Samuels waited in the wings for his cue. He had to come in with majestic steps and utter his decision to leave his faithless spouse to her lover. Oh how he chafed, waiting for his cue! It was to take the house by storm. He was to outshine even the star. And--the cue was given, Kashin near him--everything in order. But just as he opened the door, Kashin gently but firmly stepped on poor Samuels's corn--on the little toe. The pain was so terrible that the actor stumbled and limped on the stage with one foot in his hands. Mechanically he said his lines. Instead of using a stentorian voice with face to the gallery, he drawled them out in a plaintive tone, like a whimpering dog, looking at the stage door, with his back to the audience. It was so funny that the audience roared with laughter and could not be brought to its senses. The heroine cried and pleaded, but it did not help. The gallery continued to laugh. When the curtain went down Kashin had disappeared from the theatre. The actors almost mobbed poor Samuels. The playwright, Gordin, could have killed him. "Even if they should have cut your head off you should still have been acting your rôle properly," he said. As soon as the poor actor appeared again in the next act, the people shook with laughter. It could not be suppressed. When the manager came out before the curtain and explained to the people what had happened, it became even worse. It was impossible to go on. It killed the show--a good play which was revived ten years later with great success--and it killed Samuels. * * * * * Esther, a practical wife, opened a dressmaking shop. Samuels spent the next year or so explaining what had happened. The first few weeks after the occurrence Samuels receded from the centre tables at Stark's to the side tables, and actors in good humor coaxed him into telling his story over and over again. It became a tradition to coax Samuels--and Samuels was easily coaxed into telling the story. But he could get no place on the stage. From a character player he became a character. It became a habit with every manager to promise him a part in the next play. Some pretended it brought good luck to do so. When a play went to smash it was, they said, "Because Samuels did not believe you." Thus the Jewish stage grew under his eyes with the doors closed to him, because some one had stepped on his corn. He became "Maybe"--"maybe" in the next play. "Don't refuse Samuels," the manager would whisper to the playwright when the contract was drawn at the big table. "Don't refuse him; it brings bad luck." Samuels would certainly have his eye on the proceedings, and come up to shake hands and bid good luck. "And will I have a part?" "I hope so, Samuels." "Esther, I have a part in Ash's new play."