graph of Flynn and Rice, and at eight pictures of a male star sprawling over eight different pieces of furniture, and at five more of a matinée idol leaning against mantels. Then I got courage to look back at the brown-velvet eyes, which seemed to be enjoying my discomfiture.

"Can you give me—give me work?" I finally squeaked out, like a field-mouse cowed by a blacksnake.

"Sure," said the man in the eternal office swivel chair. His skin was sallow, and he looked as though he had tobacco-heart. I was afraid of him, not merely because he was so sure of himself, but because he seemed so sure of me.

"How soon could you give it to me?" I managed to ask.

He seemed to be thinking this over.

"What's the matter with our getting somewhere quiet, where we can talk things over—Carlton Terrace for dinner, eh, and then a run out to Oyster Eddie's?"

It was about time, instinct told me, to buckle on the armor-plate.

"What's the matter with getting down to business right here in this office?" I inquired.

He was laughing as he got up from his swivel