general and the painted favorites of Broadway in particular, he
had forced himself to write the common laudatory stuff which the
public demanded. Only once had he given free rein to his
inclinations and written with a poisoned pen. To-night, however,
as he entered the stage door of Bergman's Circuit Theater, it was
with a different intent.

Regan, the stage-door tender, better known since his vaudeville
days as "The Judge," answered his greeting with a lugubrious shake
of a bald head.

"I'm a sick man, Mr. Pope. Same old trouble."

"M-m-m. Kidneys, isn't it?"

"No. Rheumatism. I'm a beehive swarmin' with pains."

"To be sure. It's Hemphill, the door-man at the Columbus, who has
the floating kidney. I paid for his operation."

"Hemphill. Operation! Ha!" The Judge cackled in a voice hoarse
from alcoholic excesses. "He bilked you, Mr. Pope. He's the guy
that put the kid in kidney. There's nothing wrong with him. He
could do his old acrobatic turn if he wanted to."

"I remember the act."

"Me an' Greenberg played the same bill with him twenty years ago."
The Judge leaned forward, and a strong odor of whisky enveloped
the caller. "Could you slip me four bits for some liniment?"