "What can I do for you?" He settled back, his elbows resting upon the arms of his chair and joining the tips of his fingers, looked me up and down.
I was bronzed, hard as a nail and salt-pickled—a direct contrast to the anaemic gentleman before me. I remember feeling a kind of pity for him, he looked so weak and puny.
"I came to see Mr. Charles Barrington in answer to this advertisement in the Daily Telegraph.
"Oh!" said he, "I am Mr. Barrington. Are you a light comedian? I don't remember your name."
"Probably not," I answered; "I only arrived from Australia a couple of days ago."
"Australia? Oh! Have you had much experience out there?"
Experience! thought I to myself. I had been in every mortal thing a man could be except in gaol. As he failed to specify what kind of experience I answered boldly:
"Any amount."
