the sea roaring in the wings. But our plot deals
stubbornly with us. Alas, our pirates grow old and stiff. They have
retired, as we say, from active practice and live in easy luxury on
shore. Yet we shall see that their villany still thrives._

_How shall we select a name for our frightful play? There is a wharf
in London that is known as Wapping. In these days that we call the
present it has sunk to common use and its rotten timbers are piled
with honest unromantic merchandise. But once a gibbet stood on Wapping
Wharf, and pirates were hanged upon it. It was the first convenient
harborage for inbound ships to dispose of this dirty deep-sea cargo.
So it was the somber motif of a pirate's life--his moment of
reflection after he had slit his victim's throat._

_Tonight, although your beards grow long and Time has marked its net
of wrinkles--tonight, the years spin backwards. Only the young in
heart will catch the slender meaning of our play._

_We are too quick to think that childhood passes with the years--that
its fine fancy is blunted with the practice of the world. Too long
have we been taught that the clouds of glory fade in the common day.
If a man permits, a child keeps house within his heart._

_Our prologue outstays its time. Already the captain of our pirates
puts on his hook. The evil Duke limps for practice on his wooden leg.
Presently our curtain will rise. We shall see the pirates' cabin, with
the lighthouse in the distance, Flint's lantern and the ladder to the
sleeping-loft. We shall hear a storm unparalleled--thunder, lightning
and a rush of wind, if it can be managed._

_Then our candles burn to socket. Our pasteboard cabin grows dark. The
blustering ocean, the dizzy cliffs of Devon, melt like an
unsubstantial pageant. Once again, despite the signpost of the years,
we have run on the "laughing avenues of childhood."_

[Illustration]

BY WAY OF EXPLANATION

Several weeks ago an actor-manager requested me to try my hand at a
play for the winter season. The offer was unexpected. "My dear sir," I
said, "I am immensely flattered, but I have never written a play."
Then I hastened to ask, "What kind of play?" for fear the offer might
be withdrawn. He replied with sureness and decision. "I want a play,"
he said, "with lots of pirates and--no poetry." He stressed this with
emphatic gesture. "And at least one shooting," he added. It was a slim
prescription. He left me to brood upon the matter.