“Talking of wigs puts me in mind of an accident our manager had the other night. He is over fifty, but he fancies he is a sort of Charles Mathews, and will play young parts. So on Saturday evening he came on as the lover in an old English comedy, wearing one of those big three-cornered hats. ‘Who is that handsome young man with the fair hair?’ says the heroine to her confidante. ‘Oh, that, why that is Sir Harry Monfort, the gallant young gentleman who saved the Prince’s life. He is the youngest officer in the camp, but already the most famous.’ ‘Brave boy.’ murmurs the heroine; ‘I would speak a word with him. Call him hither, Lenora.’ So Lenora called him thither, and up he skipped. When the heroine spoke to him, he was quite overcome with boyish bashfulness. ‘Ah, madam,’ sighed he, taking off his hat and making a sweeping bow--‘What the devil’s the matter? What are they laughing at? Oh my------’ “He had taken his wig off with his hat, and there was the ‘brave boy’s’ poor old bald head exposed to the jeers of a ribald house. “I’d half a mind to rush up to town last week. I was out of the bill for three nights running. But the mere railway fare would have cost me nearly half a week’s salary, so I contented myself with a trip over to R-------- and a look in at the show there. I met W------. He’s married little Polly --------, who was walking lady at------. She is up at Aberdeen now, and he hasn’t seen her for over three months. Rather rough on a young couple who haven’t been married a year. The old ones bear up against this sort of thing very well indeed, but poor W-------- is quite upset about it. “They kept together as long as they could, but business got so bad that they had to separate, and each take the first thing that offered. “You remember my telling you how our prompter got me fined for not attending a rehearsal some time ago. I said I would serve him out, and so I have. Or rather _we_ have--I and one of the others who had a score against him--for he’s a bumptious, interfering sort of fellow, and makes himself disagreeable to everybody. He is awful spoons on a Miss Pinkeen, whose father keeps an ironmonger’s shop next door to the theater. The old man knows nothing about it, and they are up to all kinds of dodges to get a word with each other. Now, one of our dressing-room windows is exactly opposite their staircase window, and he and the girl often talk across; and, once or twice, he has placed a plank between the two windows, and crawled along it into the house when her father has been away. Well, we got hold of a bit of this girl’s writing the other day, and forged a letter to him, saying that her father had gone out, and that she wanted to see him very particularly, and that he was to come over through the window and wait on the landing till she came upstairs. Then, just before rehearsal, we went out and gave a stray boy twopence to take it in to him.