“Not that!” Brainard said, with tightening lips. “Not if you read the lines, Mac!” The old actor stormed back and forth, snapping his fingers and cursing with equal warmth stars and managers, the stage and life. “Isn’t there some one in the company who could take the part?” Brainard asked. “Not one, man or woman!” the Scotsman growled. “We’re using the whole company.” “Where’s Louisiana?” Farson inquired, a little smile wreathing his lips. “You mean that Kansas kid? She’s knocking about the stage somewhere,” MacNaughton replied. He had had several passages with Miss Delacourt already, and had no great opinion of her ability except in repartee. “You aren’t thinking of that child?” “Let’s find her,” Farson said. “She knows Shakespeare by heart—her mother used to put her to sleep on it—she’s always getting it off when she isn’t ragging the show with her Kansas slang.” They found Louisiana sitting on a pile of properties, playing with a lanky pup. She smiled on Farson in a friendly fashion, and ignored the manager. “Say, what’s broken down now?” she drawled. “Have Miss Leroy’s stays given warning, or did the big bass fiddle bust a string?” “Look here, Miss Louisiana,” Farson replied. “Quit your guying, and get ready for Cordelia. We’ll rehearse you all the afternoon.” “Gee whiz!” the young woman remarked, rising and yanking the puppy by the leash. “But you’re sudden, my dear!” “Miss Leroy is sick—going to have an operation.” “She needed it, if ever a woman did!” Miss Delacourt tossed back over her shoulder as she tied the puppy to the gilded throne. “She’ll do!” Farson whispered encouragingly. “She’ll do something,” MacNaughton growled gloomily. It was not an auspicious outlook for the opening of the People’s Theater. * * * * * At eight o’clock that evening, the new playhouse was fairly well filled with what the local press calls a “highbrow audience.” Of these, not a few had come to scoff, for from the beginning the newspapers, led by the _Beacon_, had taken the People’s Theater as a pet toy with which to play during the silly season. It was variously described as the “Sulfur Extravaganza,” the “Cowboy Show,” or the “Arizona Théâtre Français.” For ever since that fatal luncheon, the editor of the _Beacon_ had directed the most skillful members of his celebrated stiletto gang in their sneers at Brainard. To the New York newspaper mind it was simply inconceivable that a man with a great fortune could put it to so purely childish a use as running a popular theater. A few friendly souls, however, were scattered up and down the house—those who follow the banner of “new ideas” wherever it may wave; and there were a few of the “people”—a very few—on free tickets.