The scene is a dining-room of the “Cave Dwellers,” Chicago’s most exclusively stupid club. At one table are seated four musical critics, and one ex-critic, of the daily papers. That this gathering is unique is attested by numerous hushed conversations at other tables; the critics’ table is a center of half-concealed interest. A waiter has just cleared away the dishes; cigars are brought. The youngest critic, of the Worst Glaring Nuisance (witness the yellow acre of illuminated sign at the foot of Michigan avenue) speaks as if to reassure his natural timidity: DONALD WORCESTER. I suppose it will be eminently respectable. (The others appear not to have heard his remark, until a reply is carefully chosen by CARBON HATCHETT. Her advance notices would lead one to suppose that she has something of a prestige. EDWARD MORLESS. That guff! I saw it. Awful! What I want to know is: what the devil does she mean by beginning her program with Debussy. I just wonder what’s become of Beethoven—ha, ha! DONALD WORCESTER. I suppose she imagines she’s going to revolutionize program-making. BEN DULLARD KRUPP. Gentlemen, when I give my piano recital on March twentieth, you’ll hear the best possible way to start a program. Debussy is altogether too weak to lead; he’s scarcely able to get in at all (chuckle) but I’ve found a leader that is a leader—Archibald Shanks. If I know anything, and I do, this Shanks is going to become _the_ American composer. Why, he’s so much better than MacDowell with all his Scotchy junk that there’s no comparison. I found Shanks in Rolling Prairie, South Dakota; and when I play his _March of the Rock-Spirits_ at my recital on March the twentieth, you’ll hear the real thing—it’s music, I tell you. XILEF BOWOWSKI. Hmh! Ah-hmh! I remember looking over compositions by Archibald Shanks, sent me by a certain New York publisher, to get my opinion before taking them; and in one of them—I forget the title—I think it was _Through the Marsh_—some such title—hmh!—it doesn’t really matter—I found seven consecutive fifths and twelve parallel octaves within the space of a few bars. Positively inexcusable! BEN DULLARD KRUPP. Blgh-h! That belongs to his early period. _Through the Marsh_ is simply a practice-stunt, done when he was about fifteen—a mere youthful exercise. You can’t judge by—blgh-h! DONALD WORCESTER. I read in the _Artists’ News_ that young Shanks is only seventeen at the present time. EDWARD MORLESS. Probably means his son—Waiter!—What do you want, boys? I’m dry as a bone. And we’ve got a long afternoon before us. However, for my part, I shan’t be in any hurry about getting there. What’ll it be? XILEF BOWOWSKI. A little plum brandy for me. BEN DULLARD KRUPP. Bring me some Haig and Haig. CARBON HATCHETT. Manhattan cocktail. DONALD WORCESTER. A large beer. EDWARD MORLESS. Good! Let’s have some Green River, Tim. Krupp, do you think she’ll be any good at all?