"Nobody would," said Max mournfully. "And yet, 'tis true."
"Meaning—?"
"Oh, I'm just down in the mouth because this is Sara's last appearance." Max motioned the waiter to remove the débris of a course. "I'm as superstitious as any trouper in the profession. I've got it in my knob that she's my mascot. If she leaves me, my luck goes with her. I never had any luck until she came under my management, and I don't expect to have any after she retires. I made her, all right, but she made me, too; and it sprains my sense of good business to break up a paying combination like that."
"Nonsense," Whitaker contended warmly. "If I'm not mistaken, you were telling me this afternoon that you stand next to Belasco as a producing manager. The loss of one star isn't going to rob you of that prestige, is it?"
"You never can tell," the little man contended darkly; "I wouldn't bet thirty cents my next production would turn out a hit."
"What will it cost—your next production?"
"The show I have in mind—" Max considered a moment then announced positively: "between eighteen and twenty thousand."
"I call that big gambling."
"Gambling? Oh, that's just part of the game. I meant a side bet. If the production flivvers, I'll need that thirty cents for coffee and sinkers at Dennett's. So I won't bet.... But," he volunteered brightly, "I'll sell you a half interest in the show for twelve thousand."
"Is that a threat or a promise?"