"For the love of Mike," exclaimed Bud, advancing a little fearsomely and studying the face of Hampstead with new curiosity, "Yer let out and don’t know it! What’d I tell ’em? Why, there it is," and he snatched up a blue, thin-looking envelope from the dresser. "Y’ got it a week ago when you got yer pay. Y’ ain’t opened it even." Hampstead took the blue envelope from Bud’s hand, an awful sense of weakness running through him as he read that his services would not be required after the customary two weeks. "What did I get this for, Bud?" he asked, sensing the uselessness of dissimulation before this impertinent child. "Y’ got it fer bein’ dopey," answered Bud reproachfully. "Y’ ain’t had no more sense than a wooden man fer ten days. Say, Mr. Hampstead," he ventured further with sympathetic friendliness, "yer a good actor when you let the hop alone. Why don’t you cut it? You’re young yet. You got a future, Mr. Cohen says, if you’ll let the dope alone." Hampstead’s face took on a queer, half-amused look. "Is that what he said?" "That’s what he said," affirmed Bud aggressively. "Well, then, all right, Bud. I will cut it out. Here’s my hand on it." Bud took the hand, a trifle surprised and feeling a little more important than usual. "Say," he added confidentially, "wise me, will y’; what kind have you been takin’? Mr. Cohen says he’s never seen nothin’ like it, and he thought he’d seen ’em all." "Oh, it’s a little brand I mixed myself," confessed John. "But I’m done with it. Run along now, Bud. You’ve been a good pal," and he gave the lad a pat on the shoulder and a significant shove toward the door. "Glad I came over," reflected Bud at the door, jingling the quarter in his pocket. "Better write yer sister, or she’ll be comin’ up here. Say," and Bud returned as if for a further confidence, "y’ never know what a woman’s goin’ to do, do y’? Las’ fall a woman shot our leadin’ juvenile in the leg—because she loved him. Get that? Because she loved him!" Bud’s drawling scorn was inimitable. "Y’ can’t figger ’em, can yuh? Some of ’em wants to be called, and some of ’em don’t. Some of ’em wants their letters before the show, and some of ’em after. Some of ’em is one way one day and the other way the next day. If I ever get my notice,—if I ever lose my job it’ll be about a woman. I never seen a man yet that I couldn’t get his nannie. I never seen a woman yet that couldn’t get mine and get it fresh every time I run a step fer her. Say! Mr. Hampstead—honest—ain’t they the jinx?"