as a man and a brother.

"H'm!" replied Mr. Goble doubtfully, paving the way.

"What are you h'ming about?" demanded Wally, astonished. "The thing's
a riot."

"You never know," responded Mr. Goble in the minor key.

"Well!" Wally stared. "I don't know what more you want. The audience
sat up on its hind legs and squealed, didn't they?"

"I've an idea," said Mr. Goble, raising his voice as the long form of
Mr. Pilkington crossed the stage towards them, "that the critics will
roast it. If you ask _me_," he went on loudly, "it's just the sort of
show the critics will pan the life out of. I've been fifteen years in
the...."

"Critics!" cried Wally. "Well, I've just been talking to Alexander of
the _Times_, and he said it was the best musical piece he had ever
seen and that all the other men he had talked to thought the same."

Mr. Goble turned a distorted face to Mr. Pilkington. He wished that
Wally would go. But Wally, he reflected, bitterly, was one of those
men who never go. He faced Mr. Pilkington and did the best he could.

"Of course it's got a _chance_," he said gloomily. "Any show has got a
_chance_! But I don't know.... I don't know...."

Mr. Pilkington was not interested in the future prospects of "The Rose
of America." He had a favour to ask, and he wanted to ask it, have it
refused if possible, and get away. It occurred to him that, by
substituting for the asking of a favour a peremptory demand, he might
save himself a thousand dollars.

"I want the stage after the performance to-morrow night, for a supper
to the company," he said brusquely.

He was shocked to find Mr. Goble immediately complaisant.

"Why, sure," said Mr. Goble readily. "Go as far as you like!" He took
Mr. Pilkington by the elbow and drew him up-stage, lowering his voice
to a confidential undertone. "And now, listen," he said, "I've
something I want to talk to you about. Between you and I and the
lamp-post, I don't think this show will last a month in New York. It
don't add up right! There's something all wrong about it."

Mr. Pilkington assented with an emphasis which amazed the manager. "I
quite agree with you! If you had kept it the way it was
originally...."

"Too late for that!" sighed Mr. Goble, realizing that his star was in
the ascendant. He had forgotten for the moment that Mr. Pilkington was
an author. "We must make the best of a bad job! Now, you're a good kid
and I wouldn't like you to go around town saying that I had