A small, dark man, dapper and debonair, swallow-tailed and top-hatted, was waltzing about the stage with dainty, mincing steps, and in a thin little voice singing something or other about somebody or something evidently pathetic. As his waning voice neared the end of the lines, a large woman, crowned with an amazing wealth of blond hair, thrust rudely past Edna, trod heavily on her toes, and shoved her contemptuously to the side. “Bloomin’ hamateur!” she hissed as she went past, and the next instant she was on the stage, graciously bowing to the audience, while the small, dark man twirled extravagantly about on his tiptoes. “Hello, girls!” This greeting, drawled with an inimitable vocal caress in every syllable, close in her ear, caused Edna to give a startled little jump. A smooth-faced, moon-faced young man was smiling at her good-naturedly. His “make-up” was plainly that of the stock tramp of the stage, though the inevitable whiskers were lacking. “Oh, it don’t take a minute to slap’m on,” he explained, divining the search in her eyes and waving in his hand the adornment in question. “They make a feller sweat,” he explained further. And then, “What’s yer turn?” “Soprano—sentimental,” she answered, trying to be offhand and at ease. “Whata you doin’ it for?” he demanded directly. “For fun; what else?” she countered. “I just sized you up for that as soon as I put eyes on you. You ain’t graftin’ for a paper, are you?” “I never met but one editor in my life,” she replied evasively, “and I, he—well, we didn’t get on very well together.” “Hittin’ ‘m for a job?” Edna nodded carelessly, though inwardly anxious and cudgelling her brains for something to turn the conversation. “What’d he say?” “That eighteen other girls had already been there that week.” “Gave you the icy mit, eh?” The moon-faced young man laughed and slapped his thighs. “You see, we’re kind of suspicious. The Sunday papers ‘d like to get Amateur Night done up brown in a nice little package, and the manager don’t see it that way. Gets wild-eyed at the thought of it.” “And what’s your turn?” she asked. “Who? me? Oh, I’m doin’ the tramp act to-night. I’m Charley Welsh, you know.” She felt that by the mention of his name he intended to convey to her complete enlightenment, but the best she could do was to say politely, “Oh, is that so?” She wanted to laugh at the hurt disappointment which came into his face, but concealed her amusement. “Come, now,” he said brusquely, “you can’t stand there and tell me you’ve never heard of Charley Welsh? Well, you must be young. Why, I’m an Only, the Only amateur at that. Sure, you must have seen me. I’m everywhere. I could be a professional, but I get more dough out of it by doin’ the amateur.” “But what’s an ‘Only’?” she queried. “I want to learn.” “Sure,” Charley Welsh said gallantly. “I’ll put you wise. An ‘Only’ is a nonpareil, the feller that does one kind of a turn better’n any other feller. He’s the Only, see?”