MAN OF THE WORLD. You cannot. CLOWN. And why not? MAN OF THE WORLD. Because you are superseded. CLOWN. What's that? PANTALOON. I'll super if there's nothing better. CLOWN. Where is the durn President? MAN OF THE WORLD. I learn from the fashionable intelligence that he is at present cruising the Mediterranean on his electric yacht. CLOWN. Where's the author of the piece? MAN OF THE WORLD. There ain't no author of the piece. This present item is turned out by our Number Two Factory of Automatic Dramaturgy; Plunkville, Tennessee. CLOWN. Where are the other actors... God help 'em? MAN OF THE WORLD. There ain't no actors; we froze all them out way back. Where've you been that you've grown all these mossy ideas on you? CLOWN. Never you mind. Tell us, what's come to the poor old 99th Street Theayter... and how. MAN OF THE WORLD. Well, I guess I need only quote you from Volume One of the Life of Mr. Theodor B. Kedger, our esteemed President ...Nit! [And as he says "Nit," if it were not for all the anti-expectoration notices hung round he would certainly spit.] It is stacked ready to put on the market the day he passes in his checks. Hold on now. About the year 1918 Mr. Kedger, who had already financially made good over the manipulation of wood-pulp potatoes, synthetic bread, and real estate, turned his attention to the Anglo-American Theatre. For the Anglo-American Theatre did not pay. Here was Mr. Kedger's opportunity. Forming a small trust, he bought up the theatres, both of the Variety and of the Monotonous kind, bought up the dramatists with their copyrights present and future, bought up the actors-- PANTALOON. Didn't buy me. MAN OF THE WORLD. Didn't count you. CLOWN. Cost much? MAN OF THE WORLD. [He winks.] The payment was partly made in shares. He then paid the Dramatists considerable sums not to go on writing, which was, of course, a clear profit. He paid the actors to stop acting, which was in some cases a needless expenditure of money. He also brought in the Cinema and Gramophone interests, organising the whole affair upon a strictly business basis. PANTALOON. He left us out. We've had cruel hard times, but I'm glad he left us out. MAN OF THE WORLD. Then followed some years of experiment in the scientific manufacture and blending of drama. As I speak, no less than twenty-three factories dot the grassy meads of America. The work is done by clerks employed at moderate salaries for eight hours a day. For the cerebration of whatever new ideas may be needed, several French literary men are kept in chains in the backyard, being fed exclusively on absinthe and caviare sandwiches during their periods of creative activity. No less than forty different brands of drama are turned out, each with its description stamped clearly on the can. While a complete equipment for anyone can be travelled by the operator in his valise, still leaving room for toothbrush and slumber-suit. CLOWN. Do the public like the stuff?