Under such circumstances our spirits ran high, and each one began to tell of the particular _rôles_ in which he or she had, in days gone by, electrified an audience and won applause. Boydell caught the infection. It happened that we had been running plays in which the “first old man” was, at best, only a “stick” part, and Boydell fretted considerably at his ill-luck. One night he came into the green-room, and to his inexpressible joy found himself cast for the part of “Colonel Damas” in Bulwer’s comedy of the “Lady of Lyons.” Now this was his pet _rôle_, and at the intelligence he felt all his dramatic genius kindle into a fresh flame. “Boys,” he said, straightening up his dignified form, “Boys, you will see me make a great hit to-night. The passage commencing, ‘The man who sets his heart upon a woman is a chameleon, and doth feed on air,’ has never been to my mind rightly given.” Many of us had seen him do pretty well before, but now we looked forward to such an effort as the stage in St. Joseph had never witnessed. The next evening I repaired to the theater half an hour earlier than usual, but found Boydell already dressed for the play. His shabby black coat looked more eminently respectable than ever, and was buttoned over smooth white linen, or what he made answer the purpose of linen,—half a yard of paper muslin folded into tucks, and pinned to his paper collar. In his hand ready for use he held his one valuable—the scratch wig. It still lacked a few minutes before he would be called, and he disappeared, as he said, to “steady his nerves.” Various winks and knowing looks passed among the boys; such disappearances on his part at this time of the evening were by no means rare or unaccountable. Boydell came back and went directly on the stage. The excitement behind the scenes grew, for, although few of us would admit it, we all knew Boydell was a born actor, and we clustered eagerly around the wings in breathless expectation. He started out with dramatic gesture,— “‘The man who sets his heart upon a woman Is a chameleon, and doth feed on air— On air—air—’” Suddenly his voice grew fainter, and his sentences incoherent. Those few moments he had spent in “steadying his nerves” had taken every line of the text from his memory. He could barely keep upon his feet and blunder through his part with thick voice and uncertain step. He was fully aware of his powerless condition, and came off with a moody, crestfallen countenance. When the curtain finally dropped, as it was Monday night, they all assembled to receive their salary. Boydell stood a little apart from the others, leaning against a flat. One of the boys came forward and delivering a long, elaborate speech in the name of all the members, presented Boydell with a tin snuff-box to hold his wardrobe—“As a token of their appreciation of the great ‘hit’ he had made, and the glory it would reflect upon the troupe.”