He'll have to cut up a lot, d'you see, so they'll
throw him out. And we'll have Reporters there, so the story can get
around. You get it, don't you? Your friend, in order to prove that the
idea of the Play is right, goes out for a job, and proves that he cannot
demand Laber and get it." He stopped and spoke with excitement: "Is he a
real sport? Would he stand being arested? Because that would cinch it."
But here I drew a line. I would not subject him to such humiliation. I
would not have him arested. And at last Carter gave in.
"But you get the Idea," he said. "There'll be the deuce of a Row, and
it's good for a half collumn on the first page of the evening papers.
Result, a jamb that night at the performence, and a new lease of life
for the Play. Egleston comes on, bruized and battered, and perhaps
with a limp. The Labor Unions take up the matter--it's a knock out. I'd
charge a thousand dollars for that idea if I were selling it."
"Bruized!" I exclaimed. "Realy bruized or painted on?"
He glared at me impatiently.
"Now see here, Bab," he said. "I'm doing this for you. You've got
to play up. And if your young man won't stand a bang in the eye, for
instanse, to earn his Bread and Butter, he's not worth saving."
"Who are you going to get to--to throw him out?" I asked, in a faltering
tone.
He stopped and stared at me.
"I like that!" he said. "It's not my Play that's failing, is it? Go and
tell him the Skeme, and then let his manager work it out.
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