th affectionate interest, as he said impressively, "Well,
now you know that a bad 'stick' generally costs five dollars in this
theatre?"

"Yes," I groaned.

"And you stuck awfully last night?"

"Yes," I admitted.

"Then to-night you go and repeat the offence. But here is where I see
hope for you. Daly is not here; he does not know yet what you have done.
Watch then for his coming. This play is so long he will be here before
it's over. Go to his private office at once. Get ahead of every one
else; do you understand? Approach him affably and frankly. Tell him
yourself that you have unfortunately stuck again, and then offer him
_the two 'sticks' for eight dollars_. If he's a gentleman and not a Jew,
he'll accept your proposal."

Just what remarks I made to my sympathetic friend Le Moyne at the end of
that speech I cannot now recall. If any one else can, I can only say I
was not a church member then, and let it pass at that. But when I opened
my envelope next salary day and saw my full week's earnings there, I
went to Mr. Daly's office and told him of my two "sticks" and of Le
Moyne's proposed offer, and for once he laughed at an actor's joke.

_CHAPTER XXII

POOR SEMANTHA_

It has happened to every one of us, I don't know why, but every mother's
son or daughter of us can look back to the time when we habitually
referred to some acquaintance or friend as "poor So-and-So"; and the
curious part of it is that if one pauses to consider the why or
wherefore of such naming, one is almost sure to find that, financially
at least, "poor So-and-So" is better off than the person who is doing
the "pooring." Nor is "poor So-and-So" always sick or sorrowful, stupid
or ugly; and yet, low be it whispered, is there not always a trace of
contempt in that word "poor" when applied to an acquaintance? A very
slight trace, of course,--we lightly rub the dish with garlic, we do not
slice it into our salad. So when we call a friend "poor So-and-So,"
consciously or unconsciously, there is beneath all our affection the
slight garlic touch of contemptuous pity; how else could I, right to her
merry, laughing face, have called this girl poor Semantha?

I had at first no cause to notice her especially; she was poor, so was
I; she was in the ballet, so was I. True, I had already had heads nodded
sagely in my direction, and had heard voices solemnly murmur, "That
girl's going to do something yet," and all because I had gone on alone
an