you are strong enough to tell the agents all to go to the Devil."
I determined that time should come—and it did eventually.
To make a long story short, I went to the agent's and came away with a contract in my pocket to play light comedy on a provincial tour under the management of Mr. Charles Barrington for two pounds a week. And I was muleted of ten shillings and ten per cent of my salary for ten weeks, just for the privilege of inscribing my name on Mr. Blackmore's books.
But anyway, I was a full-fledged actor now! Ten days later I found myself, about half-past eight at night, walking onto the stage of the Theatre Royal, Brighton, dressed up in a gorgeous costume of pale blue and silver, and with a long fair-haired wig upon my head, acting "Lord Woodstock" in Tom Taylor's successful and picturesque play, "Clancarty."
The papers the next morning—shall I ever forget them?—said I "played splendidly."
The moral of this story is doubtful, but it only goes to show what a sailor with a face like a brazen image and illimitable cheek can do when put to it.
