“Literature, art, drama,” he said, “the phonographs of civilization. Where is the brain of the world? In literature, art, and the drama. These three touch the heartstrings; these three picture mankind; these three teach us. They move the world.” “Yes,” I said. “Good!” exclaimed Perkins. “But why is the drama weak? Why no more Shakespeares? Why no more Molières? Because the real life-blood of to-day isn't in the drama. What is the life-blood of to-day?” I thought he meant Perkins's Pink Pellets, so I said so. “No!” he said, “advertising! The ad. makes the world go round. Why do our plays fall flat? Not enough advertising. Of them and in them. Take literature. See 'Bilton's New Monthly Magazine.' Sixty pages reading; two hundred and forty pages advertising; one million circulation; everybody likes it. Take the Bible--no ads.; nobody reads it. Take art; what's famous? 'Gold Dust Triplets;' 'Good evening, have you used Pear's?' Who prospers? The ad. illustrator. The ad. is the biggest thing on earth. It sways nations. It wins hearts. It rules destiny. People cry for ads.” “That is true enough,” I remarked. “Why,” asked Perkins, “do men make magazines? To sell ad. space in them! Why build barns and fences? To sell ad. space! Why run street-cars? To sell ad. space! But the drama is neglected. The poor, lonely drama is neglected. In ten years there will be no more drama. The stage will pass away.” Perkins uncoiled his legs and stood upright before me. “The theatre would have died before now,” he said, “but for the little ad. life it has. What has kept it alive? A few ads.! See how gladly the audience reads the ads. in the programmes when the actors give them a little time. See how they devour the ad. drop-curtain! Who first saw that the ad. must save the stage? Who will revive the down trod theatrical art?” “Perkins!” I cried. “Perkins will. I don't know what you mean to do, but you will revive the drama. I can see it in your eyes. Go ahead. Do it. I am willing.” I thought he would tell me what he meant to do, but he did not. I had to ask him. He lifted the manuscript of the opera from the table. “Sell space!” he exclaimed. “Perkins the Originator will sell space in the greatest four-hour play in the world. What's a barn? So many square feet of ad. space. What's a magazine? So many pages of ad. space. What's a play? So many minutes of ad. space. Price, one hundred dollars a minute. Special situations in the plot extra.” I did not know just what he meant, but I soon learned. The next day Perkins started out with the manuscript of the “Princess of Pilliwink.” And when he returned in the evening he was radiant with triumph. Every minute of available space had been sold, and he had been obliged to add a prologue to accommodate all the ads. The “Princess of Pilliwink” had some modern interest when Perkins was through with it. It did not take up time with things no one cared a cent about. It went right to the spot.