“No. Only two. Mine and the rest. But I suffer from honesty. Therefore I tell you that my novel has been refused by every publisher in London. It is waiting,” he said hopefully, “for a man with courage. The difference between it and the Yellow Book is that my book _is_ yellow.” “I see,” said Sam. “But I have gone into the publishing trade to make my living.” “On the whole,” decided Stewart, “you are more knave than fool. And you would call it the publishing trade. It’s a benighted world, but there are still some publishers who aren’t in trade--beyond the midriff. Do you seriously come to me to ask what sort of novels to publish?” “Yes.” “The sort,” he said, “that is written for nursemaids by people who ought to be nursemaids.” “That’s jealousy,” said Sam. “They get published and you don’t.” “Perhaps you’re right,” said Stewart. “But I’ve always heard that seeing is believing. Do you ever go to the theatre?” “Not often.” “It’s a pity, because if you did, I’ve a tragedy in blank verse that you might care to publish. It is great art and will never be produced. Still, I’m a philanthropist to-night and you will come to the theatre with me. I happen to be going for the _Warden._” “Are you a dramatic critic for the _Warden?_” asked Sam, rather awed. “I’m a reporter, old son. This isn’t the kind of play they waste a critic on. Drink up, and we’ll go.” Sam found, to his relief, that he was able to go and decided he had a strong head. The theatre was crowded when they reached it and Stewart was young enough to sit self-consciously in one of the two seats kept for the _Manchester Warden_. Dramatic criticism was taken seriously on that journal; at least two of the paper’s regular critics were men of genius, and Stewart hoped that he might be mistaken for one of them. But the audience that night was not the kind which interests itself in the lions of the higher journalism; rather it justified the contemptuous reference to drama as the “art of the mob.” It would have made a sincere democrat weep for his convictions. “Behold them,” said Stewart. “The Public.” Sam beheld them more than he beheld the play. He reminded himself that he was there on business, to be shown something which Stewart wanted him to see, and if he had not the gift of detachment, he assumed it. When Adams had read his paper to the Concentrics, Sam had listened but kept his eyes on the audience. In a darkened theatre, the audience was more difficult to watch, but he could feel its quick response to the play, could hear its ready laughter and its quite eager ears. Emphatically, here was a play which seized its audience, gripped them, tickled them, beslavered them, throttled them, did with them what it liked and when it liked; all to their immense and vociferous delight. He tried to keep his aloofness, to see how it was done, to tear the heart out of this mystery. Here was something which the public wanted; he had only to diagnose it, and the Open Sesame to fortune was his.