“It seems as though the good old days were come again.... Peals of irresistible laughter rang through the crowded theater as the side-splitting story of Maggs was unfolded. The audience laughed, the orchestra laughed, the actors themselves were infected by the general merriment.”
“Mr. Slump is a public benefactor. When ‘down,’ a dose of him will be found to act like magic. The management’s happy notion of supplying the theater with real ozone adds not a little to the pleasure of the entertainment.”
And so forth, and so forth. Booking was immense, the box-office and libraries were besieged with applicants eager to breathe the genuine sea air wafted over the footlights at the “Sceptre.” The treasury boxes had to be carried to the office at night by two of the strongest commissionaires.
“Slump has a soft snap,” said De Hanna, chewing his Geyser pen rapturously as he went over the books. “Sixty per cent. of the gross receipts in author’s fees, and we’re averaging two thousand a week since we went in for daily matinées. Then the Transatlantic Trust is running the play in New York to phenomenal business, and we’ve planted it out for the Colonies, while France and Germany——”
“Id vas from Chairmany dat de leading itea of de blay was orichinally sdolen,” said Gormleigh, who had blossomed out in new clothes, a red necktie, and a cat’s-eye pin.
“Leading idea of the play is the Ozone,” said De Hanna; “and as Slump’s firm holds the patent for the electro-oxygen generator, and manufactures the oxygen used in the theater——”
“Dey call it bure oxygen, poot it is not dat,” said Gormleigh, laying his finger to his nose. “It is a motch cheaber gombound, I give you my vort.”
“What?” De Hanna came closer, and his Oriental eyes gleamed. “If that’s true, and we could manufacture and generate it for ourselves, we—we could buy up every rotten play we come across—there’s heaps of them to be had, Heaven knows—and run ’em for nuts. What is the stuff?”
“It is nitrous oxide,” said Gormleigh, “gommonly known as loffing kass—and I hof a friend, a Chairman chemist—dat vill——Hoosh!” He laid his finger to his nose with an air of secrecy as Mrs. Gudrun swept into the office, enveloped in her usual clouds of silk and perfume. Candelish was not with her, but Slump and Billy followed at her heels.
“Of course, it must be admitted, Maggs is a phenomenal success,” she was saying, “and we’re making money hand over hand; but the part of ‘Angelina’—though Cluffer says no French comedy actress of any age or period could act it as I do—does not give me proper opportunities. Mr. Slump thinks with me.” She smiled dazzlingly upon the enamored little man. “And he has written a tragedy in blank verse—The Poisoned Smile—which we mean to produce as soon as the run is over.” She swept out again with her following, and De Hanna and Gormleigh exchanged a wink of partnership.