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had, unaccountably, failed to supply sufficient witty speeches to cover such an emergency.

All these things, and more, were happening, as is usual and customary at first nights, but the fact remained that the piece was going very well indeed. From the rise of the curtain it gave promise of being the success that Ike Humbert had prophesied for it; though this prophecy had rather lost its effect from the fact that Ike prophesied the same thing of every one of his pieces. This one, however, looked good. There is an air about a success that falls about it at the beginning of its first night . . . an unmistakable feeling that every theatrical man knows . . . and this piece had it.

The second act went smoothly. I was in the wings, looking on interestedly, and talking to such members of the cast as were not too nervous to talk when they happened to be standing beside me. Ike Humbert was there, too, back stage, walking nervously about, talking disconnectedly to everybody, being every place, and once or twice nearly having his skull cracked when he got in the way of the impassive and unexcited scene shifters.

He had introduced me to Betty Sargent, a pretty girl with dark hair and flashing, good-humored black

eyes, with a lively sense of humor and no fear at all, although it was the first night of the first piece in which she had ever been featured. I had said nothing