1.

　　Otis Pilkington had left Atlantic City two hours after the conferencewhich had followed the dress rehearsal, firmly resolved never to gonear "The Rose of America" again. He had been wounded in his finestfeelings. There had been a moment, when Mr Goble had given him thechoice between having the piece rewritten and cancelling theproduction altogether, when he had inclined to the heroic course. Butfor one thing, Mr Pilkington would have defied the manager, refusedto allow his script to be touched, and removed the play from hishands. That one thing was the fact that, up to the day of the dressrehearsal, the expenses of the production had amounted to theappalling sum of thirty-two thousand eight hundred and fifty-ninedollars, sixty-eight cents, all of which had to come out of MrPilkington's pocket. The figures, presented to him in a neatlytypewritten column stretching over two long sheets of paper, hadstunned him. He had had no notion that musical plays cost so much.

　　The costumes alone had come to ten thousand six hundred andsixty-three dollars and fifty cents, and somehow that odd fifty centsannoyed Otis Pilkington as much as anything on the list. A darksuspicion that Mr Goble, who had seen to all the executive end of thebusiness, had a secret arrangement with the costumer whereby hereceived a private rebate, deepened his gloom. Why, for ten thousandsix hundred and sixty-three dollars and fifty cents you could dressthe whole female population of New York State and have a bit leftover for Connecticut. So thought Mr Pilkington, as he read the badnews in the train. He only ceased to brood upon the high cost ofcostuming when in the next line but one there smote his eye an itemof four hundred and ninety-eight dollars for "Clothing." Clothing!

　　Weren't costumes clothing? Why should he have to pay twice over forthe same thing? Mr Pilkington was just raging over this, whensomething lower down in the column caught his eye. It was thewords:--Clothing . . . 187.45At this Otis Pilkington uttered a stifled cry, so sharp and soanguished that an old lady in the next seat, who was drinking a glassof milk, dropped it and had to refund the railway company thirty-fivecents for breakages. For the remainder of the journey she sat withone eye warily on Mr Pilkington, waiting for his next move.

　　This misadventure quieted Otis Pilkington down, if it did not soothehim. He returned blushingly to a perusal of his bill of costs, nearlyevery line of which contained some item that infuriated and dismayedhim. "Shoes" ($213.50) he could understand, but what on earth was"Academy. Rehl. $105.50"? What was "Cuts . . . $15"? And what in thename of everything infernal was this item for "Frames," in whichmysterious luxury he had apparently indulged to the extent ofninety-four dollars and fifty cents? "Props" occurred on the list nofewer than seventeen times. Whatever his future, at whateverpoor-house he might spend his declining years, he was supplied withenough props to last his lifetime.

　　Otis Pilkington stared blankly at the scenery that fitted past thetrain winds. (Scenery! There had been two charges for scenery!

　　"Friedmann, Samuel . . . Scenery . . . $3711" and "Unitt and Wickes. . . Scenery . . . $2120"). He was suffering the torments of theruined gamester at the roulette-table. Thirty-two thousand eighthundred and fifty-nine dollars, sixty-eight cents! And he was out ofpocket ten thousand in addition from the check he had handed over twodays ago to Uncle Chris as his share of the investment of startingJill in the motion-pictures. It was terrible! It deprived one of thepower of thought.

　　The power of thought, however, returned to Mr Pilkington almostimmediately: for, remembering suddenly that Roland Trevis had assuredhim that no musical production, except one of those elaborategirl-shows with a chorus of ninety, could possibly cost more thanfifteen thousand dollars at an outside figure, he began to thinkabout Roland Trevis, and continued to think about him until the trainpulled into the Pennsylvania Station.

　　For a week or more the stricken financier confined himself mostly tohis rooms, where he sat smoking cigarettes, gazing at Japaneseprints, and trying not to think about "props" and "rehl." Then,gradually, the almost maternal yearning to see his brain-child oncemore, which can never be wholly crushed out of a young dramatist,returned to him--faintly at first, then getting stronger by degreestill it could no longer be resisted. True, he knew that when hebeheld it, the offspring of his brain would have been mangled almostout of recognition, but that did not deter him. The mother loves hercrippled child, and the author of a musical fantasy loves his musicalfantasy, even if rough hands have changed it into a musical comedyand all that remains of his work is the opening chorus and a scenewhich the assassins have overlooked at the beginning of act two. OtisPilkington, having instructed his Japanese valet to pack a few simplenecessaries in a suitcase, took a cab to the Grand Central Stationand caught an afternoon train for Rochester, where his recollectionof the route planned for the tour told him "The Rose of America"would now be playing.

　　Looking into his club on the way, to cash a check, the first personhe encountered was Freddie Rooke.

　　"Good gracious!" said Otis Pilkington. "What are you doing here?"Freddie looked up dully from his reading. The abrupt stoppage of hisprofessional career--his life-work, one might almost say--had leftFreddie at a very loose end: and so hollow did the world seem to himat the moment, so uniformly futile all its so-called allurements,that, to pass the time, he had just been trying to read the _NationalGeographic Magazine_.

　　"Hullo!" he said. "Well, might as well be here as anywhere, what?" hereplied to the other's question.

　　"But why aren't you playing?""They sacked me!" Freddie lit a cigarette in the sort of way in whichthe strong, silent, middle-aged man on the stage lights his at theend of act two when he has relinquished the heroine to his youthfulrival. "They've changed my part to a bally Scotchman! Well, I mean tosay, I couldn't play a bally Scotchman!"Mr Pilkington groaned in spirit. Of all the characters in his musicalfantasy on which he prided himself, that of Lord Finchley was hispet. And he had been burked, murdered, blotted out, in order to makeroom for a bally Scotchman!

　　"The character's called 'The McWhustle of McWhustle' now!" saidFreddie sombrely.

　　The McWhustle of McWhustle! Mr Pilkington almost abandoned his tripto Rochester on receiving this devastating piece of information.

　　"He comes on in act one in kilts!""In kilts! At Mrs Stuyvesant van Dyke's lawn-party! On Long Island!""It isn't Mrs Stuyvesant van Dyke any longer, either," said Freddie.

　　"She's been changed to the wife of a pickle manufacturer.""A pickle manufacturer!""Yes. They said it ought to be a comedy part."If agony had not caused Mr Pilkington to clutch for support at theback of a chair, he would undoubtedly have wrung his hands.

　　"But it was a comedy part!" he wailed. "It was full of the subtlest,most delicate satire on Society. They were delighted with it atNewport! Oh, this is too much! I shall make a strong protest! I shallinsist on these parts being kept as I wrote them! I shall . . . Imust be going at once, or I shall miss my train." He paused at thedoor. "How was business in Baltimore?""Rotten!" said Freddie, and returned to his _National GeographicMagazine_.

　　Otis Pilkington tottered into his cab. He was shattered by what hehad heard. They had massacred his beautiful play, and, doing so, hadnot even made a success of it by their own sordid commercial lights.

　　Business at Baltimore had been rotten! That meant more expense,further columns of figures with "frames" and "rehl" in front of them!

　　He staggered into the station.

　　"Hey!" cried the taxi-driver.

　　Otis Pilkington turned.

　　"Sixty-five cents, mister, if you please! Forgetting I'm not yourprivate shovoor, wasn't you?"Mr Pilkington gave him a dollar. Money--money! Life was just one longround of paying out and paying out.

　　2.

　　The day which Mr Pilkington had selected for his visit to theprovinces was a Tuesday. "The Rose of America" had opened atRochester on the previous night, after a week at Atlantic City in itsoriginal form and a week at Baltimore in what might be called itssecond incarnation. Business had been bad in Atlantic City and nobetter in Baltimore, and a meager first-night house at Rochester hadgiven the piece a cold reception, which had put the finishing touchesto the depression of the company in spite of the fact that theRochester critics, like those of Baltimore, had written kindly of theplay. One of the maxims of the theatre is that "out-of-town noticesdon't count," and the company had refused to be cheered by them.

　　It is to be doubted, however, if even crowded houses would havearoused much response from the principals and chorus of "The Rose ofAmerica." For two weeks without a break they had been............