und to the 'Diners Out.'"

"I am going to the 'Diners Out' _mit_ 'em?" Milton ejaculated with every
inflection of horror and disgust.

"Sure!" Benson replied cheerfully. "Six dollars it'll cost us, because
Ryan pretty near laughs in my face when I asked him for three seats. But
never mind, Milton, it'll be worth the money."

"Will it?" Jassy retorted. "Well, not for me, Mr. Benson. Why, the last
time I seen that show I says I wouldn't sit through it again for a
hundred dollars."

"A hundred dollars is a lot of money, Milton," Benson said. "_Aber_ I
think if you work it right you will get a hundred times a hundred
dollars before we are through, on account I really got this feller
going. So you should listen to me and I would tell you just what you
want to say to the feller between the acts."

Therewith Benson commenced to unfold a series of "talking points" which
he had spent the entire day in formulating; and, as he proceeded,
Jassy's eyes wandered from the title page of the manuscript music
inscribed "Opus 47--Trio in G moll," and began to glow in sympathy with
Benson's well-laid plan.

"There's no use shilly-shallying, Milton," Benson concluded. "The season
is getting late, and if we're ever going to put on that show now is the
time."

Milton nodded eagerly.

"_Aber_ why don't you take 'em to the show yourself, Mr. Benson?" he
asked hopefully. "Because, not to jolly you at all, Mr. Benson, I must
got to say it you are a wonderful talker."

Benson shrugged his shoulders and smiled weakly.

"I am a wonderful talker, I admit," he agreed; "but I got a hard face,
Milton, whereas you, anyhow, look honest. So you should meet me at
Hanley's afterward, understand me, and we would try to close the deal
there and then."

He dug his hand into his trousers pocket and produced a modest roll of
bills, from which he detached six dollars.

"Here is the money," he added, "and you should be here to meet them
people at eight o'clock sharp."

On the stroke of eight Milton Jassy returned to Benson's office in the
Siddons Theatre Building and again seated himself at his desk in front
of the pile of manuscript music. This time, however, he brushed aside
the title page of his Opus 47 and spread out an evening paper to beguile
the tedium of awaiting Benson's "prospects." Automatically he turned to
the department headed Music and Musicians, and at the top of the column
his eye fell on the following item:

Ferencz Lanczhid