s to Wally,
beginning with ordering him out of the theatre, but prudence
restrained him. He wanted Wally's work. He needed Wally in his
business: and, in the theatre, business takes precedence of personal
feelings.

"All right!" he growled reluctantly.

"That's a promise," said Wally. "I'll see that you keep it." He looked
over his shoulder. The stage was filled with gaily-coloured dresses.
The mutineers had returned to duty. "Well, I'll be getting along. I'm
rather sorry we agreed to keep clear of personalities, because I
should have liked to say that, if ever they have a skunk-show at
Madison Square Garden, you ought to enter--and win the blue ribbon.
Still, of course, under our agreement my lips are sealed, and I can't
even hint at it. Good-bye. See you later, I suppose?"

Mr. Goble, giving a creditable imitation of a living statue, was
plucked from his thoughts by a hand upon his arm. It was Mr. Miller,
whose unfortunate ailment had prevented him from keeping abreast of
the conversation.

"What did he say?" enquired Mr. Miller, interested. "I didn't hear
what he said!"

Mr. Goble made no effort to inform him.

CHAPTER XVII

THE COST OF A ROW

I

Otis Pilkington had left Atlantic City two hours after the conference
which had followed the dress-rehearsal, firmly resolved never to go near
"The Rose of America" again. He had been wounded in his finest feelings.
There had been a moment, when Mr. Goble had given him the choice between
having the piece rewritten and cancelling the production altogether, when
he had inclined to the heroic course. But for one thing Mr. Pilkington
would have defied the manager, refused to allow his script to be touched,
and removed the play from his hands. That one thing was the fact that, up
to the day of the dress-rehearsal, the expenses of the production had
amounted to the appalling sum of thirty-two thousand eight hundred and
fifty-nine dollars, sixty-eight cents, all of which had to come out of Mr.
Pilkington's pocket. The figures, presented to him in a neatly typewritten
column stretching over two long sheets of paper, had stunned him. He had
had no notion that musical plays cost so much. The costumes alone had come
to ten thousand six hundred and sixty-three dollars and fifty cents, and
somehow that odd fifty cents annoyed Otis Pilkington as much as anything
on the list. A dark suspicion that Mr. Goble, who had seen to all the
executive end of the business, had a