opped
fixing Mr. William Rooney when Pops looked in upon him and announced Mr.
Grant Howard, the eminent playwright.

"Hello, Grant," was Mr. Vandeford's short and unenthusiastic greeting to
the small, black-haired person with weak, pink-rimmed, blue eyes, who
sauntered into the sanctum and dropped sadly into a chair with his back
to the light. A cigarette hung from the left corner of his upper lip,
and his hands trembled. "Been hitting 'em up?"

"Yes," answered the playwright, laconically.

"Broke?"

"Pretty bad."

"Want to doctor a play for Hawtry for me by Friday next for a thousand
dollars cash?"

"Cash now?"

"Cash Friday."

"Would have to lock myself up in my apartment to do it; but Mazie's been
crying for gold-uns for a week."

"Send Mazie to me, and I'll fix that, and hand you the thousand on
Friday. Here, take this manuscript over in my other office and be ready
to talk it over with me by ten o'clock. I'll see Mazie in the meantime."
Mr. Vandeford placed the precious "Purple Slipper" in the hands of a man
who at that very moment had two successful plays running on Broadway,
his interest in both of which he had sold out for a mess of pottage to
be consumed in the company of Miss Mazie Villines of the "Big Show."

"Dolph had better order me up a little cold wine to start on," said Mr.
Howard, as he rose languidly to incarcerate himself at the bidding of
Mr. Vandeford. The same scene had been enacted between the two bright
lights of American drama several times before with very good results.
Mr. Howard's brain was of that peculiar caliber which does not originate
an idea, but which inserts a solid bone construction as well as keen
little sparklets into the fabric of another's labor, and makes the whole
translucent where before it may have been opaque. On Broadway he was
called a play doctor, and Mr. Vandeford was not the first manager who
had shut him up with quarts of refreshment to tinker on the play of many
a literary, dramatic, bright light.

"Dolph will give you scotch and soda to your limit, no further,"
answered Mr. Vandeford, without graciousness. "I'll be here waiting for
your talk-over at ten-thirty o'clock."

"All right. Have Mazie come for me after her show?"

"Yes."

With which the eminent playwright betook himself to a small private
office which opened into the lair of Mr. Adolph Meyers. After he had
entered that retreat Mr. Meyers softly rose from his typing machine and
as softly