1.

　　THE offices of Messrs Goble and Cohn were situated, like everythingelse in New York that appertains to the drama, in the neighborhood ofTimes Square. They occupied the fifth floor of the Gotham Theatre onWest Forty-second Street. As there was no elevator in the buildingexcept the small private one used by the two members of the firm,Jill walked up the stairs, and found signs of a thriving businessbeginning to present themselves as early as the third floor, wherehalf a dozen patient persons of either sex had draped themselves likeroosting fowls upon the banisters. There were more on the fourthfloor, and the landing of the fifth, which served the firm as awaiting-room, was quite full. It is the custom of theatricalmanagers--the lowest order of intelligence, with the possibleexception of the _limax maximus_ or garden slug, known to science--toomit from their calculations the fact that they are likely every dayto receive a large number of visitors, whom they will be obliged tokeep waiting; and that these people will require somewhere to wait.

　　Such considerations never occur to them. Messrs Goble and Cohn hadprovided for those who called to see them one small bench on thelanding, conveniently situated at the intersecting point of threedraughts, and had let it go at that.

　　Nobody, except perhaps the night-watchman, had ever seen this benchempty. At whatever hour of the day you happened to call, you wouldalways find three wistful individuals seated side by side with theireyes on the tiny ante-room where sat the office-boy, thetelephone-girl, and Mr Goble's stenographer. Beyond this was the doormarked "Private," through which, as it opened to admit some careless,debonair, thousand-dollar-a-week comedian who sauntered in with ajaunty "Hello, Ike!" or some furred and scented female star, the rankand file of the profession were greeted, like Moses on Pisgah, with afleeting glimpse of the promised land, consisting of a large desk anda section of a very fat man with spectacles and a bald head or ayounger man with fair hair and a double chin.

　　The keynote of the mass meeting on the landing was one of determined,almost aggressive smartness. The men wore bright overcoats with bandsround the waist, the women those imitation furs which to theuninitiated eye appear so much more expensive than the real thing.

　　Everybody looked very dashing and very young, except about the eyes.

　　Most of the eyes that glanced at Jill were weary. The women werenearly all blondes, blondness having been decided upon in the theatreas the color that brings the best results. The men were all so muchalike that they seemed to be members of one large family,--anillusion which was heightened by the scraps of conversation, studdedwith "dears," "old mans," and "honeys," which came to Jill's ears. Astern fight for supremacy was being waged by a score or so of livelyand powerful young scents.

　　For a moment Jill was somewhat daunted by the spectacle, but sherecovered almost immediately. The exhilarating and heady influence ofNew York still wrought within her. The Berserk spirit was upon her,and she remembered the stimulating words of Mr Brown, of Brown andWidgeon, the best jazz-and-hokum team on the Keith Circuit. "Walkstraight in!" had been the burden of his inspiring address. Shepushed her way through the crowd until she came to the smallante-room.

　　In the ante-room were the outposts, the pickets of the enemy. In onecorner a girl was hammering energetically and with great speed on atypewriter: a second girl, seated at a switchboard, was having anargument with Central which was already warm and threatened todescend shortly to personalities: on a chair tilted back so that itrested against the wall, a small boy sat eating candy and reading thecomic page of an evening newspaper. All three were enclosed, likezoological specimens, in a cage formed by a high counter terminatingin brass bars.

　　Beyond these watchers on the threshold was the door marked "Private."Through it, as Jill reached the outer defences, filtered the sound ofa piano.

　　Those who have studied the subject have come to the conclusion thatthe boorishness of theatrical managers' office-boys cannot be theproduct of mere chance. Somewhere, in some sinister den in thecriminal districts of the town, there is a school where small boysare trained for these positions, where their finer instincts arerigorously uprooted and rudeness systematically inculcated bycompetent professors. Of this school the candy-eating Cerberus ofMessrs Goble and Cohn had been the star scholar. Quickly seeing hisnatural gifts, his teachers had given him special attention. When hehad graduated, it had been amidst the cordial good wishes of theentire faculty. They had taught him all they knew, and they wereproud of him. They felt that he would do them credit.

　　This boy raised a pair of pink-rimmed eyes to Jill, sniffed--for likeall theatrical managers' office-boys he had a permanent cold in thehead--bit his thumb-nail, and spoke. He was a snub-nosed boy. Hisears and hair were vermilion. His name was Ralph. He had sevenhundred and forty-three pimples.

　　"Woddyerwant?" enquired Ralph, coming within an ace of condensing thequestion into a word of one syllable.

　　"I want to see Mr Goble.""Zout!" said the Pimple King, and returned to his paper.

　　There will, no doubt, always be class distinctions. Sparta had herkings and her helots, King Arthur's Round Table its knights and itsscullions, America her Simon Legree and her Uncle Tom. But in nonation and at no period of history has any one ever been so brutallysuperior to any one else as is the Broadway theatrical office-boy tothe caller who wishes to see the manager. Thomas Jefferson held thesetruths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal; that theyare endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable rights; thatamong these rights are life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness.

　　Theatrical office-boys do not see eye to eye with Thomas. From theirpinnacle they look down on the common herd, the _canaille_, anddespise them. They coldly question their right to live.

　　Jill turned pink. Mr Brown, her guide and mentor, foreseeing thissituation, had, she remembered, recommended "pushing the office-boyin the face": and for a moment she felt like following his advice.

　　Prudence, or the fact that he was out of reach behind the brass bars,restrained her. Without further delay she made for the door of theinner room. That was her objective, and she did not intend to bediverted from it. Her fingers were on the handle before any of thosepresent divined her intention. Then the stenographer stopped typingand sat with raised fingers, aghast. The girl at the telephone brokeoff in mid-sentence and stared round over her shoulder. Ralph, theoffice-boy, outraged, dropped his paper and constituted himself thespokesman of the invaded force.

　　"Hey!"Jill stopped and eyed the lad militantly.

　　"Were you speaking to me?""Yes, I _was_ speaking to you!""Don't do it again with your mouth full," said Jill, turning to thedoor.

　　The belligerent fire in the office-boy's pink-rimmed eyes wassuddenly dimmed by a gush of water. It was not remorse that causedhim to weep, however. In the heat of the moment he had swallowed alarge, jagged piece of candy, and he was suffering severely.

　　"You can't go in there!" he managed to articulate, his iron willtriumphing over the flesh sufficiently to enable him to speak.

　　"I am going in there!""That's Mr Goble's private room.""Well, I want a private talk with Mr Goble."Ralph, his eyes still moist, felt that the situation was slippingfrom his grip. This sort of thing had never happened to him before.

　　"I tell ya he _zout!_"Jill looked at him sternly.

　　"You wretched child!" she said, encouraged by a sharp giggle from theneighborhood of the switchboard. "Do you know where little boys gowho don't speak the truth? I can hear him playing the piano. Now he'ssinging! And it's no good telling me he's busy. If he was busy, hewouldn't have time to sing. If you're as deceitful as this at yourage, what do you expect to be when you grow up? You're an ugly littleboy, you've got red ears, and your collar doesn't fit! I shall speakto Mr Goble about you."With which words Jill opened the door and walked in.

　　"Good afternoon," she said brightly.

　　After the congested and unfurnished discomfort of the landing, theroom in which Jill found herself had an air of cosiness and almost ofluxury. It was a large room, solidly upholstered. Along the furtherwall, filling nearly the whole of its space, stood a vast andgleaming desk, covered with a litter of papers which rose at one endof it to a sort of mountain of play-scripts in buff covers. There wasa bookshelf to the left. Photographs covered the walls. Near thewindow was a deep leather lounge: to the right of this stood a smallpiano, the music-stool of which was occupied by a young man withuntidy black hair that needed cutting. On top of the piano, takingthe eye immediately by reason of its bold brightness, was balanced alarge cardboard poster. Much of its surface was filled by a pictureof a youth in polo costume bending over a blonde goddess in abathing-suit. What space was left displayed the legend:

　　ISAAC GOBLE AND JACOB COHNPRESENTTHE ROSE OF AMERICA(A Musical Fantasy)BOOK AND LYRICS BY OTIS PILKINGTONMUSIC BY ROLAND TREVISTurning her eyes from this, Jill became aware that something wasgoing on at the other side of the desk: and she perceived that asecond young man, the longest and thinnest she had ever seen, was inthe act of rising to his feet, length upon length like an unfoldingsnake. At the moment of her entry he had been lying back in anoffice-chair, so that only a merely nominal section of his upperstructure was visible. Now he reared his impressive length until hishead came within measurable distance of the ceiling. He had a hatchetface and a receding chin, and he gazed at Jill through what sheassumed were the "tortoiseshell cheaters" referred to by her recentacquaintance, Mr Brown.

　　"Er . . . ?" said this young man enquiringly in a high, flat voice.

　　Jill, like many other people, had a brain which was under thealternating control of two diametrically opposite forces. It was likean automobile steered in turn by two drivers, the one a dashing,reckless fellow with no regard for the speed limits, the other atimid novice. All through the proceedings up to this point the dasherhad been in command. He had ............