Jimmy arrived at the Lyric Theatre in that glow of exultant feeling which every great artist should feel when driven to accomplishment by the urge of a great imaginative idea. He dashed through the lobby, pushed his way through a swinging door adjoining the ticket window marked “Manager’s Office” and leaned over a desk at which was seated a slender man with what might be called the old-young face, a face on which disillusionment and blase boredom seemed indelibly stamped. This was George Seymour, manager of the theatre, popularly known among traveling press agents as the “human icicle” because of his inborn and inherent distaste for humanity as a whole and for publicity men in particular. Mr. Seymour was going over a set of plans for the remodeling of the entrance of the theatre with an architect, and seemed supremely busy, but this little detail didn’t phase Jimmy. “Well, Georgie, old man,” he said breezily, “here we are back again and this time we’ve brought the big idea along for a little visit. I want you to meet him.” He slipped his hat down on the blueprint in front of Mr. Seymour, completely obliterating the graceful outlines of the architect’s new front elevation and swung himself up to a seat on the edge of the desk. A dangerous glint crept into Mr. Seymour’s eyes as he unconsciously fingered a heavy brass paperweight to the right of Jimmy’s hat. “Perhaps,” he said in a voice whose quiet intensity was deadly in its menace, “perhaps you may not have noticed that I’m busy, Mr. Martin. I’m not interested in any big ideas just now except the one I’m discussing with this gentleman.” “Forget that,” said Jimmy jauntily, pulling a cigar out of his pocket and lighting it while Mr. Seymour glowered at him. “That’s just an old blueprint for some improvement or other that can wait. My big idea can’t wait. I’ve got to put it over right now. And you’ve got to help me.” Mr. Seymour’s architect, a precise man unused to such unceremonious business methods, laughed quietly. “I guess, Seymour,” he said, “you’d better hear what he has to say. I’ve got a few minutes to spare. I’ll go into the next room. Persistence seems to be this gentleman’s middle name.” Mr. Seymour, loathe to give in, looked around helplessly. Jimmy leaned over and deftly flecked a bit of cigar ashes from the lapel of the manager’s coat, a manoeuvre which sent his stock down ten points more. “Stick around, old man,” he said pleasantly to the architect. “I don’t mind if you hear what I’ve got to say and I’m sure Georgie won’t either.” “Don’t Georgie me, my friend,” replied Seymour, “state your business and get it over with. The only way I can get rid of you without calling for the police, I suppose, is to listen to you.”