“Yes, I saw the line, but that doesn’t mean everything. It’s just a little flash in the pan, and besides it’s dangerous stuff—why you can’t tell what would come of it. Someone told me on the train coming over that there was a quarter of a billion dollars represented by the names in that story.” “But that’s just why it’s good stuff! The more important the people——” “I wish you wouldn’t interrupt me,” snapped Meyerfield. “I’ve got a silent partner in New York—a big banker—he’s going to back my new summer show. Why, if he ever gets wise to this stuff you can’t tell what’d happen. He may know some of these fellows you’ve mixed up in this story and he may call the whole thing off. You came pretty near getting me in Dutch. Maybe you have. You’d better pull a new line of stuff over in Boston. This kind’ll never do.” He watched Jimmy narrowly to see how that ordinarily enthusiastic young gentleman was responding to this line of talk. Jimmy’s first expression of bewilderment was replaced by one of great anxiety. “All right, Mr. Meyerfield,” he said deferentially. “You know best. You’ve been at it longer than I have, and, of course, you know the show business from more angles than I do. I’m sorry it happened. I didn’t understand. I’ll try and pull something different over in Boston.” “That’s it,” beamed Meyerfield. “The fireworks stuff is all right, but sticking to facts and real legitimate publicity is what lasts. We’ll let by-gones be has-beens. You’d better start on the earliest train possible. By the way, Miss Bellairs is going to lay off for a couple of weeks after our opening here. Her doctor says she’ll have a six month’s session in a sanitarium if she doesn’t, but we can get by that all right. You mustn’t let a word of this get out. You understand?” “Sure I understand,” replied Jimmy. “Who’s going on in her place?” “Little Leona LeClaire,” said Meyerfield. “It’s a chance to put her on in the leading role, but I think she’ll fill the bill all right. She’s been under-studying all season.” “I get you, Mr. Meyerfield. I’ll try and pull something different.” “That’s the talk,” replied the manager, extending a fishy hand again. As the door swung shut on the press agent, Meyerfield turned to Seymour and gave him a prodigious wink. “How do you like my work, George?” he asked expansively. “I don’t understand,” puzzled the theatre manager. “What do you mean? I thought that newspaper stuff was damned good, if you ask me. Best thing pulled off here in years.” “Of course it was George,” responded Meyerfield with an air of great wisdom. “It was one of the best ever, but if I told that fresh gink I thought it was, there’d be no holding him. He’d take the bit in his teeth and bolt down Main street. He’d begin to think he was worth a thousand dollars a minute. Birds like that have to be held down. Don’t let ’em ever think they’re good, I know how to handle all his kind.” * * * * *