'We're sold out,' said the box-office man, adding recklessly: 'Get a move on you; other people want to buy seats.' 'You can't keep me out! It's conspiracy!' He darted within, but was hustled as rapidly without. He ran back to the stage-door, and hurled himself against the burly figure. He rebounded from it into the side-walk, and the stage-door closed upon his humiliation. He was left cursing in choice Hebrew. It was like the maledictions in Deuteronomy, only brought up to date by dynamite explosions and automobile accidents. Wearying of the waste of an extensive vocabulary upon a blank door, Pinchas returned to the front. The lobby was deserted save for a few strangers; his play had begun. And he--he, the god who moved all this machinery--he, whose divine fire was warming all that great house, must pace out here in the cold and dark, not even permitted to loiter in the corridors! But for the rumblings of applause that reached him he could hardly have endured the situation. Suddenly an idea struck him. He hied to the nearest drug-store, and entering the telephone cabinet rang up Goldwater. 'Hello, there!' came the voice of Kloot. 'Who are you?' Pinchas had a vivid vision of the big-nosed youth, in his peaked cap, sitting on the table by the telephone, swinging his legs; but he replied craftily, in a disguised voice: 'You, Goldwater?' 'No; Goldwater's on the stage.' Pinchas groaned. But at that very instant Goldwater's voice returned to the bureau, ejaculating complacently: 'They're loving it, Kloot; they're swallowing it like ice-cream soda.' Pinchas tingled with pleasure, but all Kloot replied was: 'You're wanted on the 'phone.' 'Hello!' called Goldwater. 'Hello!' replied Pinchas in his natural voice. 'May a sudden death smite you! May the curtain fall on a gibbering epileptic!' 'Can't hear!' said Goldwater. 'Speak plainer.' 'I _will_ speak plainer, swine-head! Never shall a work of mine defile itself in your dirty dollar-factory. I spit on you!' He spat viciously into the telephone disk. 'Your father was a _Meshummad_ (apostate), and your mother----' But Goldwater had cut off the connection. Pinchas finished for his own satisfaction: 'An Irish fire-woman.' 'That was worth ten cents,' he muttered, as he strode out into the night. And patrolling the front of the theatre again, or leaning on his cane as on a sword, he was warmed by the thought that his venom had pierced through all the actor-manager's defences. At last a change came over the nightmare. Striding from the envied, illuminated Within appeared the Heathen Journalist, note-book in hand. At sight of the author he shied. 'Must skedaddle, Pin-cuss,' he said apologetically, 'if we're to get anything into to-morrow's paper. Your people are so durned slow--nearly eleven, and only two acts over. You'll have to brisk 'em up a bit. Good-bye.' He shook the poet's hand and was off. With an inspiration Pinchas gave chase. He caught the Journalist just boarding a car.