But when the production was taken to London we abandoned this scheme. The English manager had employed the usual group of cockney supers, and spent a good deal of English gold in buying make-ups for them. When our manager saw the lot he was furious. "Why," he screamed, "that band of mutts looks like a gang of sneak thieves trying to dodge the police! They'll ruin the play!--ruin it!--do you hear me? They'll ruin it! Look at those whiskers!" And he yanked off the beard of one of the supers, threw it on the floor and stamped on it. "And look at that wig!" and a bit of false head-dressing followed the whiskers to the floor, and was shredded under the American's angry heel. "And that one, too!" Another wig went to destruction. "And that nose!--that nose!" [Illustration] Here he made a grab at the very prominent and highly Roman nasal organ of a very short super, and tweaked it as through he would throw it, too, to the floor and stamp on it. The super's eyes filled with tears, he uttered a cry of pain, indignantly grabbed and pulled away the manager's wrenchlike fingers, and then backing away, bowed and explained very humbly: "Hi begs your pardon, sir, but that's me hown." But, after all, it takes a young woman of the present day, to rub it in with a free hand. There's Miss Gutting, for instance, whose father roped me in on many a deal on Wall Street. He made his little pile, and of course the daughter is considered a great catch, and among those who hover about the bright flame are several young society swells whose brains have never come out of their swaddling clothes. [Illustration: Daughter of millionaire--Great catch--Counts and upward] She gave Softleigh an awful jolt the other day when he thought to get off a poem, which somehow seemed to lose all its point in his hands. "I think, Mr. Softleigh, you will become quite a distinguished man if you live long enough," she said. "Ah, thanks, awfully, doncher know. It's very good of you to say that. By the way, what do you--aw--think I will be distinguished for?" "Longevity," said the minx. It was cruel, perhaps, but I've no doubt she enjoyed it. But Miss Gutting sometimes finds her match in the grim old Wall Street operator whom she calls papa. [Illustration] She has a passion for hats, and of course her Easter creation was a dandy. "Isn't it a duck of a hat?" she asked the old gentleman, parading it before him. "Certainly; only I'd call it a pelican," he said, grimly glancing at the account on his desk, "judging from the size of the bill."