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. And tell him who I am, and that I have a lot of Ideas,
but this is the only one I'm giving away."
We had arived at the house by that time and I invited him
to come in.
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