Mr. Jackson prodded the unpainted wash-stand with his gold-headed cane. “Is he really going to kick it?” “I’m afraid so; he’s nothing but skin, bone, and spirit, as it is.” “H’m! Stray cats, you say, and a bird! Well, there’s no accounting. He was always a cracky little chap. So that’s it! When I got the letter I wondered what the deuce! We pay him his five quid a quarter regular to this day. To tell truth, he deserved it. Thirty years he was at our shop; never missed a night. First-rate flute he was. He ought never to have given it up, though I always thought it showed a bit of heart in him. If a man don’t look after number one, he’s as good as gone; that’s what I’ve always found. Why, I was no more than he was when I started. Shouldn’t have been worth a plum if I’d gone on his plan, that’s certain.” And he gave that profound chuckle which comes from the very stomach of success. “We were having a rocky time at the Harmony; had to cut down everything we could--music, well, that came about first. Little old Moronelli, as we used to call him--old Italian days before English names came in, you know--he was far the best of the flutes; so I went to him and said: ‘Look here, Moronelli, which of these other boys had better go?’ ‘Oh!’ he said--I remember his funny little old mug now--‘has one of them to go, Mr. Jackson? Timminsa’--that was the elder--‘he’s a wife and family; and Smetoni’--Smith, you know--‘he’s only a boy. Times are bad for flutes.’ ‘I know it’s a bit hard,’ I said, ‘but this theatre’s goin’ to be run much cheaper; one of ’em’s got to get.’ ‘Oh!’ he said, ‘dear me!’ he said. What a funny little old chap it was! Well--what do you think? Next day I had his resignation. Give you my word I did my best to turn him. Why, he was sixty then if he was a day--at sixty a man don’t get jobs in a hurry. But, not a bit of it! All he’d say was: ‘I shall get a place all right!’ But that’s it, you know--he never did. Too long in one shop. I heard by accident he was on the rocks; that’s how I make him that allowance. But that’s the sort of hopeless little old chap he is--no idea of himself. Cats! Why not? I’ll take his old cats on; don’t you let him worry about that. I’ll see to his bird, too. If I can’t give ’em a better time than ever they have here, it’ll be funny!” And, looking round the little empty room, he again uttered that profound chuckle: “Why, he was with us at the Harmony thirty years--that’s time, you know; _I_ made my fortune in it.” “I’m sure,” I said, “it’ll be a great relief to him.” “Oh! Ah! That’s all right. You come down to my place”--he handed me a card: “Mr. Cyril Porteus Jackson, Ultima Thule, Wimbledon”--“and see how I fix ’em up. But if he’s really going to kick it, I’d like to have a look at the little old chap, just for old times’ sake.”