line-up man.

I can't help takin' a squint around at Snick, who's peekin' in through
the draperies. And say, he's all but tearin' his hair. It was tough, when
you come to think of it. Here he'd put his whole stack of blues on this
performance, and the audience wa'n't payin' any more attention to it than
to the rattle of cabs on the avenue.

Hermy has most got to the final spasm, and it's about all over, when, as
a last straw, some sort of disturbance breaks out in the front hall.
First off I thought it must be Snick Butters throwin' a fit; but then I
hears a voice that ain't his, and as I glances out I sees the Purdy-Pell
butler havin' a rough house argument with a black whiskered gent in
evenin' clothes and a Paris model silk lid. Course, everyone hears the
rumpus, and there's a grand rush, some to get away, and others to see
what's doin'.

"Let me in! I demand entrance! It must be!" howls the gent, while the
butler tries to tell him he's got to give up his card first.

And next thing I know Snick has lit on the butler's back to pull him off,
and the three are havin' a fine mix-up, when Mr. Purdy-Pell comes boltin'
out, and I've just offered to bounce any of 'em that he'll point out,
when all of a sudden he recognizes the party behind the brunette
lambrequins.

"Why--why," says he, "what does this mean, Mr. ----"

"Pardon," says the gent, puffin' and pushin' to the front. "I intrude,
yes? A thousand pardons. But I will explain. Next door I am dining--there
is a window open--I hear that wonderful voice. Ah! that marvelous voice!
Of what is the name of this artist? Yes? I demand! I implore! Ah, I must
know instantly, sir!"

Well, you know who it was. There's only one grand opera Napoleon with
black whiskers who does things in that way, and makes good every trip.
It's him, all right. And if he don't know a barytone voice, who does?

Inside of four minutes him and Hermy and Snick was bunched around the
libr'y table, chewin' over the terms of the contract, and next season
you'll read the name of a new soloist in letters four foot high.

Say, I was up to see Mr. Butters in his new suite of rooms at the St.
Swithin, where it never rains but it pours. He'd held out for a big
advance, and he'd got it. Also he'd invested part of it in some of the
giddiest raiment them theatrical clothing houses can supply. While a
manicure was busy puttin' a gloss finish on his nails, he has his
Mongolian valet display the rest of his