known, had a small part at a local theater that kept a permanent
company. Her husband was in that business, too, but he had nothing to
do. It was the wife who paid the bills, and a lot of quarreling they
did about it.

I knocked at the door at ten o'clock, and Mr. Ladley opened it. He
was a short man, rather stout and getting bald, and he always had a
cigarette. Even yet, the parlor carpet smells of them.

"What do you want?" he asked sharply, holding the door open about an
inch.

"The water's coming up very fast, Mr. Ladley," I said. "It's up to the
swinging-shelf in the cellar now. I'd like to take up the carpet and
move the piano."

"Come back in an hour or so," he snapped, and tried to close the door.
But I had got my toe in the crack.

"I'll have to have the piano moved, Mr. Ladley," I said. "You'd better
put off what you are doing."

I thought he was probably writing. He spent most of the day writing,
using the wash-stand as a desk, and it kept me busy with oxalic acid
taking ink-spots out of the splasher and the towels. He was writing a
play, and talked a lot about the Shuberts having promised to star him
in it when it was finished.

"Hell!" he said, and turning, spoke to somebody in the room.