That night Boydell, from some unknown source, had scraped up two shillings. He could take twice the quantity of liquor that would intoxicate any other man, and beyond a redness of the nose and a flushed glistening appearance about the “gills,” he manifested no symptom of intemperance. He had a trick of using his hand as a shield around the glass and pouring in whisky to the very brim, so he always got a double drink for one price. When the boys asked him why he held the tumbler in that peculiar manner, “It was habit,” he said, “merely habit.” I remember at Lawrence, Kansas, they had unusually small glasses, and he went into a logical discussion with the bar-keeper to show the evil of the thing. It was wrong; it looked mean; it would ruin his custom. Not that he (Boydell) cared; it was nothing to him, it was only the _principle_ he objected to; it appeared penurious. Boxing, I found, was the one thing—aside from his acting—upon which Boydell prided himself. If he heard of a person about the neighborhood who made any pretentions in this respect, he would walk miles through rain or mud to vanquish the “presumptuous fool.” I could not keep from feeling interested in this singular man. Reared in the English colleges, with the polish of the classics upon him, destined and trained for the British army, he had given it all up for this worthless, roving, vagabond life. And yet—although degraded, intemperate, and often profane—there was still a natural reserve about Boydell that commanded respect. Our expenses had been steadily increasing, and our finances did not prove equal to the demand; at least they would not justify a longer run. We played two weeks at Leavenworth City, and disbanded, scattering in all directions. I went home to M—— with a feeling of unutterable relief. My theatrical experience had brought me to the determination of letting the stage alone for the present, or trying it in a different capacity. Devoting my whole time to a more lucrative business, I heard nothing about any of the old troupe, and I did not care to see one of them again, unless it was Boydell. I had little hope of ever meeting him; it would be mere chance if I did, and I knew he might just as likely now be in Europe or Australia as in this country. But we were destined once more to come in contact. M—— was a flat, muddy, thriving little town in Western Illinois. It had built a theater, and was a focus for strolling actors and adventurers—a kind of center, where the remnant of theatrical troupes that had come to grief straggled in to recruit. The citizens did not consider this a very distinguishing characteristic to boast of, but in reality it was what raised the place out of oblivion; otherwise its few thousand inhabitants might, like their neighbors, have lived for ever in obscurity.