As for Terry himself, he had not yet recovered from his surprise, and so had little room for other emotions. He was too ignorant, too fresh from his peat-carrying labors in the shamrock country, to have any fear of stage fright. Indeed, that word was not in his stunted vocabulary. He went that afternoon to rehearse "Nancy Lee," with the rest of the company, newly arrived, who were to join him in the "yo-ho's." How well the song sounded when supplemented by such a chorus! Terry's blood quickened! He did not observe the coldness of the other singers towards him. He would have cared little if he had felt the lack of friendliness, for so sunny was his Irish temperament, so strong his Irish independence and congeniality, that he would not easily have lost hope of winning the good will of his associates. Moreover Terry was so humble that he would rather have expected them to stand a little aloof at first; but when, black-faced and white-gloved, he stood upon the great stage of the Opera House, and filled the domed auditorium with his strong, beautiful tenor notes, he knew nothing save that he was one of "them actor fellows" now; that the men and women from the world of wealth were listening to him. His eyes sparkled with excitement. "A long, long life to my sweet wife," he sang. In the silence of the people Terry instinctively recognized their appreciation. "Nancy Lee--" The vaulted ceiling sent the round, high notes back to the eager ears of the audience. "Yo-ho-boyoys, ho--" The "yo-ho" didn't sound with the proper vigor. It was flat. A frown appeared between Terry's arched eyebrows. He was singing his "Yo-ho's" alone! Slowly he turned, still singing, to face the other minstrels. Some one snickered, "Do you see us singing with a bar-tender?" "Nance--" Terry stopped. A calloused fist, with strong muscle and Irish temper to speed it, shot out. "Curtain!" called the manager, wildly. The audience, though somewhat surprised, accepted this performance as a ridiculous climatic ending to one of the "stunts," and gave a vigorous applause. But Terry heeded neither applause nor curtain. He was demonstrating to these unmannerly show men, that though they might refuse to sing with a bar-tender, they could not refuse to accept from one a lesson in pugilism. Terry paused to take a long breath. He glared at the men, one of whom was holding a handkerchief to a rapidly swelling eye, another of whom was hugging an aching side. Terry had done his work quickly. The manager hastened up to interfere. "They might a' told me so afore. It isn't me as they need be makin' a fool of. I'm made as good as them, even if it do be a truth that I sell the beer they drink," Terry said, dazed. He picked up the battered opera hat which had been part of his costume and started towards the door. "My dear Mr. Flynn, I will adjust this little misunderstanding. I assure you, it shall not occur again."