“There,” she smiled warmly, “didn’t I always say you were a natural-born trouper? Well, it is a lot of money for me, but you see I’ve helped Jeff dope out both of these pieces. I’m not so bad at gags--I mean the kind of stuff he needs in these serious dramas. This big scene of yours, where you go off to the city and come back a wreck on Christmas night--that’s mine. I doped it out after the piece was started--after I’d had a good look at the truck driver that plays opposite you.” Truck driver? It appeared that Miss Montague was actually applying this term to the New York society girl who in private life was burdened with an ailing family. He explained now that Mr. Baird had not considered her ideal for the part, but had chosen her out of kindness. Again there flickered far back in her eyes those lights that baffled him. There was incredulity in her look, but she seemed to master it. “But I think it was wonderful of you,” he continued, “to write that beautiful scene. It’s a strong scene, Sarah. I didn’t know you could write, too. It’s as good as anything Tessie Kearns ever did, and she’s written a lot of strong scenes.” Miss Montague seemed to struggle with some unidentified emotion. After a long, puzzling gaze she suddenly said: “Merton Gill, you come right here with all that make-up on and give mother a good big kiss!” Astonishingly to himself, he did so in the full light of day and under the eyes of one of the New York villains who had been pretending that he walked a tight-rope across the yard. After he had kissed the girl, she seized him by both arms and shook him. “I’d ought to have been using my own face in that scene,” she said. Then she patted his shoulder and told him that he was a good boy. The pretending tight-rope walker had paused to applaud. “Your act’s flopping, Bo,” said Miss Montague. “Work fast.” Then she again addressed the good boy: “Wait till you’ve watched that scene before you thank me,” she said shortly. “But it’s a strong scene,” he insisted. “Yes,” she agreed. “It’s strong.” He told her of the other instance of Baird’s kindness of heart. “You know I was a little afraid of playing scenes with the cross-eyed man, but Mr. Baird said he was trying so hard to do serious work, so I wouldn’t have him discharged. But shouldn’t you think he’d save up and have his eyes straightened? Does he get a very small salary?” The girl seemed again to be harassed by conflicting emotions, but mastered them to say, “I don’t know exactly what it is, but I guess he draws down about twelve fifty a week.” “Only twelve dollars and fifty cents a week!” “Twelve hundred and fifty,” said the girl firmly. “Twelve hundred and fifty dollars a week!” This was monstrous, incredible. “But then why doesn’t he have his eyes--”