When “Our Boys” was being played for the first time at Plymouth, Duck recollected having heard Byron say that he had never visited that town; so he wired to his favourite author to come down as his guest. Byron wired his acceptance. He probably had a new bundle of manuscript to pass on to his patron. Duck was at the station to meet the traveller with a programme for the afternoon’s enjoyment. He was anxious, above all things, that Byron should see Plymouth’s famous Hoe. So, when they had exchanged the customary civilities, Duck explained: “I’m agoin’ to take you round to see the sights; an’ fust of all I think we’d better take a little stroll round the ’O!” “Don’t you think,” asked Byron, fixing him through his monocle, “that first of all we’d better take a little stroll round the H?” Duck looked amazed at his guest. He had not the remotest idea of the point of Byron’s joke. He felt, in his confused way, that “’Enery Byron was gittin’ at ’im.” He smiled feebly, shook his head in modest deprecation, and answered: “’Ar, you _will_ ’ave your little joke, sir; but it ain’t the haitch after all, it’s the ’O we’re agoin’ to see—the ’O.” “O!” was Byron’s monosyllabic comment. William Duck had in his company as “leading man” a capital actor named Edward George. Much of the success of “Our Boys” in the provinces was due to the admirable impersonation of Perkyn Middlewick by that excellent comedian. While on tour, and playing in one of the large towns in the North, an admirer of George presented him with a cameo pin, having the likeness of Lord Byron carved on it. Duck, who noticed everything, and who had twice as much curiosity as an old woman, seeing the pin in the scarf of the comedian, immediately said: “Pretty pin, Mr. George! ’Ad it giv’ to you?” “It’s a present,” admitted the actor. “Anybody’s portrait? Hey, Mr. George?” “Yes. It’s a portrait of Byron,” was the reply. Duck started, came nearer to George, held his face close to the cameo, and then fell back laughing consumedly. When he had succeeded in controlling his merriment, he exclaimed: “You’ve bin took in, my dear feller: _’tain’t a bit like ’im_!” William Duck, you see, knew of only one Byron. And that was “H. J.” When Byron’s play had run under Duck’s management for five hundred nights in the provinces, the grateful manager thought that he would like to celebrate the event, and testify to his appreciation of the efforts put forth by the members of his company. It was, if I remember aright, in Liverpool that the play achieved its five hundredth night. Duck’s idea was to give a supper at his hotel. “Comes cheaper ’n a lunching,” one hears him say. He also determined—it must have cost him a pang, for William was mean, and that’s the truth—to give a little present to each member of the cast. He purchased some cheap bangles for the ladies, and a “charm” of more or less precious metal for the watch-guards of each of the gentlemen.