The reporters cleared their throats and handled pads and pencils.

“Well now, what about it?” asked Mr. Meyer helpfully.

“Er,” said the oldest of the reporters, “just a few points that would interest our readers, Mr. Meyer.”

He spoke in a soft gruff voice with a slight accent. He seemed a very wholesome and innocent young man.

“Certainly,” said Mr. Meyer. “By God, this is a wonderful country of yours…”

The reporters wrote busily the outlines for an article which would presently appear under the headline: “Praise for New Zealand: An Enthusiastic Visitor.”

Two young men and a woman appeared in the office doorway. They were Australians who had travelled over to join the company for the second piece, and now reported for duty. Mason took them along to the stage-door, pointed out Gascoigne, who was in heated argument with the head mechanist, and left them to make themselves known.

The stock scene was being struck. The fluted columns and gilded walls of all stock scenes fell forward as softly as leaves, and were run off into the dock. An Adam drawing-room, painted by an artist, and in excellent condition, was shoved together like a gigantic house of cards and tightened at the corners. Flack, flack, went the toggles as the stage-hands laced them over the wooden cleats.

“We don’t want those borders,” said Gascoigne.

“Kill the borders, Bert,” said the head mechanist, loudly.

“Kill the borders,” repeated a voice up in the flies. The painted strips that masked the overhead jerked out of sight one by one.

“Now the ceiling cloth.”

Outside in the strange town a clock chimed and struck eleven. Members of the cast began to come in and look for their dressing-rooms. They were called for eleven-thirty. Gascoigne saw the Australians and crossed the stage to speak to them. He began talking about their parts. His manner was pleasant and friendly, and the Australians, who were on the defensive about English importations, started to thaw. Gascoigne told them where they were to dress. He checked himself to shout: