"Hasn't the public got a mind?" cried Canby. "Doesn't the public
understand that a good play might be ruined by these
scoundrels?"

Old Tinker returned his chartreuse glass to the case whence it
came, a miniature sedan chair in silver and painted silk. "The
public?" he said. "I've never been able to find out what that
was. Just about the time I decided it was a trained sheep it
turned out to be a cyclone. You think it's intelligent, and it
plays the fool; you decide it's a fool, and it turns out to
know more than you do. You make love to it, and it may sidle up
and kiss you--or give you a good, hard kick!"

"But if we make this a good play--"

"It won't be a play at all," said Tinker, "unless the public
thinks it's a good one. A play isn't something you read; it's
something actors do on a stage; and they can't afford to do it
unless the public pays to watch 'em. If it won't buy tickets,
you haven't got a play; you've only got some typewriting."

Canby glanced involuntarily at the blue-covered manuscript he
had placed upon a table beside him. It had a guilty look.

"I get confused," he said. "If the public's so flighty, why does
it take so much stock in what these wolves print about a play?"

"Print. That's it," old Tinker answered serenely. "Write your
opinion in a letter or say it with your mouth, and it doesn't
amount to anything. Print's different. You see some nonsense