Our first week's stand was in Montreal, and here the comedian, who was Charles A. Bigelow, was taken ill and unable to play. After having rehearsed all the possible understudies, and none of them being competent to take the rôle, it was first thought they would have to close the theater, when Mr. Carleton said: "Where is that chap who plays the banjo? I think he could do it." I was, fortunately, blessed with a wonderful memory. I knew every song, every number of the music and every word of the dialogue in the opera; in fact, starting from the opening lines I could read it right through. They found me about half past five in the afternoon, and I went over to the theater. Mr. Carleton met me, and came at me with the rather surprising question: "Can you play Bigelow's part?" I said, "Yes, sir." He said: "Do you want a rehearsal?" I said: "No, sir." "All right," he said; "then be here at seven o'clock." I went on that night and never missed a number. In the middle of the performance, Mr. Carleton said to me: "Now, let loose. Do anything you like." Being exceedingly limber, I did a slide down the run, stumbling over everything, and made a hit from the start. From that time on I took liberties that no one else in the company dared. Mr. Carleton was a very strict disciplinarian, but he always encouraged me to go ahead. After two or three years playing leading rôles in the principal opera companies, I determined to step forward and go after "the big things." So back to New York I came, still unknown. After waiting around for three months, I decided that the world was against me; that a bright and shining light was being crushed. Also, that a law ought to be passed whereby no Englishman could come to this country and play. Took Bull by the Horns. I remember standing on the corner of Twenty-Eighth Street and Broadway, with my head just full of such anarchistic ideas, when something plainly said to me: "If you are as darn good as you think you are, why don't you go out and get a job? There is room for every one." I immediately walked over to the office of Jesse Williams, a dramatic agent, and said, "I want a job. I will play prima-donna rôles or old men's rôles. I want a job, and I don't care what it is." He said, "I don't think I have anything for you." "You MUST have something for me, and I have got to have it," I replied. "Well, call around and see me later," said he. "I will do anything, and if I am not all right, and don't prove satisfactory, it won't cost you a cent," I persisted. "Well, you come around and see me to-morrow." There was a little fat man sitting in the office--and he turned to me and said: "Wait a minute." Then he went over and had a talk with Mr. Williams. Mr. Williams came out and said: "Mr. Hitchcock, this is Mr. Fred Miller, the composer of 'The Golden Wedding.'"