“That’s right,” replied Jimmy. “Ibsen stuff, but she’s a bear at it. She makes you tremble and she makes you sigh.” The blonde person took the proffered pass and folded it carefully. “I’ll take my sister,” she said. “She’ll have the time of her life if there’s anything sad in it. I must say you press agents are a mighty nice lot of boys. I meet a lot of you fellows in the course of a season and most every one slips me a pass just for sociability. Here comes Mr. Wilson now. He just got in this morning. He told me he’s ahead of some new play they’re trying out for Otis Taber.” The gentleman who was approaching was a well set-up, prosperous looking man in his early forties who looked more like a bank cashier or a successful professional man than the popular conception of a theatrical advance agent. He was one of that distinguished little group of clever newspapermen who have been lured away from the daily grind of news-gathering or editorial work into the pleasant bypaths of theatrical endeavor and who have found the fascinations of the show world too subtle to resist no matter how hard they try. “Hello, Jimmy, old man,” he said heartily. “What are you doing out here in Cleveland? I thought you were with ‘Meyerfield’s Frolics’.” “I was,” replied Jimmy, “but I’m off song and dance shows. I had a run in with Meyerfield.” “What are you doing?” asked the other. “I’ve signed up with the little old uplift, Tom,” returned Jimmy. “I’m elevating our well known stage.” Tom Wilson looked puzzled for a moment. “You don’t mean to say that you’re ahead of Stephano?” he gasped. “That’s what,” said Jimmy, with easy assurance. “I knew it would hand a laugh to all of you kid glove scouts, but I’m going to make good even if I am about as much of a highbrow as a bush league second baseman. As a matter of fact I’ve started to clean up already. Have a cigar.” Mr. Wilson looked in the case and indicated a modestly priced weed. Jimmy held up a deprecatory hand. “Nothing doing, sister,” he expanded. “Slip him one of those regular smokes.” His friend picked a thick cigar out of the box the blonde person handed him and looked into Jimmy’s smiling face. “Say,” he inquired. “What’s the idea? Had a legacy or something?” Jimmy motioned him towards a large leather sofa in the center of the lobby. “I’ve just put one over on the censor,” he exulted, as he settled down, “and I just naturally feel a little frisky. You don’t mind if I pin a few war crosses on my chest, do you?” “Not at all,” replied the other good naturedly. “Fire ahead.”