xcellence in a slightly guttural voice. This was Poppy
Shemalitz, the frock expert, the man milliner of the firm, who was
required to make bricks out of straw, or as he frequently said to the
friends of his "bosom," "make fifteen dollars look like fifty."
Self-preservation and a sense of humor encouraged him through the
abusive days of a dog's life.

Sitting in the last row of the orchestra, wearing the expression of
interest and astonishment of a man who had fallen suddenly into another
world, was Martin. He had been there since eight o'clock. For over six
hours he had watched banality emerge from chaos and had listened to the
blasphemy and insults of Jackrack. He would have continued to watch and
listen until daylight peered upbraidingly through the chinks in the
exit doors but for the sudden appearance of Susie Capper, dressed for
the street.

"Hello, Tootles! But you're not through, are you?"

"Absobloominlootely," she said emphatically.

"I thought you said your best bit was in the second act?"

"'Was' is right. Come on outer here. I can't stand the place a minute
longer. It'll give me apoplexy."

Martin followed her into the foyer. The tragic rage on the girl's
little, pretty, usually good-natured face worried him. He knew that she
had looked forward to this production to make her name on Broadway.

"My dear Tootles, what's happened?"

She turned to him and clutched his arm. Tears welled up into her eyes,
and her red lips began to tremble. "What did I look like?" she demanded.

"Splendid!"

"Didn't I get every ounce of comedy out of my two scenes in Act One?"

"Every ounce."

"I know I did. Even the stage hands laughed, and if you can do that
there's no argument. And didn't my number go over fine? Wasn't it the
best thing in the act? I don't care what you say. I know it was. Even
the orchestra wanted it over again."

"But it was," said Martin, "and I heard one of the authors say that it
would be the hit of the piece."

"Oh, Martin, I've been sweating blood for this chance for five years,
and I'm not going to get it. I'm not going to get it. I wish I was
dead." She put her arms against the wall and her face down on her arms
and burst into an agony of tears.

Martin was moved. This plucky, struggling, hardworking atom of a
remorseless world deserved a little luck for a change. Hitherto it had
eluded her eager hands, although she had paid for it in advance with
something more than blood and energy.