Chapter II



Warrington laid down his pen, brushed his smarting eyes, lighted his
pipe, and tilted back his chair. With his hands clasped behind his
head, he fell into a waking dream, that familiar pastime of the
creative mind. It was half after nine, and he had been writing
steadily since seven. The scenario was done; the villain had lighted
his last cigarette, the hero had put his arms protectingly around the
heroine, and the irascible rich uncle had been brought to terms. All
this, of course, figuratively speaking; for no one ever knew what the
plot of that particular play was, insomuch as Warrington never
submitted the scenario to his manager, an act which caused almost a
serious rupture between them. But to-night his puppets were moving
hither and thither across the stage, pulsing with life; they were
making entrances and exits; developing this climax and that; with wit
and satire, humor and pathos. It was all very real to the dreamer.

The manuscript lay scattered about the top of his broad flat desk, and
the floor beside the waste-basket was flaked with the remains of
various futile lines and epigrams. The ash-pan was littered with burnt
matches, ends of cigars and pipe tobacco, while the ash-crumbs
speckled all dark objects, not excepting the green rug under his feet.
Warrington smoked incessantly while at work, now a cigarette, now a
cigar, now a pipe. Specialists declare with cold authoritative
positiveness that the use of tobacco blunts the thought, dulls the
edge of invention; but Warrington knew better. Many a night he had