Strictly Business by O. Henry Contents I. STRICTLY BUSINESS II. THE GOLD THAT GLITTERED III. BABES IN THE JUNGLE IV. THE DAY RESURGENT V. THE FIFTH WHEEL VI. THE POET AND THE PEASANT VII. THE ROBE OF PEACE VIII. THE GIRL AND THE GRAFT IX. THE CALL OF THE TAME X. THE UNKNOWN QUANTITY XI. THE THING'S THE PLAY XII. A RAMBLE IN APHASIA XIII. A MUNICIPAL REPORT XIV. PSYCHE AND THE PSKYSCRAPER XV. A BIRD OF BAGDAD XVI. COMPLIMENTS OF THE SEASON XVII. A NIGHT IN NEW ARABIA XVIII. THE GIRL AND THE HABIT XIX. PROOF OF THE PUDDING XX. PAST ONE AT ROONEY’S XXI. THE VENTURERS XXII. THE DUEL XXIII. “WHAT YOU WANT” I STRICTLY BUSINESS I suppose you know all about the stage and stage people. You’ve been touched with and by actors, and you read the newspaper criticisms and the jokes in the weeklies about the Rialto and the chorus girls and the long-haired tragedians. And I suppose that a condensed list of your ideas about the mysterious stageland would boil down to something like this: Leading ladies have five husbands, paste diamonds, and figures no better than your own (madam) if they weren’t padded. Chorus girls are inseparable from peroxide, Panhards and Pittsburg. All shows walk back to New York on tan oxford and railroad ties. Irreproachable actresses reserve the comic-landlady part for their mothers on Broadway and their step-aunts on the road. Kyrle Bellew’s real name is Boyle O’Kelley. The ravings of John McCullough in the phonograph were stolen from the first sale of the Ellen Terry memoirs. Joe Weber is funnier than E. H. Sothern; but Henry Miller is getting older than he was. All theatrical people on leaving the theatre at night drink champagne and eat lobsters until noon the next day. After all, the moving pictures have got the whole bunch pounded to a pulp. Now, few of us know the real life of the stage people. If we did, the profession might be more overcrowded than it is. We look askance at the players with an eye full of patronizing superiority—and we go home and practise all sorts of elocution and gestures in front of our looking glasses. Latterly there has been much talk of the actor people in a new light. It seems to have been divulged that instead of being motoring bacchanalians and diamond-hungry _loreleis_ they are businesslike folk, students and ascetics with childer and homes and libraries, owning real estate, and conducting their private affairs in as orderly and unsensational a manner as any of us good citizens who are bound to the chariot wheels of the gas, rent, coal, ice, and wardmen.