I was goin' through Tinpan Alley on an errand, I sees the Ellins
carriage pull up, and out she comes.

Now, say, I knew in a minute that wa'n't any place for Marjorie. The
buildin' she goes into is one of them old five-story brownstones, where
they sell wigs in the basement, costumes on the first floor, have a
theatrical agency on the second, and give voice culture and such stuff
above. Among the other signs was one that read, "School of Dramatic Art,
Room 9, Fifth Floor."

"Chee!" says I. "You don't suppose Marjorie's got it that bad, do you?"

First off I thinks I'll chase along and forget I'd seen anything at all.
Then I thinks of what Mr. Robert would say if he knew, and I stops.
Sure, I hadn't been called to play any Buttinsky part; but somehow I
didn't feel right about stayin' out, so the first thing I knows I'm
trailin' up the stairs. There wa'n't any need to do the sleuth act after
Marjorie got started. Anyone on the floor could have heard it; for she
was spoutin' the Juliet lines like a carriage caller, and whenever she
made a rush to the footlights the floor beams creaked. It was enough to
drag a laugh out of a hearse driver. And guess what the guy was tellin'
her!

"Great!" says he. "You're almost as good as Mary Anderson was at her
best, and as for Marlowe, she can't touch you. Excellent, that last
speech! What fire, what expression, what talent! Why, young woman, all
you need is a Broadway production to sweep 'em off their feet! I'll
arrange it for you. It means money, of course; but after the first
cost--fame, nothing but fame!"

Now, how was that for a hot-air blast? Wouldn't that make a short ice
crop if you let it loose up the Hudson?

But it wa'n't what he said, so much as how he was sayin' it, that got me
int'rested. There's some voices you don't have to hear but once to
remember a lifetime, an this was one of that kind. It was one of these
husky baritones, like what does the coonsongs for the punky records they
put into the music boxes at the penny arcades. That was as near as I
could map it for a minute or so while I was tryin' to throw up the
picture of the man behind the voice. And, then it hits me--Professor
Booth McCallum!

Oh, skincho, what a front! Why, when I was on the Sunday editor's door
the professor used to show up reg'lar with some new scheme for winnin'
space. Talk about your self-acting press agents! He had the bunch shoved
to the curb. All he had to bank on was a ten-minute