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He hurled his manuscript violently at the table, Packer making a wonderful pick-up catch of it just as it touched the floor.

“That’s all!” And the unhappy artist sank into the chair in a crumpled stupor.

“Ten o’clock to-morrow morning, ladies and gentlemen!” Packer called immediately, with brisk cheerfulness. “Please notice: to-morrow’s rehearsal is in the morning. Ten o’clock to-morrow morning!”

“Tell the understudy to wait, Packer,” said the star abysmally, and Packer addressed himself to the departing backs of the company:

“Mr. Potter wants to speak to Miss–Miss–“

“Malone,” prompted the owner of the name, without resentment.

“Wait a moment, Miss Malone,” said Potter, looking up wearily. “Is Mr. Tinker anywhere about?”

“I’m here, Mr. Potter.” Tinker came forward to the orchestra railing.

“I’ve been thinking about this play, Mr. Tinker,” Potter said, shaking his head despondently. “I don’t know about it. I’m very, very doubtful about it.” He peered over Tinker’s head, squinting his eyes, and seemed for the first time to be aware of the playwright’s presence. “Oh, are you there, Mr. Canby? When did you come in?”

“I’ve been here all the time,” said the dishevelled Canby, coming forward. “I supposed it was my business to be here, but-“

“Very glad to have you if you wish,” Potter interrupted gloomily. “Any time. Any time you like. I was just telling Mr. Tinker that I don’t know about your play. I don’t know if it’ll do at all.”

“If you’d play it,” Canby began, “the way I wrote it–“

“In the first place,” Potter said with sudden vehemence, “it lacks Punch! Where’s your Punch in this play, Mr. Canby? Where is there any Punch whatever in the whole four acts? Surely, after this rehearsal, you don’t mean to claim that the first act has one single ounce of Punch in it!”

“But you’ve twisted this act all round,” the unhappy young man protested. “The way you have it I can’t tell what it’s got to it. I meant Roderick Hanscom to be a disagr–“

“Mr. Canby,” said the star, rising impressively, “if we played that act the way you wrote it, we’d last just about four minutes of the opening night. You gave me absolutely nothing to do! Other people talked at me and I had to stand there and be talked at for twenty minutes straight, like a blithering ninny!”

“Well, as you have it, the other actors have to stand there like ninnies,” poor Canby retorted miserably, “while you talk at them almost the whole time.”

“My soul!” Potter struck the table with the palm of his hand. “Do you think anybody’s going to pay two dollars to watch me listen to my company for three hours? No, my dear man, your play’s got to give me something to do! You’ll have to rewrite the second and third acts. I’ve done what I could for the first, but, good God! Mr. Canby, I can’t write your whole play for you! You’ll have to get some Punch into it or we’ll never be able to go on with it.”

“I don’t know what you mean,” said the playwright helplessly. “I never did know what people mean by Punch.”

“Punch? It’s what grips ’em,” Potter returned with vehemence. “Punch is what keeps ’em sitting on the edge of their seats. Big love scenes! They’ve got Punch. Or a big scene with a man. Give me a big scene with a man.” He illustrated his meaning with startling intensity, crouching and seizing an imaginary antagonist by the throat, shaking him and snarling between his clenched teeth, while his own throat swelled and reddened: “Now, damn you! You dog! So on, so on, so on! Zowie!” Suddenly his figure straightened. “Then change. See?” He became serene, almost august. “‘No! I will not soil these hands with you. So on, so on, so on. I give you your worthless life. Go!'” He completed his generosity by giving Canby and Tinker the smile, after which he concluded much more cheerfully: “Something like that, Mr. Canby, and we’ll have some real Punch in your play.”