"How much work do you get?" "Four ten-cent letters and a short brief this morning. That's all to-day." "What's the idea now--wait?" asked Georgia, taking off her coat and leaning against the solitary desk. "Yep--like young lawyers." "No use our both waiting with one machine between us. I tell you what--you go over to the Standard Company, on Wabash Avenue, and order a number four sent here, then traipse around to some other public offices--you can find plenty in the back of the telephone book--and see if they won't sublet us some of their work at half rates. I'll hold down the place, and get the hang of this keyboard while you're gone." L. Frankland saluted. "Aye, aye, ma'am," said she. "I likewise do now promote you to be captain of this brig." When she returned she brought a sheaf, the manuscript of a drama. Georgia knocked it out in twenty-four hours, in triplicate, and took it back to the firm of origin in the Opera House Block. "Z. & Z.--Theatrical Typists" was the sign on the door. The room was small, and thick with smoke. There must have been a dozen men in it, all important-looking. Mr. Zingmeister, the senior partner, a fat young Hebrew, received Georgia's work. "Rotten," he said, glancing through it. "Why?" she asked sharply. "Wrong spacing. A script plays a minute to the page if typed right. How could anyone tell how long this would play?" He held it up between two fingers, contemptuously. "Give me a sample act for a guide and I'll do it over for nothing." He hesitated. "Too many novices in this profession already," he grumbled. "My time's up," said she, reaching for her work. "If you don't want to pay me for it, I'll take it back." He laid his hand on it. "Come, come," said she, impatiently. "Oh, keep your shirt on while I think it over," he answered. "All right, do it over again and do it right," he sighed plaintively, "and space it this way. Speeches solid. Drop two for character's name. Capitalize them--caps, understand?--with red underlines. Also red underline the business, so." He demonstrated with a spoiled page from the waste basket. "That'll give you the code, understand," he concluded, shoving it in her hand. "Now shake a foot." The important-looking beings in the room apparently neither saw nor heard. Save for the clouds of smoke that issued from them they might have been graven. When she got back to 1241 she was bursting with an idea. "How long does your lease run, Miss Frankland?" she asked. "Until May first." "You can't get out of it!" "No, I signed up." "Well, if we don't pay our rent they'll put us out." It proved to be a prophecy. Frankland & Connor found a bigger room for sixteen a month in the theatrical district, which for some unexplained reason converges from three sides upon the Court House. They described themselves as "experts in theatrical work," and presently they were.