To-day, however, I was forearmed. The manager to whom I had been recommended by the agent sent out word that I was to wait. A half hour later I was conducted to his presence. As I entered, he was seated in a revolving chair, one foot resting on a small sliding shelf on his desk, and a large black cigar in the corner of his mouth. He did not rise, but nodded to me and motioned me to the seat opposite. While he read the agent's letter he removed his leg from the table and crossed it over the other. He was a short, heavy man, with a preponderance of abdomen. He had thick, loose lips, and his head was as round and as smooth as a billiard ball; his eyes were black and snappy, and threw out as much fire as the huge diamond he wore on his little finger.
"Well," he finally said, looking at me and shifting the big cigar to the other corner of his mouth, "that reads all right. So you're an ingénue" (he pronounced it as if it were spelled on-je-new), "are you?"
"Yes, sir."
"Well, you look the part all right.... How much experience have you had?"
"One season on the road with Mr. O'Brien's Company, but of course I've played in amateur theatricals for...."
"Voice strong?" he bellowed, tilting himself back in his chair.
"Oh, yes, sir," I responded, using the loud pedal to prove my assertion.
"Don't sound like it."
"Perhaps not now, but—" I hesitated.
"But what?" he queried, smiling indulgently at me.