It was the fourth day of his employment as a cabby when a summons came from the Frohman offices bidding him appear at the theatre at eleven o'clock on the following day. It was embarrassing. Old Hicks was entirely dependent on what Jarvis brought in at night, and they could neither of them afford to have the cab idle a full day. So he decided to stop at the theatre in the morning, and then deduct his time off duty. Promptly at eleven the cab arrived at the Empire Theatre and Jarvis descended from the box. He gave the boy a cent to hold his horse, although nothing except a bushel of oats could have urged the old bone-rack into motion. Up to the booth window he marched, and presented the letter. The boy inspected the old blue coat, the topper, and the worn gloves. "Character costume," he grinned: then he opened the letter, and his face changed. "Excuse me, sir, I'll see if Mr. Frohman will see you." He was out and back, almost at once, bowing and holding the door open. "Right ahead, into the private office," he said, importantly. A clerk took charge of our hero at the far door, announcing formally, "Mr. Jarvis Jocelyn, Mr. Frohman." Jarvis entered the big room and crossed eyes with the man at the far end. What Mr. Frohman saw was a tall, splendidly set-up youth, with a head held high, and a fearless, free carriage, attired in the very strange and battered habiliments of a cabby. What Jarvis saw was a fat little man, with a round face, sharp, twinkling eyes, and a genial mouth. The whole face had a humorous cast, a kindly expression. "You are Jarvis Jocelyn?" said Mr. Frohman, as Jarvis reached him. "I am." "You wrote a play called 'Success'?" "I did." "I've read your play." "That's good." "Well, the play isn't," Frohman interrupted, "It is extremely bad, but there are some ideas in it, and one good part." "The woman, you mean?" "The woman nothing. She's a wooden peg to hang your ideas on. I mean the man she married." "But he is so unimportant," Jarvis protested. "He was important enough to get this interview. I never would have bothered with you, or with your play, if it hadn't been for that character. He's new." "You want me to make him a bigger part in the play?" "My advice is to throw this play in the wastebasket and write one about that man." "Will you produce it if I do?" "Probably not, but I'll look it over. What else have you done?" "I have finished two things. One I call 'The Vision'--this is a Brotherhood of Man play--the other I call 'Peace,' and it's a dramatization of the Universal Peace idea." "Why don't you write something human? Nobody wants dramatized movements. The public wants people, personalities, things we all know and feel. You can't get much thrill out of Universal Peace." "But I believe the public should be taught."