A few minutes after Al Allston had left the theater a showily dressed, red-faced man of about thirty sauntered into the manager's private office where Mr. Wattles was seated alone.
"So, Wattles, old man," he said, extending his hand, "we meet again."
The manager started to his feet.
"How dare you show your face here?" he cried, angrily.
"Eh! What's all this?" said the newcomer, in real or feigned surprise.
"I don't want to have anything more to do with you. A nice sort of advance agent you are, aren't you?"
"There's none better, so they say," replied the fellow, with a tipsy leer. "What are you on your ear about?"
"I have no time to bandy words with you. You are discharged."
"What's that—I discharged? What ails you, Wattles?"
"That's enough, Dick Farley. I told you after your last drunk that if the same thing occurred again I should have nothing more to do with you, and I meant it. Get out!"