394 
THE STRAND MAGAZINE . 
and an orange a night. I remember receiv- 
ing the orange, but, somehow, cannot recall 
ever getting the shilling. 
1 remember vividly enough those early 
days in Ireland. My father was Professor of 
Elocution at Pdackrock College, near Dublin, 
and used to produce Shakespearean plays for 
those early Irish Fathers. Many of the 
priests were wont to come to my father’s 
house to be coached, and I still seem to hear 
the beautiful brogue of some ambitious 
Hibernian Hamlet in his priestly and “cus- 
tomary suit of solemn black ” reciting : — 
To bay cr not to bay— that is the qui-chn. 
For fourteen years my father and mother 
played in the stock season at the Theatre 
Royal, Dublin, and on one occasion during 
the none-too- prosperous days which constitute 
an inevitably large proportion of theatrical 
life he was playing the part of a very wealthy 
old gentleman. Watches were not so cheap 
then, and he had to content himself with an 
ornate chain artfully pinned inside his waist- 
coat. He had, however, fastened it inse- 
curely, and it happened to hang conspicuously 
down during a scene when he was supposed 
to be bestowing on someone a few thousand 
pounds — only a figure of speech, mind you. 
In the midst of this generous distribution of 
wealth a wit in the gallery shouted : — 
“ Sure, Mr. Huntley, and don’t cher think 
you’d better kape a bit in hand and buy a 
watch for yoursilf ? ” 
Somehow the audience seemed to enjoy 
the joke much more than did my father. 
I drifted into acting as naturally as a duck 
takes to water. Laying aside my past 
triumphs in Ireland, 1 started at the age of 
sixteen at the Adelphi Theatre, London, 
in “It’s Never Too Late to Mend.” 
Technically speaking, I “ walked on,” 
and continued to do so for many months. 
As I had determined to go on the 
stage, my parents were equally determined 
that 1 should begin at the bottom rung of the 
ladder and stand or fall on my own merits. 
I was shown no favour, and dressed with the 
supers — in fact, was one of them — receiving 
the customary salary of nine shillings a week, 
which sum I religiously “ did in ” at billiards 
with the call-boy. I used to wear an eye- 
glass in those days off the stage, and some 
of the satirical remarks thereon made by 
my brother supers were more pointed than 
publishable ! T remember I had an elaborate 
make-up box, filled with every conceivable 
colour of grease-paint, unlimited crepe hair, 
and spirit-gum galore. The chief amusement 
cf the supers was to knock this box over on 
every possible occasion, so that I could have 
the trouble of picking everything up. I 
could never really express myself on these 
occasions, as 1 was always disarmed by their 
profuse apologies ! 
The super-master, who was a delightfully 
cheery old fellow, came to the conclusion after 
some time that I might be entrusted with a 
line, and prevailed upon the manager to try 
me. It was hardly a “ line,” as it only con- 
sisted of the words “ I will,” but I had to 
stand up and say this rather emphatically. 
Being somewhat anxious to get in with it on 
the first night, I said my “ I will ” loudly and 
decisively in the middle of the hero’s speech, 
and practically dislocated the plot. I hardly 
slept a wink that night for fear that someone 
else would be entrusted with my tit-bit. But 
the management still had faith in me, and 
on the following night I gave them — at the 
right time, too — the finest “ I will ” that had 
ever resounded in the old Adelphi. 
From that time forth my professional 
career progressed by leaps and bounds. I 
was entrusted with “ My Lord, the carriage 
waits/’ “ Luncheon is served,” and the 
announcement of titled visitors to baronial 
halls ; in fact, so evident was my talent that 
I received an offer to go on tour and play a > 
series of character parts for one guinea a 
week! Was anything ever more tempting — 
a guinea a week ? I had now reached gold ; 
in my last engagement I had been a shilling 
shy of half a sovereign. 
I was to play three parts, one a prosperous 
gold-digger — was there ever such irony ? I 
remember I produced a huge nugget from my 
pouch (I think it was composed of gilt 
clinkers), and sang a song with the other 
minor miners (dressed in red shirts) which 
went something like this : — 
Here’s health to the good land of gold, boys, 
Here’s health to the land cf the free. 
Here’s health to the good land of gold, boys, 
Here’s health to the land cf the free ! 
At any rate, that’s all 1 sang on the first night , 
to the accompaniment of the clinking of 
property mugs and the clanging of various 
mining implements. 
In the second act I appeared as a deaf old 
gentleman — a very old gentleman- in fact, 
there were more lines on my face than there 
were in my part. I “ fed ” the comedian — in 
other words, stood on the stage to be the butt 
of his effervescent and personal humour ; in 
fact, I might just as w r ell have been dumb as 
well as deaf. 
In the third act I played a warder, and, 
having always regarded this useful class of 
