"Yes, I know. I get all of you 'uplift boys' sooner or later. Teach them all you like, but learn your trade so thoroughly that they will have no idea that they are being taught. That is the function of the artist-playwright. What do you do besides write plays?" "Just at present I drive a cab," Jarvis answered simply. "You don't say? How does that happen?" "I was up against it for money, and I took this to oblige a friend cabby who has rheumatism." "'Pon my word! How long have you been at it?" "This is my fifth day." "Business good?" The manager's eyes twinkled. Jarvis smiled gravely. "I have been wishing it would rain," he confessed. "When do you write?" "At night, now. But this is only temporarily." "What do you think of my idea of another play?" "The idea is all right, if you will only take it when I've done it." "How long have you been at this play writing?" "Three years." "How long do you suppose it took me to learn to be a manager?" "I don't know." "Well, nearer three times ten than three years, and I am still learning. You writing fellows never want to learn your trade like other people. You talk about inspiration and uplifting the public, and all that, and you want to do it in six months. You go to work on this new idea, and come back here when you've finished it. Then it will be time enough to talk about my end of it." Jarvis rose. "I am obliged to you, sir. I shall do it." [Illustration: HE TAUGHT HIMSELF TO ABANDON HIS OLD INTROSPECTIVE HABITS DURING THESE DAYS ON THE BOX.] Mr. Frohman held out his hand. "Good luck to you. I shall hope for rain." "Thanks! Good morning, sir." With the perfect ease of a lack of self-consciousness Jarvis made his exit, leaving Mr. Frohman with a twinkle in his eyes. The rest of the day a certain blond cabman on the avenue drove to Franklin Simon's when he was ordered to Altman's, drew up in state at McCreery's when he was told Bonwit Teller's. "You must be drunk, driver," said one passenger. She held up her dollar bill, indignantly, to dismiss him. He lifted his hat, perfunctorily, and swept a bow. "I am, madam, intoxicated with my own thoughts." He rattled off down the street, leaving the woman rooted to the curb with astonishment. He taught himself to abandon his old, introspective habits during these days on the box, and forced his attention to fix itself upon the crowds, his customers, the whole uptown panorama, so different from the night crowds he sought. He recalled Bambi's saying to him that until he learned not to exclude any of the picture he would never do big work. Her words had a tantalizing way of coming back to him, things she had tossed off in the long ago of their visit to New York together. He longed for her vivid phrasing, her quick dart at the heart of the things they talked of. It seemed incredible now that he had ever taken her as a matter of course. As for the enigma of her marrying him, he never ceased to ponder it.