uld not suddenly turn into a chorus-girl. The
austere legitimateness of "The Rose of America" gave him a pain in the
neck. He loathed plot, and "The Rose of America" was all plot.

Why, then, had the earthy Mr. Goble consented to associate himself
with the production of this intellectual play? Because he was subject,
like all other New York managers, to intermittent spasms of the idea
that the time is ripe for a revival of comic opera. Sometimes,
lunching in his favourite corner in the Cosmopolis grill-room, he
would lean across the table and beg some other manager to take it from
him that the time was ripe for a revival of comic opera--or, more
cautiously, that pretty soon the time was going to be ripe for a
revival of comic opera. And the other manager would nod his head and
thoughtfully stroke his three chins and admit that, sure as God made
little apples, the time was darned soon going to be ripe for a revival
of comic opera. And then they would stuff themselves with rich food
and light big cigars and brood meditatively.

With most managers these spasms, which may be compared to twinges of
conscience, pass as quickly as they come, and they go back to coining
money with rowdy musical comedies, quite contented. But Otis
Pilkington, happening along with the script of "The Rose of America"
and the cash to back it, had caught Mr. Goble in the full grip of an
attack, and all the arrangements had been made before the latter
emerged from the influence. He now regretted his rash act.

"Say, listen," he said to Wally, his gaze on the stage, his words
proceeding from the corner of his mouth, "you've got to stick around
with this show after it opens on the road. We'll talk terms later. But
we've got to get it right, don't care what it costs. See?"

"You think it will need fixing?"

Mr. Goble scowled at the unconscious artists, who were now going
through a particularly arid stretch of dialogue.

"Fixing! It's all wrong! It don't add up right! You'll have to rewrite
it from end to end."

"Well, I've got some idea about it. I saw it played by amateurs last
summer, you know. I could make a quick job of it, if you want me to.
But will the author stand for it?"

Mr. Goble allowed a belligerent eye to stray from the stage, and
twisted it round in Wally's direction.

"Say, listen! He'll stand for anything I say. I'm the little guy that
gives orders round here. I'm the big noise!"

As if in support of this statement he sudde