“There's a deal in luck,” observed, with a sigh, another, a tall, handsome young gentleman possessed of a rich bass voice.
Leaving the stage door, I encountered a group of gentlemen waiting upon the pavement outside. Not interested in them myself, I was hurrying past, when one laid a hand upon my shoulder. I turned. He was a big, broad-shouldered fellow, with a dark Vandyke beard and soft, dreamy eyes.
“Dan!” I cried.
“I thought it was you, young 'un, in the first act,” he answered. “In the second, when you came on without a moustache, I knew it. Are you in a hurry?”
“Not at all,” I answered. “Are you?”
“No,” he replied; “we don't go to press till Thursday, so I can write my notice to-morrow. Come and have supper with me at the Albion and we will talk. You look tired, young 'un.”
“No,” I assured him, “only excited—partly at meeting you.”
He laughed, and drew my arm through his.