At daybreak of the next morning, cold and dismal, the train stopped at a junction point in the Cascades to add a locomotive for the long haul over the “divide.” Opposite the station was a “diner.” Twelve members of the company, including four principal artists, in nightclothes--pyjamas, nightgowns, kimonos, bed-slippers, with lightweight coats wrapped round them--insisted on getting down from the train and crossing to the little “diner” for “breakfast.” Our company manager warned them not to leave the train; told them that there would be no warning, no signal, since this was not a passenger train but a troop train, and that they risked missing the train altogether. He begged, pleaded, ordered--to no avail. Off they went in the cold of the dawn, in the scantiest of nightclothes. Silently and without warning, as the manager had foretold, the train pulled out, leaving a dozen, including four leading artists, behind in an Oregon tank town without clothes or tickets. By dint of a dozen telephone calls and as many telegrams, the nightgown-clad D.P.’s were picked up by a later train. After fourteen hours in day coaches, crowded with regular passengers, they arrived at the San Francisco Ferry, still in their nightclothes, thirty minutes before curtain time; they were whisked in taxis to the War Memorial Opera House. The curtain rose on time. The evening was saved. It had its amusing side. It was one of the many hardships of wartime touring, merely one of the continuous headaches, although a shade on the unusual side. It was also yet another example of the utter lack of discipline and consideration in the company, and of the stubborn refusal of some of its members to cooperate in the cause of a fine art. Another of the many incidents having to do with the difficulties of war-time touring was one in Augusta, Georgia, where no hotel or other housing accommodations could be found, due to the war-time overcrowding. Most of the company slept, as best they could, in the railway station or in the public park. It is recorded that Alicia Markova spent the night sleeping on the sidewalk in the entrance-way to a grocer’s shop, wrapped in newspapers and a cloak by the company manager, while that guardian angel spent the night sitting on the edge of an adjoining vegetable-stand, watching over her, smoking an endless chain of cigarettes. This attitude was but an indication of the good sportsmanship the youngsters evidenced on more than one occasion, proving that, _au fond_, they were, on the whole, good “troupers.”