Barney Bill.

He put on his hat at a comfortable but rakish angle. He looked like a
music-hall humourist. A couple of the gorgeous ladies giggled.

"Yuss," said he, "you're a man with an experience of life--and nobody
can do nothing for you but yerself. Poor old Barney Bill has been past
helping you this many a year."

"But I owe everything to you!" cried Paul, boyishly. "If it hadn't been
for you, I should still be working in that factory at Bludston."

Bill winked and nodded acquiescence as he finished his tankard.

"I've often wondered--since I've grown up--what induced you to take me
away. What was it?"

Bill cocked his head on one side and regarded him queerly. "Now you're
arsking," said he.

Paul persisted. "You must have had some reason."

"I suppose I was interested in them parents of yours," said Barney Bill.

And that was all he would say on the subject.

The days went on. The piece had run through the summer and autumn, and
Paul, a favourite with the management, was engaged for the next
production. At rehearsal one day the author put in a couple of lines,
of which he was given one to speak. He now was in very truth an actor.
Jane could no longer taunt him in her naughty moods (invariably
followed by bitter repentance) with playing a dumb part like a trained
dog. He had a real part, typewritten and done up in a brown-paper
cover, which was handed to him, with lack of humour, by the assistant
stage manager.

In view of his own instantaneous success he tried to persuade Jane to
go on the stage; but Jane had no artistic ambitions, to say nothing of
her disinclination to paint her face. She preferred the prosaic reality
of stenography and typewriting. No sphere could be too dazzling for
Paul; he was born to great things, the consciousness of his high
destiny being at once her glory and her despair; but, as regards
herself, her outlook on life was cool and sober. Paul was peacock born;
it was for him to strut about in iridescent plumage. She was a humble
daw and knew her station. It must be said that Paul held out the stage
as a career more on account of the social status that it would give to
Jane than through a belief in her histrionic possibilities. He too,
fond as he was of the girl with whom he had grown up, recognized the
essential difference between them. She was as pretty, as sensible, as
helpful a little daw as ever chattered; but the young peacock never for
an instant forgot her daw-dom.

J