the way, was Pink. That much the audience discovered, and no more; for as
to his soul, he did not seem to own one.

Luck, still hunched down so that his back hair rubbed against his chair
back, was laughing with his jaws wide apart and his fine teeth still
gleaming in the half darkness, when Ted, general errand boy at the
office, came straddling over intervening laps and laid a compelling hand
on his shoulder.

"Say, Luck," he whispered excitedly, "the audience author's with Mart,
and they both want t' see you. And, say, I guess you're in Dutch, all
right; the author's awful mad, and so is Mart. But say, no matter what
they do to you, Luck, take it from me, that pit'cher's a humdinger! I
like to died a-laughing!"




CHAPTER SEVEN

BENTLY BROWN DOES NOT APPRECIATE COMEDY


Luck unhooked his hat from his knee, brought his laughing jaws together
with that eloquent, downward tilt to the corners of his mouth, sat up
straight, considered swiftly the possibilities of the next half hour, and
paid tribute in one expressive word of four letters before he went
crawling over half a dozen pairs of knees to do battle for his picture.
His picture, you understand. For since he had made it irresistible comedy
instead of very mediocre drama, he felt all the pride of creation in his