"Well, well," said Barney Bill, "the fellow wasn't far wrong who said it takes all sorts to make a world. There are some as likes electric light and some as likes the stars. Gimme the stars." And in his countryman's way he set the beer in his tankard swirling round and round before he put it again to his lips. Paul sipped his beer reflectively. "You may find happiness and peace of soul under the stars," said he, sagely, "and if I were a free agent I'd join you tomorrow. But you can't find fame. You can't rise to great things. I want to--well, I don't quite know what I want to do," he laughed, "but it's something big." "Yuss, my boy," said Barney Bill. "I understand. You was always like that. You haven't come any nearer finding your 'igh-born parents?"--there was a twinkle in his eyes--"'ave yer?" "I'm not going to bother any more about them, whoever they are," said Paul, lighting a cigarette. "When I was a kid I used to dream that they would find me and do everything for me. Now I'm a man with experience of life, I find that I've got to do everything for myself. And by George!"--he thumped the bar and smiled the radiant smile of the young Apollo--"I'm going to do it." Barney Bill took off his Luke's iron crown of a billycock hat and scratched his cropped and grizzled head. "How old are you, sonny?" "Nearly nineteen," said Paul. "By Gosh!" said Barney Bill. He put on his hat at a comfortable but rakish angle. He looked like a music-hall humourist. A couple of the gorgeous ladies giggled. "Yuss," said he, "you're a man with an experience of life--and nobody can do nothing for you but yerself. Poor old Barney Bill has been past helping you this many a year." "But I owe everything to you!" cried Paul, boyishly. "If it hadn't been for you, I should still be working in that factory at Bludston." Bill winked and nodded acquiescence as he finished his tankard. "I've often wondered--since I've grown up--what induced you to take me away. What was it?" Bill cocked his head on one side and regarded him queerly. "Now you're arsking," said he. Paul persisted. "You must have had some reason." "I suppose I was interested in them parents of yours," said Barney Bill. And that was all he would say on the subject. The days went on. The piece had run through the summer and autumn, and Paul, a favourite with the management, was engaged for the next production. At rehearsal one day the author put in a couple of lines, of which he was given one to speak. He now was in very truth an actor. Jane could no longer taunt him in her naughty moods (invariably followed by bitter repentance) with playing a dumb part like a trained dog. He had a real part, typewritten and done up in a brown-paper cover, which was handed to him, with lack of humour, by the assistant stage manager.