A fireman on duty behind the scenes of one of the big New York theatres and charged with the responsibility of seeing to it that the regulations were strictly obeyed back-stage, suffered a profound shock as he came around from behind a stack of scenery, just before the evening performance. Standing in the opposite wings was a salesman for an East Side cloak and suit concern, who had procured entrance via the stage door for the purpose of soliciting orders for his wares among the young ladies of the chorus. This person was vehemently puffing on a large, long, black, malignant-looking cigar.
In three jumps the scandalized fireman had the violator by the arm.
“Say,” he demanded, “what the hell do you mean, comin’ in here with that torch in your face? Don’t you see that sign right up over your head?”
The trespasser’s eyes turned where the fireman’s finger pointed.
“Sure, mister,” he said, “I see it.”
“Well, can’t you read?” demanded the fireman.
“Sure I can read,” admitted the other calmly.
“Then read what it says there. Don’t you see what it says in big letters? It says—‘No Smoking.’ ”
“Yes,” agreed the East Sider with a winning smile, “but it don’t say ‘Positively.’ ”