On the stage, more perhaps than in any other calling, there exists a wonderful unity and fellowship. You will never appeal in vain for help for one player to another. The hat that goes round empty is always filled before returning. Sefton Bulmore worried over Eliphalet Cardomay all night, and the liberal supply of whisky he absorbed failed to dispel his anxieties. It would be no good offering money, even if he had it to offer, for the Old Card was far too proud to accept charity. He would have to devise some means of helping him, and, by hook or by crook, he meant to do so. The opportunity arose sooner than he expected, for the very next morning brought an offer by post from Eastlake’s Exclusives of a long part in a Three-Reel Drama, and the terms proposed were thirty guineas. Then Sefton Bulmore knew that his prayer had been answered, and rejoiced. He donned his brightest clothes, swallowed a hasty Guinness, and sallied forth to interview Mr. Eastlake of the Movies. “Ha, Bulmore!” that gentleman greeted him. “So you got our letter, eh? Going to accept?” “Sorry,” replied Bulmore, “very sorry, old boy, but I can’t.” “What’s the trouble? Terms?” “Busy, old man; busy.” “That’s all rot. You’re just the man I want, and I don’t know where to find another if you turn us down.” “Turn you down! Wouldn’t do it. Matter of fact, I am making you a present by refusing. ’Cause I can put you on to a fine proposition straight away.” “You can?” “Yes, and fix details _ac dum_.” “Well, let’s have it,” said Eastlake a shade warily. Sefton Bulmore cast a suspicious eye round the office, as though about to expose a secret of awful moment. “What would you say to Eliphalet Cardomay?”—he had dropped his voice to a penetrating whisper. “Who?” “Eliphalet Cardomay.” “Never heard of him.” “Never—what? Come, come, old man, old boy, that’s too rich. But you can’t be born yet if you haven’t heard of _him_.” “I may have heard the name, but not in our line of business. What about him, anyway?” “Only this—I can—get—him—to—play—the—part. Now then!” Mr. Eastlake did not appear half so impressed as he should have been. “Hum!” he remarked. “Would he be any use?” Bulmore cast his eyes ceiling-ward in mute despair. “Use! Now look here, old boy, I tell you frankly, if you are going to play round with the notion I shall call it off.” “Well, what’s he doing now?” “Resting.” “At liberty—eh?” “No, resting; and there’s a big difference between the two. Resting means you are not acting because you don’t want to act. At liberty means you want to act, and would at any price, but can’t. Got it?” “I see. Well, send him along, and I’ll look him over.” “You don’t understand—you don’t know what you’re saying, old man. Why, he wouldn’t walk to the end of the street to look for jobs, for the simple reason that half the town is coming his way to offer ’em.”