Scarcely has the accommodation man passed out of sight when a sallow-faced stripling makes his appearance, and with that characteristic effrontery for borrowing and never returning, of the property-man of a country theatre, “desires” to know if Mr. McArthur will lend him a skull.

“A skull!” ejaculates the old man, his bony fingers wandering to his melancholy lip—­“a skull!” and he fusses studiously round the little cell-like place, looking distrustfully at the property-man, and then turning an anxious eye towards his piles of rubbish, as if fearing some plot is on foot to remove them to the infernal regions.

“You see,” interrupts Mr. Property, “we play Hamlet to-night—­expect a crammed house—­and our star, being scrupulous of his reputation, as all small stars are, won’t go on for the scene of the grave-digger, without two skulls-he swears he won’t!  He raised the very roof of the theatre this morning, because his name wasn’t in bigger type on the bill.  And if we don’t give him two skulls and plenty of bones to-night, he swears-and such swearing as it is!—­he’ll forfeit the manager, have the house closed, and come out with a card to the public in the morning.  We are in a fix, you see!  The janitor only has one, and he lent us that as if he didn’t want to.”

Mr. McArthur says he sees, and with an air of regained wisdom stops suddenly, and takes from a shelf a dingy old board, on which is a dingier paper, bearing curious inscriptions, no one but the old man himself would have supposed to be a schedule of stock in trade.  Such it is, nevertheless.  He rubs his spectacles, places them methodically upon his face, wipes and wipes the old board with his elbow.  “It’s here if it’s anywhere!” says the old man, with a sigh.  “It comes into my head that among the rest of my valuables I’ve Yorick’s skull.”

“The very skull we want!” interrupts Property.  And the old man quickens the working of his lower jaw, and continues to rub at the board until he has brought out the written mystery.  “My ancestors were great people,” he mumbles to himself, “great people!” He runs the crusty forefinger of his right hand up and down the board, adding, “and any customers are all of the first families, which is some consolation in one’s poverty.  Ah!  I have it here!” he exclaims, with childlike exultation, frisking his fingers over the board.  “One Yorick’s skull-a time-worn, tenantless, and valuable relic, in which graveyard worms have banqueted more than once.  Yes, young man, presented to my ancestors by the elder Stuarts, and on that account worth seven skulls, or more.”  “One Yorick’s skull,” is written on the paper, upon which the old man presses firmly his finger.  Then turning to an old box standing in the little fire-place behind the counter, saying, “it’s in here-as my name’s Absalom McArthur, it is,” he opens the lid, and draws forth several old military coats (they have seen revolutionary days! he says, exultingly), numerous scales of brass, such as are