and air-domes--seven shows a day and a change of act each week. I
was Agnes Smith then. Somehow I got the price of a ticket to
England, and I figured the music-halls would rave over a good kid
imitation; but, bless you, I starved! I was closed the first place
I played--got the hook. I ate Nabiscos till I got another date,
then I pulled the air-dome stuff that had scored in Little Rock
and Michigan City, and it got by somehow. My mother was a Canuck,
so I knew some French, and eventually I reached the Continent.
There I met the Old Nick. You may think the devil is a tall, dark
man with the ace of spades on his chin and a figure-six tail--
that's what he looks like on the ham-cans; but in reality he's a
little fat, bald man with a tenor voice, and he eats cloves. His
name is Aubrey Lane, and he can't stand hot weather. Never heard
of him, eh? Well, neither had anybody else until I met him. He was
in Paris selling patent garters at the time. He saw me work at a
cabaret and told me I was good, but not good enough. I'd known
that for years, so he didn't hurt my feelings. He confessed that
he was tired of working and intended to have me make a lot of
money for him, but warned me that he had expensive tastes and I'd
have to pay well for the privilege. He was right; I did. But here
I am in electric lights on Broadway while he is exercising a
wheeled chair at Atlantic City." "He's your manager?"

"He is that very little thing. He told me I could sing until my
back ached and never get anywhere because I lacked brains. Then he
offered to make me a star if I'd allow him to hitch his chariot to
me--on a share of the gross. There was one trifling sacrifice I
had to make in the nature of my personal reputation--so he told
me. He said I'd have to be the best or else the worst actress in
the world in order to land big and support him in the luxury he