“Great,” said another, enthusiastically.
“Who is she?” asked a third. “I never saw her before.”
“Well, Ben certainly has an eye for beauty. I wonder where he gets them? Let’s see him and ask him to put us on, for she’s all right.”
Incidentally, Ben was the first name of the stage manager.
It isn’t necessary to go into details, for general results save a lot of time, but a couple of hours later four enthusiastic young fellows and a dimpled brunette sat at a round table in a sporty cafe, and when any of them wanted to address her they called her Curves.
“What are you trying to do?” she asked, when it was first sprung, “give me a nickname?”
“No,” was the answer, “simply a trademark.”
And they all understood.
So because of that she began her career with the world by the tail on a downhill pull.
Not to know Curves and have her call you by your first name when you met was to be the deadest kind of a dead one, and the witty stories she could tell over a quart of wine soon began to be circulated around town.