"You will go with this letter to Comely Street. . . . Do you know where it is?" "A few times over, 'She's quite a respectable dame,' as a certain man in the front row said of Miss Nicolette the other day." "You will take this, wait for an answer, and come right back." "But Mr. Manager, will I get something for going?" "Didn't I give you something on account only last night?" "Oh . . . only a copper! I spent it for beer and sardines, paid the balance of my rent, gave my shoemaker a deposit for a new pair of shoes, and now I'm dead broke!" "You're a monkey! Here, take this . . . ." "Blessed are the hands that dispense forty-cent pieces!" he cried with a comical grimace, shuffled his shoes, and ran out. "Set the stage for the rehearsal!" called the manager, seating himself on the veranda. The members of the company assembled slowly. They greeted each other in silence and scattered over the garden. "Dobek," called the stage-manager to a tall man who was making straight for the buffet. "You guzzle from morn till night, and at the rehearsals I cannot hear a word you say. . . . Your prompting isn't worth a bean!" "Mr. Manager, I had a bad dream that ran something like this: Night . . . a well . . . I stumbled and fell into it . . . I was frozen stiff with fear . . . I called for help . . . no help was near . . . splash! . . . and I was up to my neck in water. . . . Brr! . . . I still feel so cold that nothing will warm me." "Oh, hang your dreams! You drink from morn till night." "That's because I can't drink like others: from night till morn. Brr! I feel so beastly chilled!" "I'll order some hot tea for you." "Thank you, I'm quite well Mr. Topolski, and use herbs only when I'm sick. Must, the extracted juice, the constituent of rye, that's the only stuff that is worthy of the complete man that I have the honor to consider myself, Mr. Manager." The director entered and Dobek went to the bar. "Did you assign all the roles of Nitouche?" the director asked. "Not quite," answered Topolski, "those women . . . there are three candidates for Nitouche." "Good morning, Mr. Director!" called one of the pillars of the theater, Majkowska, a handsome actress dressed in a light gown, a silken wrap, and a white hat with a big ostrich feather. She was all rosy from a good night's sleep and from an invisible layer of rouge. She had large, dark-blue eyes, full and carmined lips, classical features, and a proud bearing. She played the principle roles. "Come here a minute, Mr. Director . . . there is a little matter I would like to speak to you about." "Always at your service, madame. Perhaps you need some money?" ventured the director with a troubled mien. "For the present . . . no. What will you have to drink, Mr. Director?" "Ho! Ho! Somebody's blood is going to be shed!" he cried with a comical gesture. "I asked what will you drink, Mr. Director?" "Oh, I don't know. I'd take a glass of cognac, but . . ."