“Boys,” he said, addressing the group, “will you take a bit of lunch with me? Just to talk over old times.” * * * * * Eliphalet Cardomay has the pleasantest villa in New Brighton, with tamarisks forming a guard of honour to the front door. The rooms inside are just what you would expect—cosy, warm, hospitable. Sir Henry Irving’s signed portrait, as Thomas à Becket, hangs over the fireplace in the parlour, and there are many others of great-hearted, if less celebrated, performers dotted about the walls in comforting disorder. Prominent in the centre of the mantelpiece is the portrait of a baby, and scrawled across one corner in Mornice’s go-as-you-please hand is written “Eliphalet to his grand-dads.” Probably this photograph is his most cherished possession, and he is justly proud that so bold a name should rise afresh in a new generation. Mornice even on the occasion when she and Ronald and the baby came over from the States and spent a glorious three weeks at New Brighton, never divulged the secret that this wonderful child was ordinarily termed “-Potkins.” To minister to his wants are Potter, his one-time dresser, and Potter’s wife—she was wardrobe-mistress in the company for many a year. Between them they look to it that the Old Card is kept out of draughts—has his socks scrupulously darned—his sheets aired, and is served only with the dishes he likes best. You may see him any day you care to look, walking up and down the parade with a firm step and his hat at a fearless angle. Under his arm is the ivory-knobbed gold-mounted cane of quaint design, and he shows a marked favour for fur coats, of which he possesses more than one. It is rare indeed for a Saturday to pass without Freddie Manning looking in for an hour after the show. And whether it be a supper of tripe, cooked in milk, a Welsh rarebit, or a dish of sizzling liver-and-bacon, it all goes down with equal appreciation, to an accompaniment of happy reminiscences that mostly begin with: “Remember that time in ’93—we put up ‘The Silver King’ the following season——” And somewhere each evening as regular as clockwork—— “Say what you will, the stage isn’t what it was, Manning; it isn’t what it was.” * * * * * Transcriber’s Notes: A few obvious punctuation and typesetting errors have been corrected without note. [End of _The Old Card_ by Roland Pertwee]