never was, on sea or land."

It had its blessing for him. From that moment, if he had known
it, this play, which was being born of so many parents, was
certain of "success," of "popularity," and of what quality of
renown such things may bring. And he who was to be called its
author stood there a Made Man, unless some accident befell.

Miss Ellsling spoke and came forward, another actor with her.
The scene was over. There was a clearing of throats; everybody
moved. The stage-carpenter and his assistant went away blinking,
like men roused from deep sleep. The routine of rehearsal
resumed its place; and old Tinker, who had not stirred a muscle,
rubbed the back of his neck suddenly, and came up the aisle to
Canby.

"Good business!" he cried. "Did you see that little run off the
stage she made when Miss Ellsling came on? And you saw what he
can do when he wants to!"

"He?" Canby echoed. "He?"

"Played for the scene instead of himself. Oh, he can do it! He's
an old hand--got too many tricks in the bag to let her get the
piece away from him--but he's found a girl that can play with
him at last, and he'll use every value she's got. He knows good
property when he sees it. She's got a pretty good box of tricks
herself; stock's the way to learn 'em, but it's apt to take the
bloom off. It hasn't taken off any of hers, the darlin'! What do
you think, Mr. Canby?"