The play over, and Simmons having duly reported to the manager--who was delighted with the activity of the feet, but who advised that next time the sticks be left at home--the happy party sailed up Broadway, this time by threes and twos, swinging their canes as before, and threading their way in and out of the throngs that filled the street. The first stop was made at the corner of Thirteenth Street by McFudd, who turned his troop abruptly to the right and marched them down a flight of steps into a cellar, where they immediately attacked a huge wash-tub filled with steamed clams, and covered with a white cloth to keep them hot. This was the bar's free lunch. The clams devoured--six each--and the necessary beers paid for, the whole party started to retrace their steps, when Simmons stopped to welcome a new-corner who had entered the cellar unperceived by the barkeeper, and who was bending over the wash-tub of clams, engaged in picking out the smallest of the bivalves with the end of all iron fork. He had such a benevolent, kindly face, and was so courtly in his bearing, and spoke with so soft and gentle a voice, that Oliver, who stood next to Simmons, lingered to listen. "Oh, my dear Simmons," cried the old gentleman, "we missed you to-night. When are you coming back to us? The orchestra is really getting to be deplorable. Miss Gannon quite broke down in her song. We must protest, my boy; we must protest. I saw you in front, but you should be wielding the baton. And is this young gentleman one of your friends?" "Yes--Mr. Horn. Ollie, let me introduce you to Mr. Gilbert, the actor"--and he laid his hand on Oliver's shoulder--"dear John Gilbert, as we always call him." Oliver looked up into the kindly, sweet face of the man, and a curious sensation passed over him. Could this courtly, perfectly well-bred old gentleman, with his silver-white hair, beaming smile and gentle voice, the equal of any of his father's guests, be an actor? Could he possibly belong to the profession which, of all others, Oliver had been taught to despise? The astonishment of our young hero was so great that for a moment he could not speak. Simmons thought he read Oliver's mind, and came to his rescue. "My friend, Mr. Horn, did not like the play to-night, Mr. Gilbert," he said. "He thinks the death-scene was horrible"--and Simmons glanced smiling at the others who stood at a little distance watching the interview with great interest. "Dear me, dear me, you don't say so. What was it you objected to, may I ask?" There was a trace of anxiety in his voice. "Why, the murder-scene, sir. It seemed to me too dreadful to kill a woman in that way. I haven't forgotten it yet," and a distressed look passed over Oliver's face. "But then I have seen but very few plays," he added--"none like that." The old actor looked at him with a relieved expression. "Ah, yes, I see. Yes, you're indeed right. As you say, it is quite a dreadful scene."