Many years ago while I was playing at the Bush Street Theatre, San Francisco, a lad of about twenty, of Hebraic appearance, was constantly seated on the left-hand aisle watching each performance with evident delight. As I would come from the theatre he would follow me, on the other side of the street, now and then stopping to point me out to some boy friend. One day I smiled at him and his face beamed with apparent pleasure. After that I often watched for my silent admirer. Many years after I backed an enterprise in which he was featured--and lost ten thousand dollars! Later he became a leading fixture at Weber and Fields' Music Hall and made a pronounced success. During my second engagement at the Knickerbocker Theatre he was always a visitor. He no longer sat on the aisle, however. I always sent him a private box. My youthful admirer who had blossomed forth as a star in the Weber and Fields' aggregation is now one of the most famous of American actors. His name is David Warfield. After witnessing Warfield's great portrayal in "The Music Master" I began to believe in the star of destiny. I saw a man give a performance worthy of a master. And he was without even the fundamental knowledge of his art! [Illustration: DAVID WARFIELD AND NAT GOODWIN _I'm proud of the company_] Springing from obscure parents, with not an ounce of hereditary theatrical blood in his veins, naturally reticent, with a face not particularly attractive, save for a searching and penetrating eye, a mind alert, a shuffling gait--this is the man who on the stage is able to transform himself into one of the most sympathetic beings that I ever saw. With a move of the hand he is grace itself. His delivery of lines bespeaks him a scholar. His face shines like one sent from the Deity! The various emotions through which he passed in the sweetly harrowing (but inferior!) play, from gay to grave, from pathos to comedy and from that to tragedy, were expressed with a deftness and surety of touch--why, he sailed along with the assurance of a bird in its flight! Every effect he handled like a master! And when he made his exit up the miserable staircase, you realized that you had been entertained by an artist! It is a pleasure to write about such a man, particularly one who wears the wreath of laurel so modestly, who apparently realizes so fully the kindness of the gods! And the gods help only those who help themselves. Dear David, you deserve all that has been bestowed! Friend, I congratulate you, am proud to know you and feel privileged to call you by that much abused name. _Chapter XLV_ A DAY AT RENO