w irate manager, but the audience insisted on the "nigger
kiltie" returning to the front, while they gave him another hearty
round of applause.

A lecture behind the curtain, in which the manager, the stage
carpenter, Eliza and Legree, and Uncle Tom combined, seared William's
soul to the centre, though he said not a word, and the play went on.

The death-bed scene, described in the home-made programmes as the
"grand finally," included the appearance of "the sweet boy singer,
William Adolphus Turnpike, in 'Loch Lomond.'" Little Eva was dying
beautifully when the pianist, who was not at all merciful to the
uncertain age and still more uncertain tone of his instrument, began
the air. William, who was one of the group around the bed, advanced
and began to sing. The audience ceased its snickering after the first
few words to listen intently. To many it was a beloved song; they
could forget the incongruous surroundings in the sweet memories it
recalled, and to others it appealed, as many old-world songs do, by its
plaintive sweetness. William was making a hit, and he knew it. Boy
though he was, he felt to the full the bond of sympathy between himself
and the audience. There was a queer sensation in his heart as he began
the last verse, and he wondered if he could finish it. He had reached
the second line when the voice of the prompter, imploringly pitched,
begged him to "hurry it up; little Eva's bed's a falling down."
William turned sharply toward the bed and, as he turned, something gave
way at his waist. He rushed to the death-bed, snatched therefrom the
coverlet, wrapped it majestically around him, and walked off the stage,
leaving behind him a little plaid heap--the kilts. The curtain dropped
suddenly in response to the manager's frantic signals. Little Eva, the
boy who had also taken the part of Legree, jumped from the bed
hysterically crying, "You spoiled me part," grappled madly with the
manager, and while the battle raged, William Adolphus Turnpike,
coverlet and all, slipped quietly out of the back door and raced
frantically for home, only two short blocks away.

CHAPTER IX

"When I feel gloomy, I'm good and gloomy," said William to Lucien
Torrance one sunshiny afternoon in June, as they sat together in
Whimple's office, their respective "bosses" being out "on business,"
another way of saying that they had gone to the baseball match.

"This is one day when I'm gloomy, and I just gotter gloom--it