There is a motive in this preamble; I did not leap from a canvas to a patchwork quilt without purpose. When you have read these pages, if so be you have the patience and inclination, you will perceive what that motive is. Let me then forestall the inevitable criticism, “Why, this is but a series of events strung together by a mere thread of personality,” and say at once, “Agreed; but that was the intention.” And I would ask you to hold out the book at arm’s length, get a fair perspective, and admit that it was not possible to deal with the subject otherwise, and that these disjointed clippings tumble together in a kind of united whole. The life of a touring actor is as no other man’s. It is a series of ever-changing pictures connected only by the Sunday train-journey. The most we can do is to catch a glimpse here and there as he halts upon the Road. Here, then, are a few such glimpses for your approval or contempt. ROLAND PERTWEE. B.E.F., France, 1917. THE OLD CARD _PART I. A FEW ELEMENTS_ CHAPTER I THE BIG CHANCE Eliphalet Cardomay stepped from his first-class compartment to the platform. Potter, his dresser, having descended from the train while it was still in motion, respectfully held open the carriage door lest his august master should soil his beautiful wash-leather gloves. It was gratifying to observe how the station porters touched their caps. On the seat of the compartment he had vacated lay an open suit-case, several brown-paper-covered plays, copies of the _Era_ and the _Referee_, an umbrella and a travelling cap. It was part of the dresser’s duties to clear up the débris occasioned by Mr. Cardomay. A man who carries in his head all the emotions and all the lines—_Hamlet_, _Richard III._, _The Silver King_, and countless other rôles of lesser importance—could hardly be expected to give attention to such a trifling matter as his own personal property. Eliphalet accepted a bundle of letters from an obsequious advance agent, returned, with condescension, the tentative salutes of several members of his company, and passed down the long grey platform with springing step. The yellow smoke of the Midlands was as violets to his nostrils and as balm to his eyes. With quiet satisfaction he noted how the ticket-collector at the barrier, instead of demanding his ticket, allowed him to pass with a polite “Good morning, Sir.” After all, it is something to be known. Mr. Cardomay invariably walked to his lodging, thereby giving a large section of his future public the opportunity of studying his features at close range, unadorned by the artifices of the make-up box or the beneficent influences of limelight. This walk also gave him a chance of seeing whether the effect of his billing justified the cost.