Craven, who stars in the piece, wrote the original script, and it was good; but there was a little too much of it. Winchell Smith and John Golden, the producer, were a little lukewarm as to its value, but thought they would at least break even on it. Smith slashed it vigorously, made a few changes here and there, and then wove the peculiar magic of his direction into it. His work on the first act is an interesting example of the sureness of his touch. His artistry in creating a situation is the marvel of modern dramaturgy.

"We cut out at least fifty per cent of the lines," he says. "The first and third acts take place in the living room of a country-town home in the evening, and at such a time and place very little happens, as a rule. The characters sit about, exchanging a word now and then, but the realism of the scene is due largely to the long pauses. I almost had to use a baton on the players to get them to slow down to the desired tempo. Now that they have the swing of it, you could hardly get them to play it rapidly if you tried. To show you how much silence there is in the play, after we had cut out fully half the lines and established the tempo, it took us two minutes longer to play the act than it had taken us in its original form."

I some ATTENDED

rehearsals

of. Mr. Smith's new play, "The Wheel," and although the scene was the bare, cluttered stage of the Gayety, with the scenery of “Lightnin' stacked apparently helter-skelter against the real wall, although the players all wore street attire, and though the scenes were played in fragmentary, disjointed style, yet I thought I could see a strong, gripping story showing through the chaos, The story paints a vivid picture of the horrors of the gambling mania, and establishes a great moral lesson. There is a rich auxiliary vein of comedy carried through it, too.

When directing, Mr. Smith is the same calm, easy-going, good fellow that he is elsewhere. His patience and good humor are unlimited, and the players seem to respond with an eagerness to satisfy him. There is no lack of firmness, however. He insists upon a line being spoken just as it should be spoken, and if the actor does not get the proper inflection at first, he kindly and patiently repeats it again and again until it is given just as he wants it. When he finally says, "That's fine!" or "That's bully!" sometimes accompanying the remark with a clap on the shoulder, the approbation is so hearty that it is like a decoration.

One of the acts in "The Wheel" shows a stirring scene in a gambling house, with roulette wheels going full blast. That scene is giving its creator what he says is the most difficult task in his experience. Among other perplexities, the lines have been written to synchronize with the spinning of the ball on the wheel. In other words, the ball must stop rolling and drop into its pocket just at the proper point in the dialogue. Any one who thinks this is easy to arrange is welcome to try it. But Winchell Smith gloats over such difficulties. Because it is the hardest task of

his career, he says it is the most fascinating. He never writes his last act until he is well along with the rehearsals of those which go before. Things nearly always develop during those earlier acts which change the concluding lines somewhat from his first concept of them. I saw the players when, for the first time, they read the last act of "The Wheel." After a rehearsal of previous scenes, Mr. Smith passed around the parts for the last act, and the players sat about him, in a semicircle and read the act through, each actor then reading his own part. I had never supposed that actors would so heartily enjoy the written humor in a manuscript. They laughed uproariously at the comedy lines of Sam and Nora. If the play gets as many laughs from the audience as it did from the actors that day, there should be much good cheer in the box-office. But Smith says, "You can't tell! It may fall flat."

went on. "Why do people go to see a certain play and refuse to accept another that, by all tests, is a better one? I wish I knew! Psychologists have made exhaustive studies of human beings, and have figured out largely what they will do under many given conditions, but not one of these exper s could read a play or see its dress rehearsal, and tell with any degree of accuracy whether or not the people are going to like it.

"Another fellow and I once figured out a formula for a successful play. I don't remember the figures, but we had a certain percentage of importance for plot, another for dialogue, and SO on. The figures don't matter, as they probably weren't strictly accurate, anyhow; but we felt pretty certain that-on a basis of one hundred per cent as perfection-if a play could muster sufficient merit of plot, dialogue, scenery, or character, to score sixty per cent, it would be a money-maker; if sixty-five or seventy, it would be a great success.

(Continued on page 116)

"Yea, bo!

F

AIRED! Dismissed after twenty years of faithful service! Discharged with a scant two weeks' pay to serve in lieu of notice. David Pritchard stared hard at the pink slip that so summarily severed his connections with the Winthrop Hardware Works. He couldn't quite comprehend it. Surely, there must be a mistake. It couldn't be! Someone had blundered somewhere. Why, old man Winthrop would rise from his grave if he knew—

Ah! But he didn't know. That was the rub. He didn't know that his two young sons had hardly waited for the ground to close above him, before they literally tore down the great system he had labored twenty years to erect. They had ruthlessly dismissed men who had given the best part of their lives to the growth of the factory, and had installed in their places a lot of new men and women who bustled around all day, disturbing one's peace of mind. There were new machines, new devices in the furnace rooms, new contraptions in the bookkeeping department-new things that clattered and made too much noise for all their record of efficiency.

David Pritchard had watched all these changes; but, somehow, he had never thought of them as affecting him. That he should be discharged! When one has worked in a place twenty years and has seen it grow from a oneroom affair to a ten-story factory, with similar buildings in three other cities, the thought of dismissal is very strange.

He had come to John Winthrop, senior, as a young man of twenty-five, just married and just starting out in a life's work. Why, he remembered the times when this very same John Winthrop, junior, who now ruled so highhandedly in his father's place, had toddled into the old factory and begged to be carried on his back. He had made his first sled for himhammered it together out of boards used for crating, and then taken half of his lunch hour to ride him about the snow-covered streets.

He had grown up with the works, had David Pritchard. They were part of him. He knew every detail of the great organization, from the buying of the raw materials to the shipping. At a moment's notice, he could jump in and fill any man's place. And the last seven or eight years had been particularly peaceful ones. He had found his niche as a sort of supervisory bookkeeper. It was an easy post, quiet, methodical, and it brought him fifty dollars weekly. Strikes never affected him; he had under him men who were rather like old friends than coworkers; there was nothing to throw him out of his usual routine; he performed his duties leisurely, regularly, like an old habit.

And now-now he was fired! And the only thing he had to show for twenty years of labor was a paltry two weeks' salary. No spoken good-by, no explanations, not even a written word of regret. Just dismissed.

"Oh! Come in, quick! I've got my hands in this dough and can't budge. Dave!" as he appeared in the doorway and met the flushed face that was turned eagerly toward him, "You'll never guess what has happened! The most wonderful thing!”

David Pritchard approached his wife quietly and placed a gentle kiss on her lips.

"Dav-id! Look out! You'll get all messed up with this flour! Aren't you even anxious to know?"

"Sure. What's happened?"

"It's Helen! She's engaged to Rob Gilmore! Isn't that wonderful? To think that he'd choose our little girl of all the smart girls he knows!

of love and labored in a thousand ways to make them happy. He would have a long talk with Helen. He would put the whole thing clearlyAnd on the heels of his thought, the front door snapped shut. Faintly, he heard excited talking downstairs;

then footsteps pattered toward him with a click-clack that announced high French heels.

"Da-ad! Dad!"

"Coming," he answered.

But before he had time to go to the door, a radiant vision in summery white flew into the room and almost strangled him in an embrace of soft, warm arms.

"Oh, daddy! I'm the happiest girl in all the world! Look!"

IN

N spite of himself, David Pritchard was drawn into an exclamation at sight of the great, sparkling diamond she proudly exhibited. It certainly was big enough and brilliant. Such a ring must have cost. His eyes traveled to his daughter's round, smooth face and were held by her own glorious eyes that glowed with a new light. Their radiance fairly dazzled him and quite obliterated his previously formed intention to have a long talk, to explain matters, to point out the foolishness of marrying a man like Robert Gilmore. Instead, he took his very young, very pretty daughter in his arms and kissed her.

"Are you sure you love him, Helen?"

"Dad! What a question! He's wonderful! He says-oh-the nicest things! And everybody else thinks so much of him. You ought to see how every one down at the bank shook hands with him and congratulated him. The president told me I ought to be a very happy woman with such a man. Why don't you like him?"

"Wha--what? Why-why I do like him,

Helen."

"Oh, daddy, that's a whopper! You know you don't. And you can't fool me. I felt it all along."

"Nonsense. It's your imagination. I've got nothing against the young man. Moreover, if he makes you happy- Come now! There's mother calling. We'd better go down stairs."

Somehow, David Pritchard managed to get through that day and the Sunday that followed. Numberless thoughts seethed through his mind; grievances poisonously brooded in his soul; and silent revolts at the irony of fate tore at his consciousness. Wasn't it just like the very contrariness of things for him to lose his job just when he needed it most?

What was he to do now? Where was there a

place for a man approaching middle age? Most men, at his time of life, were busy reaping the profits of a useful business career. They weren't rushing about trying to find new jobs. How could he hope to compete with the energetic youngsters who were everywhere bucking the game? He was used up. He was old. He ought to be sitting in a rocker on his front porch, living on the interest of his savings. Where could he turn first?

Monday morning came, and sheer force of habit drew him from his bed at seven o'clock. He had not yet told Evie, his wife, that he had been dismissed; so when he came downstairs, his breakfast was, as usual, ready for him. Silently he ate, then rose, kissed Evie, and departed. With his accustomed precision, he snapped the front gate and started down the street at the same regular stride that brought him, within three-quarters of an hour, to the Winthrop Hardware Works. And so perfectly, so automatically, did habit perform its function, that he had almost turned in at the door when he checked himself with a start and realized that he no longer belonged here.

He crossed the street and sat on the steps of a brownstone house, lifting his eyes to the great, white factory. How tall a building it was! How many windows it had! Never before had he realized what an imposing structure was this place where he had spent the better part of his years. Up to now it had been but a large door through which he had passed twice a day. He had never stood off and viewed it. He had lost his perspective. He was like the forester who is so engrossed in clearing the small road before him, that he fails to grasp the beauty of the great woods that surround him.

W

HAT were those words above the door? Industria et Progressia. That meant industry and progress. Funny that he had never noted them before. Dully, he wondered whether the other workers had ever thought of their meaning. As he stared at those words, a shade went up in the building and the blonde head of Miss Newcomb, the secretary, appeared at the window for an instant.

What an enigma she was! In his day no one ever saw women like her in such positions. She dressed like a fashion plate, with a subdued elegance that befitted women of high station. Her nails were always glisteningly polished, her face carefully powdered to present at all times an appearance of freshness, and her hair smooth, sleek, and artistically coifed. Yet she worked with the efficiency and smoothness of a welloiled machine.