Ben’s companion led the way through the stage door into the green-room. He appeared to be known, for he was at once admitted by the door-keeper.

“Is the manager in?” asked the author.

“Yes, Mr. Wilkins.”

“There he is,” he added, as a pleasant-looking gentleman emerged from the wings.

“Halloa, Wilkins,” said the manager. “How shall we manage about the boy?”

“I have brought you one,” replied Wilkins, calling attention to Ben.

“Do you know him? Will he do?”

“I think he will.”

“What’s your name, young man?”

“Ben Bruce.”

“Ha! A good stage name. Have you ever acted?”

“No, sir, except at exhibitions.” “Are you easily frightened? Can you face a crowd?”

“I am not bashful,” answered Ben with a smile.

“Then come here for rehearsal to-morrow at two o’clock. Mr. Wilkins, you can furnish him with his part.”

“All right, sir. I’ll take him in charge.”

The manager, who seemed to be a very busy man, noted down Ben’s name and hurried to another part of the stage.

“Well, Ben, it is all settled,” said the dramatic author. “I want you to do yourself credit, and help on the success of my piece. You have no engagement for the rest of the day and evening, have you?”

“No, sir.”

“Then come home and take supper with me. This evening I will train you in your part.”

“I shall be glad to have you do so.”

“I live on Lexington Avenue near Thirtieth Street. We are a quiet family. My mother and I make the whole of it.”

Ben submitted himself to the guidance of his companion, and taking a Third Avenue horse-car soon arrived at Thirtieth Street, where they struck off for Lexington Avenue. The house was a plain one, three stories in height, but looked home-like and comfortable.

“I’ll take you up to my den, where I do my work,” said Mr. Wilkins. “It is my chamber as well and you will find arrangements for washing. Then I will go down and let my mother know that I have invited a young actor to supper.”

Ben laughed. It seemed a good joke to him to be referred to as a young actor.

In fifteen minutes Mr. Wilkins returned. He found that Ben had availed himself of the interval to make his toilet.

“Have you written many plays, Mr. Wilkins?” asked Ben.

“No. This is only the third. I do some literary work for papers and magazines, but plays, if successful, pay much better. You see I have a few books here. You may like to look them over.”

There were book shelves near the writing desk, containing a miscellaneous assortment of books, perhaps three hundred in number.

“You like reading, Ben?”

“Yes, sir, very much.”

“You are welcome to borrow books from my library, such as it is.”

“Thank you; I should like to do so. I ought to tell you,” he added smiling, “that I have the privilege of living in the same house with an author.”

“Indeed! Who is it?”

“Sylvanus Snodgrass.”

“I don’t think I know him.”

“He writes novelettes for the Weekly Bugle.”

“I am afraid I am not familiar with the authors who write for that publication. What is your friend’s best known story?”

“I think he prides himself most on ‘The Ragpicker’s Curse.’”

Mr. Wilkins smiled.

“I suppose it is hardly in the style of Howells,” he said.

“No; Mr. Snodgrass is confident that Howells could not write such a story.”

“I have no doubt he is correct. But there is the supper bell. Let us go down.”

A neatly-dressed old lady was already seated behind the tea-urn.

“Mother,” said Mr. Wilkins, “let me introduce my young friend, Benjamin Bruce.”

“I am glad to see thee, Benjamin,” said Mrs. Wilkinson, with a kindly smile.

“Thank you,” said Ben, feeling drawn to the kindly old lady. “My mother was brought up a Quaker,” explained Mr. Wilkinson, “and keeps up the Quaker speech. I have fallen away from it, but I have a great respect for my mother’s church, or rather meeting.”

“Thee is very young for an actor, Benjamin,” said Mrs. Wilkins.

“Yes,” answered Ben, “but I can hardly call myself an actor yet. Your son is going to make me one.”

“I am afraid thee is ill advised, John,” said the old lady. “An actor’s life is full of temptation.”

“True, mother, but Ben is a good boy, and I am sure he will resist temptation.”

“I hope so indeed, John.”

“My mother is hardly reconciled to my writing plays, Ben,” remarked John Wilkins. “I cannot induce her to go to the theater and see my piece.”

“I judge not others,” said Mrs. Wilkins, “but I have never been to the playhouse, and I am too old to change.”

“Still you will wish me success, mother!”

“I always wish thee success in all things good, John.”

“Then I hope the play will prove a good one.”

The supper was plain but palatable. Ben relished the hot tea, the buttered toast, the cold meat, and preserves, and ate heartily. It was in refreshing contrast to the cheap restaurant on the Bowery where he had been eating lately.

When supper was over Mr. Wilkins rose from the table.

“Now for business, Ben,” he said. “We must see what preparations we can make for to-morrow evening.”

He handed Ben a small manuscript book when they reached the study.

“This is your part,” he said. “Before each speech you will see a few words. That is the cue. They are the concluding words of the previous speaker.”

The little book contained ten pages, but nearly half of it was taken up by the cues.

“It is a disadvantage to you not to know the other parts and the general drift of the story, but these I can give you some idea of.”

Two hours were devoted to coaching Ben in his rÔle. He was a quick student and had always been fond of public speaking. Also he had taken part at home in various little plays at Sunday-school and other entertainments, and Mr. Wilkins was much gratified by the rapidity with which he seemed to master his part. “There, Ben, I think that will do,” he said when the clock struck nine. “You have done a good evening’s work, and I think you will make a good impression at rehearsal. Will you meet me at the stage door at two o’clock, or let us say, a little earlier?”

“I will be there twenty minutes before the time, Mr. Wilkins.”

“By the way, Ben, I forgot to say that you will be paid at least fifteen dollars a week, or possibly more.”

Fifteen dollars a week! It quite took away Ben’s breath. Even a single week at that rate of remuneration would set him on his feet.

“That is more than I earn at selling papers,” he said with a smile.

“So I suppose. I think it will be better for you to give up selling papers on the street while you are an actor.”

“I can hire Tom Hooper to sell for me. He took my place at the restaurant, but he has got tired of it already.”

“That would be a good idea.”

The next morning Ben met Tom Hooper on the Bowery and proposed to him to take his place for a time. “Why?” asked Tom. “Are you goin’ out of de business?”

“Not exactly. I am going to sell papers every evening at the People’s Theater.”

“At de theayter? Where?”

“On the stage.”

“Will you be let?” asked Tom, puzzled.

“I am going to play the part of the newsboy in the new play.”

“You don’t say!” ejaculated Tom, opening his eyes wide. “Be you an actor?”

“I am going to try it.”

“I’ll go and see you.”

“Don’t come the first evening, Tom. I don’t know how I shall get along.”

“Then I’ll come the second evening.”

“I shan’t mind that so much. But I must be going to rehearsal.”

Ben acquitted himself at rehearsal very well, so well that the manager patted him on the shoulder and said, “You’ll do, my son!” and Mr. Wilkins shook his hand cordially.

“You did fine, Ben,” he exclaimed.

“Thanks to your training, Mr. Wilkins.”

“And to your own talent.”