Meanwhile the Old Gag was sitting in his corner of the dressing-room, his head bowed on his breast, his gruel untasted on the tray before him. The other Gags came and went, but he heeded them not. His thoughts were far away. He was dreaming of old days, of his early struggles for fame, and of his friends and companions of years ago. “Where are they now?” he asked himself, sadly. “Some are wanderers on the face of the earth, in comic operas. Two of them found ignoble graves in the ‘Tourists’’ company. Others are sleeping beneath the daisies in Harper’s ‘Editor’s Drawer.’” “You’re called, sir!” The Old Gag awoke from his reverie, and started to his feet with something of the old-time fire flashing in his eye. Throwing aside his heavy ulster, he staggered to the entrance and stood there patiently waiting for his cue. “You’re hardly strong enough to go on to-night,” said a Merry Jest, touching him kindly on the arm; but the gray-bearded one shook him off, saying hoarsely: “Let be! let be! I must read those old lines once more--it may be for the last time.” And now a solemn hush fell upon the vast audience as a sad-faced minstrel uttered in tear-compelling accents the most pathetic words in all the literature of minstrelsy: “And so you say, Mr. Johnson, that all the people on the ship were perishing of hunger, and yet you were eating fried eggs. How do you account for that?” For one moment a deathlike silence prevailed. Then the Old Gag stepped forward and in clear, ringing tones replied: “The ship lay to, and I got one.” A wild, heart-rending sob came from the audience and relieved the tension as the Old Gag staggered back into the entrance and fell into the friendly arms that were waiting to receive him. Sobbing Conundrums bore him to a couch in the dressing-room. Weeping Jokes strove in vain to bring back the spark of life to his inanimate form. But all to no avail. The Old Gag was dead. “ONLY A TYPE-WRITER.” SCENE. _Cave of the experienced_ MANAGER _in the centre of a labyrinth under the stage_. MANAGER (_to energetic young_ DRAMATIST _who has tracked him to his lair_). Yes, young feller, I’ve read your play, and, while it’s first-class in its way, it ain’t exactly what I want. Now you seem to be a pushing, active sort of a feller--if you hadn’t been you never would have found your way in here--and if you can only get me up the sort of piece I want we can do a little business together. In writing a play you’ve got to bear one thing in mind, and that is to adapt yourself to the public taste and the resources of the theatre. Are you on? DRAMATIST. Certainly, sir; and I shall be only too happy to write something especially for your theatre. I think I can do it if I only get a chance. Sardou is my model.