We put in a long rehearsal session the morning of the matinee. I was so much occupied with my own performance I paid no attention to the valet. I forgot even to inform him about the costume he should wear. As I was finishing my make-up and within a moment or two of the rise of the curtain my valet appeared in the doorway of my dressing-room with a request that I look him over. What I saw sent me into a paroxysm of laughter. There he was, 250 pounds of him, in a green hauberk extending only to the top of his stomach! (It should have covered him to his knees.) Blue tights pulled over the generous paunch met the lingering and deficient hauberk. Scarlet boots were fitted with spurs so huge as to stagger any tragedian! The helmet whose side chains should have touched his shoulders sat atop his head like a chestnut on an apple with the side chains tickling the tops of his ears! As a finish he had the largest sword I ever saw strapped to his side! There was no time to change so I suppressed my laughter and told him for the fiftieth time to go to the left first entrance and when he saw my back toward him and heard me say, "Off with his head, so much for Buckingham," to rush on and with all his vigor shout his line. The valet promptly began, "A gentleman called--" but I stopped him and he started off as proud as a peacock and as confident as possible. The moment came. Out of the corner of my eye I saw the valet waiting in his place. In his eagerness he was like a tiger ready to spring on his prey. I gave the cue. On came the valet! Then I turned and with all the force at my command snarled, "How now?" The valet began to fall backwards! Nearer and nearer the footlights he tottered until his feet became entangled in the spurs--and down he went flat on his back! Picking himself up he managed to rescue the funny little helmet from the footlights trough, put it on his head, look for the exact center of the stage, reach it carefully, face the audience (with his back toward me!) and shouted, "A lady named Stanley is downstairs!" Of course everybody died! It was really my fault. I had omitted telling him that in tragedy actors save their voices at rehearsal and of course my rage was altogether unexpected by him as I had previously said "How now?" in a conversational tone. Of course every one of my friends insisted my valet was not to blame inasmuch as he had been making just announcements every day of his life to either John Mason or me in our little flat in the West thirties! But I always set it down as the best proof in the world that valets are born and not made. * * * * * Tragedy is the husband of humor; comedy the child. * * * * * Many comedians either make you laugh or frighten you to death. _Chapter LXXVI_ GEORGE C. TYLER