rolled-up form on the battens. Therefore when I was informed that
the stage in the next town was a small one, I had a bright idea.
I ordered the stage-carpenter to take the drops from their battens,
discard the battens, and put pockets on the lower ends of the drops
and equip the upper ends with tie ropes so the drops could be tied
on the battens used in the various houses. The drops would then
fit small or large stages equally well and could be folded up into
a small enough space to tuck in a trunk and save all the excess
transportation charges.

Of course the drops folded up all right, but they unfolded in chips
of scaled-off paint. In the excitement, or the desire to "take a
chance," I had not given a thought to the plain fact that the drops
were not aniline. They were doomed to chip in time anyway, and
folding only hastened their end. Still, we received just as much
money for the act all the time we were playing it, as though we
had carried the beautiful drops.

Now comes the third lesson of this incident: Although we were
precisely three hundred and sixty-eight dollars "out" on account
of the drops, we really saved money in the end because we were
forced to discard them. The local union of the International
Association of Theatrical Stage Employees--Stage Hands' Union,
for short--tried to assess me in the town where we first used the
drops, for the salary of a stage-carpenter. According to their
then iron-clad rule, before which managers had to bow, the scenery
of every act carrying as many as three drops on battens had to be
hung and taken down by the act's own stage-carpenter--at forty
dollars a week. They could not collect from such an act today
because the rules have been changed, but our act was liable, under