"No. They aren't theatrical people," said Tinker dryly. "They're
writers."

"But some of them must have studied from the inside," Canby
urged, feeling that "Roderick Hanscom's" chances were getting
slighter and slighter. "Some of them must have either been
managers for a while, or actors--or had plays pro--"

"No," said Tinker. "If they had they wouldn't do for critics.
They wouldn't have the heart."

"They oughtn't to have so much power!" the young man exclaimed
passionately. "Think of a playwright working on his play--two
years, maybe--night after night--and then, all in one swoop,
these fellows that you say don't know anything--"

"Power!" Potter laughed contemptuously. "Tinker, you're in your
dotage! Look at what I've done: Haven't I made my way in spite
of everything they could do to stifle me? And have I ever
compromised for one moment? Haven't I gone my own way,
absolutely?"

"Yes." Tinker's face was more cryptic than usual. "Yes, indeed!"

"Power! Haven't I made them eat out of my hand? Look at that
ass--glad to crawl in here and nibble a crust from my table
to-night! Ass!" He had halted for a second in front of the manager,
but resumed his pacing with a mutter of subterranean thunder:
"Mounet-Sully!"