HATCHETT. Somebody told me they had several thousand paid subscriptions, and then printed a bunch of extras. KRUPP. What difference does that make? The point is: what will they sell for? I’m good for my share, but there’s a limit, you know. Do you suppose that if I offered to do their musical criticism, they would destroy this issue as it stands? HATCHETT. You can’t tell. It isn’t “they” but “she.” You’re dealing with a woman, a young one at that. KRUPP. Oh, Hell; I can get around that difficulty. Waiter! Bring me a telephone! Hurry up! BOWOWSKI. Do you realize, gentlemen, that it is more than possible, in fact it is even likely, considerably more than probable, that we are right in the case of Madame Bonjoline, and that one James Shooneker is in error? HATCHETT. By George! That’s so, isn’t it! KRUPP. There’s no question about it. Just wait a minute now, while I call up this “Little Revolt”—ha! ha!—and see how they jump at the mention of my name. Ben Dullard Krupp is informed over the wire that the new issue of_ THE LITTLE REVIEW _in large quantities is already in the mails, etc. In fact, at the same moment, the famous Shooneker is glancing through his own contribution; he swears at a misprint and puts the magazine in his suitcase, to read on the train. Madame Bonjoline does not open her copy, having read the article concerning herself from manuscript, two weeks before. KRUPP. Rank insolence, I call it! HATCHETT. What’s the matter? Won’t they sell? KRUPP. She says the mails are flooded with the impudent sheet. BOWOWSKI. Horrible! Horrible, indeed! KRUPP. It’s a great pity somebody couldn’t loosen up and say something about this Shooneker. How did I know who he was, or that his opinion was worth anything? Fine chance I’ll have now of getting on The Saturday Blade! BOWOWSKI. Perhaps if you had been able to curb your unfounded hatred of Tchaikowsky for a moment, we wouldn’t have been placed in this ridiculous position. KRUPP. Blgh-gg-h! It’s bad music, rotten! and I don’t care who knows I said it. This country is simply spineless when it comes to having an opinion about music. Why, I’ve got enough opinion to supply the nation, and they need it. That’s why I put on my American concerts. They’ve got to learn that I’m the only prophet in America’s musical future. I feel that it’s my duty— HATCHETT. Tchaikowsky has written some very good— KRUPP. Tchaikowsky! Man! if you mention that mediocrity’s unhallowed name again, I’ll go completely mad! BOWOWSKI. Great Heavens! Tim is coming to put us out, just on account of your infernal shouting. And look! With him! Shooneker! How perfectly horrible! KRUPP. Blgh-gh-h!