Confessions of an Actor (1926)

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CONFESSIONS OF AN ACTOR played many years ago. I never went into the stage door without smiling over a story that I had heard so often. The stage entrance is in a cul-dc-sac street, and there is only one way in. One night my father and Charles Brookfield, who was, a few years ago, the play censor in England, were leaving the theater together. My father espied two bailiffs approaching and anticipated that they were for him, as they were. There being no other way out of the street, my father grabbed hold of the more athletic appearing of the two, and then shouted to Brookfield: “Run, Barry, run.” There was nothing for Brookfield to do but to oblige by running, and when he had been given sufficient time for a getaway, my father, as Brookfield, apologized goodnaturedly to the bailiff that he had detained. The other one made a feeble effort to follow Brookfield, who jumped into a cab and disappeared. The rehearsals of Hamlet were more fun