‘By all means, Monsieur Fombonne,’ interrupted the manager. ‘Hope sustains us under all our afflictions. Always hope. For my part, hope is the only thing left me. Business is wretched. The treasury is empty. I cannot possibly raise your salary. But you are an artist, and therefore above pecuniary considerations. I do not, I cannot offer you money; but I can gratify a laudable ambition. Hitherto you have ranked only as an _accessoire_; from this time you are an actor. I give you the right of entering the _grand foyer_. You are permitted to call Monsieur Lemaitre _mon camarade_; to _tutoyer_ Mademoiselle Theodorine. I am sure, Monsieur Fombonne, that you will thoroughly appreciate the distinction I have conferred upon you.’ The manager read his man rightly; the promoted _accessoire_ was more than satisfied. Not so well pleased was the English super who asked for a rise, pleading that he had been playing his part with the utmost care and zeal for a hundred consecutive nights. The manager inquired what part he played. ‘Why, sir,’ said he, ‘I am in the fourth act; I have to stake twenty pounds in the gambling scene.’ ‘Very well,’ quoth the manager; ‘from to-night you shall double the stakes.’ Was it the same manager, we wonder, to whom Mr Sala’s small super came crying for a redress of his grievance? He had been cast to play ‘double-four’ in a pantomimic game of animated dominoes; but the dresser had allotted ‘double-four’ to his brother Jim, and insisted upon his being contented with donning the tabard of ‘four and a blank.’ He had protested, he had howled, he had punched Jim’s head, without effect. ‘What am I to do?’ the little pantomimist cried. ‘I’d sooner give up the profession, than be took down so many pegs without never ’avin done nuffin.’ ‘Never mind, my boy,’ replied the amused stage-manager; ‘you shall play double-four; and if you behave yourself properly till Boxing Night you shall play double-six.’ That little fellow would never have made such a mess of his ‘business’ as did a street urchin who made his first appearance on any stage under the auspices of Mr J. C. Williamson, when the latter was playing _Struck Oil_ in a country town. Led on by the ear by Lizzie Stofel, and asked: ‘What for you call me Dutchy?’ the debutant blurted out: ‘Cause you told me to!’—to the immense delight of the house. As soon as the act was over, he was told he might go in front; and before any one could stop him, he pulled back the curtain, climbed over the footlights into the orchestra, and coolly left the theatre.