"Mo—dunk!" shouted a brakeman, slamming the door of the day coach in which Loveland had traveled since some vaguely remembered hour in the night, when he had changed trains.

He had dozed, sitting on the hard red seat, his head leaning wearily against the window-frame; and he started up at the yell which for an instant seemed part of his dream.

But then, everything lately had been a dream. His weird experiences in New York; the absence of replies from his mother and the London Bank, in answer to his cabled appeals; the coming of the telegram from Jack Jacobus, accepting the very modest terms named at Bill's suggestion; his start from the magnificent Grand Central Station in New York, where the new "juvenile lead" had found his ticket awaiting him. And now, as he bundled half dazed out of the local train he had boarded some hours ago, the dream suddenly grew more bewildering than ever.

What a contrast was this little country "depot" with the splendours of the Grand Central in New York! The rough frame building was little better than an exaggerated shed, and no town was to be seen, across the desolate waste of brown fields which billowed round the railway shelter and its high platform, like a wintry sea round a small, bleak island.

Through an open door of the passengers' waiting-room Loveland caught a glimpse of a squat stove, rising like a fat-bodied grey dwarf from a big box of sawdust, and a man who had been warming his hands came out of the room as the train stopped. There were also three or four other men, lolling on a bench outside the window, but they were long-bearded, soft-hatted, tobacco-chewing individuals who had evidently dragged themselves hither through the mud for the excitement of seeing a train come in, and took no interest beyond that of curiosity in the passengers.

The man who came out of the waiting-room was a very different order of being, and almost offensively conscious of the difference. He was fifty, perhaps, and tall, with a swaggering walk, which caused the shabby fur-lined coat he wore to swing like the skirt of a woman's dress as he moved forward. He had on patent-leather boots, cracked with old age and caked with new mud. His rather long, straight hair and the heavy double curve of his moustache clearly owed their raven tint to artificial means, but his big chin was blue, and the thick brows over a pair of light grey eyes were still black. The nose and mouth, though ineffectively cut, contrived to express cruelty and an insolence which was accentuated by the upward tilt of a cigar between the strong yellowish teeth and the downward tilt of his badly kept silk hat.

Every line of the face and figure, every article of clothing, bespoke the fifth rate, seedy actor who has parted in his time with most things, except his self-conceit.

The idlers on the bench stared at him, then at the newcomer, and regarded with lazy curiosity the meeting between the two: for this gentleman in the tall silk hat and fur overcoat was Mr. Jack Jacobus, come to claim Mr. P. Gordon, the new member of his company.

If it had been possible for Loveland's heart to sink lower—which at the moment he did not believe—it would have sunk at sight of Miss de Lisle's manager. But, he asked himself, what else had he a right to expect from the advertisement, and Bill's assurance that it would be useless to demand a higher weekly screw than ten dollars, the management paying board?

One quick glance, and the glass-grey eyes had taken in each detail of Loveland's appearance, from the smartly made travelling cap, which still kept its shape, down to the neat brown boots. He approved all, it was evident, except the battered gladstone bag which Bill Willing had bought extraordinarily cheap at a pawnbroker's sale, as a gift for his friend Gordon. This Loveland carried in his hand, and he saw the actor-manager's gaze rest sardonically upon it.

In a deep, measured voice, as theatrical as the rest of his personality, Mr. Jacobus enquired if he had the pleasure of seeing Mr. Perceval Gordon. Then when answered in the affirmative, he delivered himself of a few polite words of greeting.

"Glad you got here all right. Don't know what we should have done if you hadn't turned up. Our juvenile lead came down with typhoid at our last week's stand, and we've been fakin' our best ever since—any old play we could, that had the fewest men, and the lot of us doublin' parts till we was ready to drop on the stage with the curtain. Got the checks handy for your big baggage?"

Loveland had to explain that he had no big baggage, and under the changing, freezing eyes of Jacobus felt as insignificant as a crushed worm. Until very lately he had not known the meaning of this sensation; now, he was becoming accustomed to it as to a daily worn coat; but never perhaps had his pride been more flatly ironed out than in this brief instant.

"What—no wardrobe?" demanded the manager; his tone of friendly condescension to a new member of his company altered to one of bullying suspicion.

"My wardrobe is here," said Loveland, holding out Bill's present.

"Sorry I forgot to bring a magnifying glass," sneered Jacobus. "But see here, I call this false pertences. How are you going to play a new part every night of the week, some of 'em costoom ones, all out of a grip no bigger than your pocket? You ought to have told me what you didn't have—if it wouldn't have taken you too long."

"You ought to have told me I had to play a new part every night," said Loveland, and the young man and the middle-aged one, looking each other straight in the eyes, conceived for one another an intense dislike. "I was given to understand by a person of experience, that I should have enough to get on with until I could buy something—if necessary."

"Well, that depends on how soon you buy," returned Jacobus, less bitterly. "You knew very well that you'd have me on the leg, once you got out here at this Godforsaken place, with your ticket paid. Our show ain't made of money, especially the past two weeks. Heavens! What a frost! We've been livin' on our gleanings from last month (when we were going like smoke) and countin' on the new juvenile lead to help work up better business. That's why I'm so sore at your cheek, Mr. Gordon, shootin' yourself out West with what you stand up in. But as you are here, we must make the best of a bad business. The girls may like you even with whiskers on your shirtcuffs, and I suppose among us, we'll rig you up somehow, out of our theatre trunks. That's what you were layin' for, eh?"

"Look here, if you're going to insult me much more, I shall turn round and go back, if I have to walk," said Loveland, cold, hungry, tired and miserable, but with just spirit enough left in him to be furious.

Jacobus saw that he had gone too far, if the juvenile lead were not to slip through his fingers. He did not want that to happen, though he already had an uneasy jealousy of P. Gordon. So used was he to bullying the members of his company, male and female, that he had hardly realised what was likely to be the effect of his sarcasm, until he saw the expression of the newcomer's face.

"Pshaw!" he exclaimed, laughing. "Don't you know a joke from an insult in your part of the country? It give me a start to see you land without a wardrobe, and I have a right to be mad; but I've just said we'd make the best of it, and help you out all we can. What can we do more? I suppose you don't grudge me a bit of fun? Come along to the great and glorious city of Modunk, which must have as many as one thousand inhabitants. Hope you don't mind goin' on Shanks's Mare? It's the only kind we'd get in this town—even if we ran to something better; but it ain't far—about a mile and a half; and your grip can't weigh much."

Loveland wished that he had no heavier burden to carry than his bag, but he kept the thought to himself, and trudged off with the arbiter of his destiny. The loungers on the bench, too far away to overhear the conversation, guessed that it was not altogether of a friendly nature, and transferred their quids of tobacco to their cheeks, in order to discuss the situation with a new, if fleeting, animation. As he passed them to descend the platform steps to the muddy country road, Loveland caught the words, "Show folks."

"Show folks!" Yes, he was one of the show folks.