“You will need a million!” Farson murmured. “I used to find it so hard to get a good seat when I wanted to go to the theater,” Brainard explained. “Even when I had scooped together the price, for some extraordinary occasion, I couldn’t get nearer than the twelfth row. Every theater was always sold up to that row, no matter how early in the day I got to the box office. I have an invention in mind that will register every seat sold or given out, and show it on a diagram, to put an end to the usual practice. But let us get to more important matters!” He read out different items: “Exchange of the different companies in the organization—a college of dramatic art—cafés in the theaters—libraries of dramatic literature—open-air theaters in the suburbs and city parks, etc.” “But,” the actor inquired sententiously, “what do you propose to give the people in your theaters?” “Plays, of course!” Brainard replied. “All sorts of plays that are worth while, old and new!” “Shakespeare, Ibsen, and Hauptmann,” the actor remarked voluptuously. “Sophocles, Molière—” “Hold on!” Farson put in. “Where will you get the people to sit through that?” “My dear young sir,” the actor retorted paternally, “the people love the _best_. I have played the classics in every State in the Union to enthusiastic audiences,—sometimes small.” “You bet!” Farson murmured. “But always enthusiastic!” “We must have modern plays, too,” Brainard added. “But all the modern plays are copyrighted, and the dramatists are under contract to Einstein & Flukeheimer, and their brethren.” “Then we’ll make our own playwrights,” Brainard replied placidly. “Here’s one!” He tapped the younger man fraternally on the knee. The secretary subsided. “And the companies?” the Scotsman inquired. “They make the piece!” “The very best actors, of course,” Brainard agreed enthusiastically. “We’ll pay the highest salaries and give long contracts and pensions—that’s all in the scheme. You will help us to organize the parent company, Mac. I’ll give you a free hand.” The old actor closed his eyes in a happy dream. He saw himself at last as a metropolitan impresario, dealing magnificently with the “talent.” Brainard read on, but before he had finished the note book—which contained a remarkable mixture of detail and aspiration—dinner came up. They talked as they ate, and they talked afterward as they sipped their coffee and smoked. They became heady with enthusiasm, for Brainard’s imperturbable optimism and faith in his idea were like drafts of Arizona air, intoxicating to those who lived in lower altitudes.