istants to sell
them all over the house after Act I. This distribution will dispose of
the first interval, and incidentally bring in a nice little sum for
cigars and champagne for your business visitors, a new hat for your
leading lady, and so forth."

"By the way," said the manager, "won't you smoke? These are mild."

"Thank you," said the other. "Very well," he continued, "the next
interval will be wholly spent in the exciting and delightful task of
identifying the nobs, in which the nobs themselves will take a part.
And if there is still a third interval it will be equally amusingly
filled by conversation as to the pasts or costumes of the more famous
of the female nobs who are present--an interchange of opinion as to
the lowness of their necks, conjectures as to the genuineness of their
hair, and so forth. Do you see?"

The manager went to the sideboard and brought back some glasses and a
bottle. "Yes," he said, "I see. There's something in what you say. But
you don't explain how the names are to be obtained?"

"How?" exclaimed the other. "Why, ask for them, to be sure. You'll
have to begin with a few blanks, of course, but directly it gets known
that you're publishing them during the evening they'll all come in.
Bless your soul, I know them! and if the nobs don't tumble to it the
snobs will, and they're numerically strong enough to keep any play
running. You won't have to worry about the play. As for the back rows
of the stalls, where you put the people from the other theatres, why,
they'll absolutely push their visiting-cards at you. What do you say?"

"I think it's ingenious," said the manager, "and not to be dismissed
lightly. But I don't see anything to prevent all the other managers
copying it."

"There isn't," said the inventor. "Nothing ever has been done or will
be done that can prevent theatrical managers from copying each other.
It's chronic. But you'll be the first, remember that; and the pioneer
often has some credit. You'll get the start, and that means a lot. For
some months, at any rate, it will be your theatre to which the snobs
will crowd."

Such was the interview.

What the manager will decide cannot yet be stated, for the week has
not expired.

* * * * *

[Illustration: _First Mite_. "AIN'T 'E JUST LIKE THE PICTURES, LIZ? I
BETCHER 'E'S A COWBOY."

_Second ditto_. "GARN! 'E'S ONLY A SOLDIER."]

* * * * *

[Illustratio