“Calm yourself, corporal,” adjured the sike, “and tell me, do you think you could negotiate the perilous straits that lead to the stage door of that sprightly ragtime operetta, taken from the French without opposition on their part and entitled ‘Cherchez la Chicken’? I have important business there.” “Cutie in the chorus,” surmised the flit, looking pained and moral. “Oh, Perfessor! I bid for an introduction. We’re off!” Cautiously manipulating the controls, the chauffeur contrived to achieve the turn into the side street with no incident or accident other than the conversion of a too torpid fruit-stand into a mixture of wood-pulp and citrus juices, the proprietor barely escaping with his life. The last act of “Cherchez la Chicken” had reached that point of delicate and original humor where the comedian, seated in a custard pie, sings a farewell to his mother-in-law while the chorus dances, when the side-alley which leads up to the stage burst into thunderous reverberations. There are numerous exits from the place--it is the one redeeming virtue of the show--and all of them promptly jammed. The comedian arose from the pie. The soprano fainted. The chorus dispersed. The management, wringing its already overringed hands, rushed out into the alley, now being patrolled by the tank, back and forth, amidst horrible echoes. “Go away!” he shrieked. “What you want? Shut your noise.” The monster fell silent. From the orifice which should have been its mouth, the serious face of the sike emerged. “Sir,” said he, “last night I attended your performance.” “Who are you?” demanded the manager. “You spoil my show!” “Four days’ pay you mulcted me. And you seated me behind a pillar.” “Tell your troubles to the box-office,” retorted the manager brutally. “I ain’t inter--” “I willingly concede,” continued the sike calmly, “that the pillar was preferable, from any view-point, to the performance. But I want my four dollars back.” “A fat chance!” retorted the manager. “Half speed ahead, if you please,” requested the sike. “Phsrang - bang - guzzoom - wurrong - kong-hong-whang!” clamored the monster, advancing upon the manager. “Yi-yi-hi! Whoo-oo-ee-ee-ee!” sounded in piercing antiphony from within, where the soprano was having hysterics. From the fourth rung of the fire-escape ladder the manager waved surrender with a roll of bills. “Blackmail!” he moaned as the sike selected a five and returned a dollar. “Please go away quietly.” The sike, turning, was intercepted by a small, fattish gentleman in evening clothes. “On behalf of self and friend,” said the man, “I thank you.” “You are attending the performance?” inquired the sike politely. “I am. Less fortunate than yourself I did not draw a pillar. As for my friend, whom I was seeking to distract from a depression of the soul, he insulted me and fled. He is now doubtless wandering about the city, a prey to unrelieved melancholy.”