ly on Sunday shows for the next six
months."

Mr. Mix drew breath from the very bottom of his lungs. "What can
you--do about it?"

"Do? What _is_ there to do? All we can do is put on an extra feature
durin' the week, to try and buck him _that_ way--and it won't pay to
do it. He's got a cinch. He's got a graft. And all the rest of us are
in the soup."

Mr. Mix was occupied with mental arithmetic. "Tell me this--is it
going to pay him?"

"Pay him!" echoed the manager scornfully. "Six thou for twenty weeks
is three hundred a week. Fifty a day. Twelve-fifty a performance.
Twelve-fifty calls for about twenty-five people. Don't you think he'll
draw that many new patrons, when he can give 'em on Sundays what
nobody else can? And everything over twenty-five'll be velvet. He'll
clean up two, three thousand easy and maybe more. What beats _me_ is
why he didn't get leases for the next hundred years. _We_ wouldn't
have had the sense to block him."

"I'll tell you why," said Mr. Mix, choking down his passion. "Because
there's going to be a new ordinance. It'll deal with Sunday
entertainments. And it's going to prohibit any such horse-play as
this." He surveyed his man critically. "Does Henry Devereux belong to
your Association?"

"No, he don't. And he won't either. We don't want him."

"Then as long as you people can't keep open Sundays anyway," observed
Mr. Mix carelessly, "maybe you'd find it to your advantage to support
the Mix amendment when it gets up to the Council. It'll kill off any
such unfair competition as this."

The manager shrugged his shoulders. "If it wasn't for your damn League
we'd _all_ be makin' money."

"I'm sorry we don't all see this thing in the same light. But as long
as the rest of you _are_ out of it--"

"Oh, I can see _that_.... And you and me both understand a little
about politics, I should imagine." He grinned wryly. "Never thought
I'd link up with any reform outfit--but why don't you mail me a copy
of your amendment, and I'll see how the boys take it."

Mr. Mix agreed to mail a copy as soon as the final draft was
completed, and he was as good as his word. On the same evening, he
read the masterpiece to Mirabelle with finished emphasis.

"It's perfect," she said, her eyes snapping. "It's perfect! Of course,
I wish you'd have made it cover more ground, but just as a Sunday law,
it's perfect. When are we going to offer it to the Council?"

"Mirabelle," said Mr. Mix, "we've got to do som