The company numbered thirty-two, and was supported by voluntary contribution. The “Pows” and the “Shivers” had drawn within their folds the pick of the vocalists and humorists; two dramatic societies had gleaned after them. The remaining stubble was a sorry sight, and as an insignificant member of that distinguished caste, I must confess that I viewed the first mustering of the “Buckshees” with an eye of profound misgiving. All of them were strangers to one another; and though it is easy to talk of flowers “that blow unseen,” in a community such as a prison camp one is usually aware pretty early of those whom the Fates have endowed with talents. There had been little selection. Affairs had taken a course something like this. Hayes had been walking across the square when he had been accosted by a total stranger. “I say, Hayes,” he would say, “you are getting up a show or something, aren’t you?” “Yes; like a part in it?” “Well, that’s what I really came up for.” “Done any acting?” “Oh, not much, you know, a few charades.” “Well, what do you fancy?” “Low comedy.” “Right, then I’ll put you down for the drunken slaveboy. First rehearsal to-morrow at ten in the lecture hall; thanks so much. Cheerioh.” And so the “Buckshees” were formed. But the difficulties did not lie merely in the calibre of the artists. There was the staging, the scenery, the music. Hayes had written the songs, but who was to score the melodies? The versatile Dowdon had promised to overrule the committee and orchestrate the parts, but what of the piano? For the only two musicians had been collared by the “Pows” and the “Shivers.” There were, of course, numerous strummers, but there was no composer. And it was amusing to watch the way Hayes set to work. First of all he would write the lyric, and beat out a rhythm. He would then go and recite his composition to one Radcliffe, who could play the piano, but could not score a part; Radcliffe would get the drift of Hayes’s idea, and would in the course of hours compose a harmony of sorts, which he would play to his friend Gladstone, who could score a part but could not play a piano. Gladstone would jot down the notes; and behold a finished song, the result of a sort of Progressive Whist. The troubles of staging were less difficult. The experts had, it is true, been already commandeered by the other societies. But a serviceable quartet of carpenters was discovered, and some decorative artists procured. All these arrangements Hayes left in charge of others. He knew the art of delegating responsibility, and he certainly had his hands full with his cast. For he relied for his success on vitality, innovations, and the quality which he always dubbed as “punch.” He did not ask for elaborate scenery. He knew he could not expect to equal effect of _The Girl on the Stairs_. He simply demanded an adequate setting. He would do the rest. § 3