kind they'd take on."

"Oh, they take all kinds," says she.

"Better brace yourself for a turndown, though," says I, "I see it coming
to you. You ain't the type at all."

"Perhaps you don't know," says she, trippin' off to get her hat.

Ever see one of them mobs that turns out when there's a call for a new
chorus? I've had to push my way through 'em once or twice up in some of
them office buildings along the Rialto, and believe me, it's a weird
collection; all sorts, from wispy little flappers who should be in
grammar school still, to hard-faced old battle axes who used to travel
with Nat Goodwin. So I couldn't figure little Miss Joyce gettin'
anything more'n a passing glance in that aggregation. Yet when she shows
up in the mornin' she's lookin' sort of smilin' and chirky.

"Well," said I, "did you back out after lookin' 'em over?"

"Oh, no," says she. "I was tried out with the first lot and engaged
right away. They're rushing the production, you see, and I happened to
fit in. Why, inside of an hour they had twenty of us rehearsing. I'm to
be in the first big number, I think--one of the Moonbeam girls. Isn't
that splendid?"

"If that's what you want," says I, "I expect it is. But how about the
folks back home? What'll they say to this wide jump of yours?"

"I've decided not to tell them anything about it," says she. "Not for a
long time, anyway."

"They might hear, though," I suggests. "Just where do you come from?"

"Why, Saskatoun," says she, without battin' an eyelash.

"Oh, all right, if you don't want to tell," says I.

"But I have told you," says she. "Saskatoun."

"Is it a new hair tonic, or what?" says I.

"It's a city," says she. "One of the largest in British Columbia."

"Think of that!" says I. "They don't care how they mess up the map these
days, do they? And your folks live there?"

"Most of them," says she. "Two of my brothers are up at Glen Bow,
raising sheep; one of my sisters is at Alberta, giving piano lessons;
and another sister is doing church singing in Moose Jaw. If I had stayed
at home I would be doing something like that. We are a musical family,
you know. Daddy is a church organist and wanted me to keep on in the
choir and perhaps get to be a soloist, at $50 a month. But I couldn't
see it. If I am going to make a living out of my music I want to make a
good one. And New York is the place, isn't it!"

"It depends," says I. "You don't think you'll get rich in the 'Tut! Tut!