prowled about
the deserted town searching for coolness in empty cafes, dining-rooms,
and roofgardens. We knew to the tenth part of a revolution the speed
of every electric fan in Gotham, and we followed the swiftest as they
varied. Hollis's fiancee. Miss Loris Sherman, had been in the
Adirondacks, at Lower Saranac Lake, for a month. In another week he
would join her party there. In the meantime, he cursed the city
cheerfully and optimistically, and sought my society because I suffered
him to show me her photograph during the black coffee every time we
dined together.

My revenge was to read to him my one-act play.

It was one insufferable evening when the overplus of the day's heat was
being hurled quiveringly back to the heavens by every surcharged brick
and stone and inch of iron in the panting town. But with the cunning
of the two-legged beasts we had found an oasis where the hoofs of
Apollo's steed had not been allowed to strike. Our seats were on an
ocean of cool, polished oak; the white linen of fifty deserted tables
flapped like seagulls in the artificial breeze; a mile away a waiter
lingered for a heliographic signal--we might have roared songs there or
fought a duel without molestation.

Out came Miss Loris's photo with the coffee, and I once more praised
the elegant poise of the neck, the extremely low-coiled mass of heavy
hair, and the eyes that followed one, like those in an oil painting.

"She's the greatest ever," said Hollis, with enthusiasm. "Good as
Great Northern Preferred, and a disposition built like a watch. One
week more and I'll be happy Jonny-on-the-spot. Old Tom Tolliver, my
best college chum, went up there two weeks ago. He writes me that
Loris doesn't talk about anything but me. Oh, I guess Rip Van Winkle
didn't have all the good luck!"

"Yes, yes," said I, hurriedly, pulling out my typewritten play. "She's
no doubt a charming girl. Now, here's that little curtain-raiser you
promised to listen to."

"Ever been tried on the stage?" asked Hollis.

"Not exactly," I answered. "I read half of it the other day to a
fellow whose brother knows Robert Edeson; but he had to catch a train
before I finished."

"Go on," said Hollis, sliding back in his chair like a good fellow.
"I'm no stage carpenter, but I'll tell you what I think of it from a
first-row balcony standpoint. I'm a theatre bug during the season, and
I can size up a fake play almost as quick as the gallery can. Flag t