‘Eccentric?’ replied the other, in an airy tone, ‘not at all, sir. I’m merely a civilized being with the veneer off. I am not hidden under an artificial coat of manner. No, I laugh--ha! ha! I skip, ha! ha!’ with a light trip on one foot. ‘I cry,’ in a dismal tone. ‘In fact, I am a man in his natural state--civilized sufficiently, but not over civilized.’ ‘What’s your name?’ asked Mr Villiers, wondering whether the portly gentleman was mad. For reply the stranger dived into another pocket, and, bringing to light a long bill-poster, held it up before Mr Villiers. ‘Read! mark! and inwardly digest!’ he said in a muffled tone behind the bill. This document set forth in red, black, and blue letters, that the celebrated Wopples Family, consisting of twelve star artistes, were now in Ballarat, and would that night appear at the Academy of Music in their new and original farcical comedy, called ‘The Cruet-Stand’. Act I: Pepper! Act II: Mustard! Act III: Vinegar. ‘You, then,’ said Villiers, after he had perused this document, ‘are Mr Wopples?’ ‘Theodore Wopples, at your service,’ said that gentleman, rolling up the bill, then putting it into his pocket, he produced therefrom a batch of tickets. ‘One of these,’ handing a ticket to Villiers, ‘will admit you to the stalls tonight, where you will see myself and the children in “The Cruet-Stand”.’ ‘Rather a peculiar title, isn’t it?’ said Villiers, taking the ticket. ‘The play is still more peculiar, sir,’ replied Mr Wopples, restoring the bulky packet of tickets to his pocket, ‘dealing as it does with the adventures of a youth who hides his father’s will in a cruet stand, which is afterwards annexed by a comic bailiff.’ ‘But isn’t it rather a curious thing to hide a will in a cruet stand?’ asked Villiers, smiling at the oddity of the idea. ‘Therein, sir, lies the peculiarity of the play,’ said Mr Wopples, grandly. ‘Of course the characters find out in Act I that the will is in the cruet stand; in Act II, while pursuing it, they get mixed up with the bailiff’s mother-in-law; and in Act III,’ finished Mr Wopples, exultingly, ‘they run it to earth in a pawnshop. Oh, I assure you it is a most original play.’ ‘Very,’ assented the other, dryly; ‘the author must be a man of genius--who wrote it?’ ‘It’s a translation from the German, sir,’ said Mr Wopples, taking a drink of sherry and water, ‘and was originally produced in London as “The Pickle Bottle”, the will being hidden with the family onions. In Melbourne it was the success of the year under the same title. I,’ with an air of genius, ‘called it “The Cruet Stand”.’ ‘Then how did you get a hold of it,’ asked Villiers. ‘My wife, sir,’ said the actor, rolling out the words in his deep voice. ‘A wonderful woman, sir; paid a visit to Melbourne, and there, sir, seated at the back of the pit between a coal-heaver and an apple-woman, she copied the whole thing down.’ ‘But isn’t that rather mean?’