The director, “Lord” Richard Bingham, was an Englishman — not related, and unknown to the Colonists—who had dropped in here from, nobody knew where, or why. He seemed to have a perpetual thirst for strong drink—and the money with which to provide it. He was a remittance man — which is to say he was a scion of a wealthy old country family, sent over here on a monthly allowance, as riddance of a costly nuisance. Director Bingham was apparently well educated, did not talk the “Cockney” language of the Colonists — and had some dramatic ability. He directed this home-talent show without pay—and did a pretty good job of it. All he asked was a “little more McBriar,” his favorite brand of whisky. And after he had “steamed up” on a generous quantity of the nameless stuff from the local “speak-easy”—licensed saloons were out here then—anything and everything was “good old McBriar.” The show went over so well in Wetmore that the management decided to repeat it at Capioma—and maybe go on the road with it. But, in the nick of time, it was recalled that Henry Clinkenbeard, our photographer—or rather our taker of daguerreotypes—had sponsored an all home-talent minstrel show which also had gone over big here, but when tried out on the road, proved a financial failure—and the road idea was written off. All due to an outburst of alcoholic conviviality, Mr. Bingham saluted Miss Jane on the takeoff for Capioma, assuring her that she would not fail to “knock ‘em cold.” He did not go with the show. The management willed that he remain in Wetmore where he could have ready access to Charley McCarthy’s “blind-tiger” and enjoy to the full “a little more” of his favorite “McBriar.” The day of our Capioma appearance was cold. There was bright sunshine, with a foot of snow on the ground. The whole cast—including Henry Clinkenbeard and his brass band—went in several lumber wagons, arriving in Capioma in time for supper at the Van Brunt farm home. I believe his name was Jerry. Anyway, he was the father of Tunis and Teeny. The show was held in the hall over the Van Pelt store, in town, diagonally across the road west from the Van Brunt farm home. I was taken along as assistant property man — and doubled in brass (b-flat cornet)—but the cramped space for stage and dressing rooms in the rather small Van Pelt hall developed a better spot for me. I was made the custodian of the leading lady’s train—carried it in my two hands just so from dressing room around sharp turns to the stage, and paid out its many folds, at entrance, in a manner to avoid entanglement.