A pair of watery eyes were raised jerkily and scanned his features. Then the old fellow came to his feet with astonishing vigour. Lifting his right hand high in the air, he brought it down whack into the extended palm, covering it instantly with an embracing grasp from his left. It was an old stage formula, executed with technical perfection. (Try it yourself; you will find it is none too easy to do.) “The Old Card. By God, it’s the Old Card!” There was a world of enthusiasm in the tone—then suddenly his manner changed to an extremity of confidence. “This is uncommonly fortunate. To tell you the truth, old son, I’ve been a bit unlucky lately. But the Profession sticks together, eh? For old sake’s sake—and if—if you can’t lend me ten bob, five ’ud do!” “Sit down—let’s talk,” said Eliphalet. So they sat together on the park bench and talked, and a hundred old stage memories and old stage personalities were dug out from the unforgotten past. “Aha! ha! fine fellows—fine fellows, all of ’em. ’Tisn’t what it was in our young days. The Profession’s going to the dogs, Cardomay, old son, going to the dogs fast.” “Fate’s been unkind to you?” queried Eliphalet. “Unkind! Ha! I can remember turning up my nose at forty pounds a week—and look at me now!” He pulled out two empty trouser pockets and turned the palms of his hands up. Eliphalet considered for a moment. “Bulmore,” he said, “I have a bit—not much, but a bit, and, old man, I’m sick for someone to talk to. I worked out that, taking things easy, I’ve enough to last about three years—alone. Well, one-and-a-half in company would please me better. Will you share?” “Mean it?” “Here’s my hand.” “By God, the Old Card’s a trump!” cried Bulmore, taking it. It seemed that years had fallen away from him in a moment. “D’you know,” he went on, “I haven’t tasted solids for a couple of days.” “Tea is waiting at home now,” said Eliphalet. Sefton Bulmore rose at once. “And I hope that home isn’t far away, either,” he flashed, with a touch of his old humour. During the tram-ride Bulmore’s spirits rose by leaps and bounds. “Tell you what,” he exclaimed. “You and I together—tragedy and comedy—we’ve the elements of a fortune between us—a fortune, my boy. We’ll write a play—Cinema—pooh!—No good to anyone! We’ll write such a play as was never written before. And if we don’t knock ’em——! By God!” A light danced in Eliphalet’s eyes—the light of reviving enthusiasm. “It’s an idea, Sefton,” he said. “An idea. Perhaps, after all, we shall be wanted.” They bought watercress for tea, and cucumber, sardines and potted meat, so it is no small wonder that the meal was a success. Sefton Bulmore fairly expanded under its influence. Eliphalet arranged with his landlady for an extra bed to be made up in his room. “And now,” he said, “shall we fetch your things?—and you can settle in comfortably.” For answer Bulmore produced a pile of pawn-tickets and laid them on the table.