"To tell the truth," I replied, "this is the busiest day in the week for me."
"Fine," he said. "That means your mind is working at its best, brain cells exploding in great shape, and you can follow my argument without the slightest difficulty. What I have to say is of the highest importance. It concerns the present condition of the stage."
"In that case," I said, "you want to see Mr. Smith. He is the editor responsible for our dramatic page."
"I want to speak to the irresponsible editor," he said. "I asked and they showed me in here. I think I had better begin at the beginning."
I sighed and looked out of the window. But that made no difference. He, too, looked out of the window and spoke as follows:
"Last night," he said, "I attended the first performance of A. B. Johnson's powerful four-act drama entitled 'H2O.' It was a remorseless exposure of the phenomena attending the condensation of steam. In the old days before the theatre became perfectly free the general public knew nothing of the consequences that ensue when you bring water to a temperature of 212 degrees Fahrenheit. The public didn't know and didn't care. Those who did know kept the secret to themselves. I am not exaggerating when I say that there was a conspiracy of silence on the subject. A play like 'H2O' would have been impossible. The public would not have tolerated such thoroughgoing realism as Johnson employs in his first act, for instance. With absolute fidelity to things as they are he puts before us a miniature reciprocating engine, several turbine engines, and the latest British and German models in boilers, piston-rods, and valve-gears. When the curtain rose on the most masterly presentation of a machine shop ever brought before the public, the house rocked with applause. But this was nothing compared to the delirious outburst that marked the climax of the second act, when the hero, with his arm about the woman he loves, proudly declares that saturated steam under a pressure of 200 pounds shows 843.8 units of latent heat and a volume of 2.294 cubic feet to the pound. The curtain was raised eleven times, but the audience would not be content until the author appeared before the footlights escorted by a master plumber and the president of the steamfitters' union.
"The third act was laid in the reception room of a Tenderloin resort—"
"I don't quite see," I said.
"That followed inevitably from the development of the plot," he replied. "The heroine, you must understand, had been abducted by the president of a rival steamfitters' union and had been sold into a life of shame. She is saved in the nick of time by an explosion of the boiler due to superheated steam. In the old days such a scene would have been impossible and the author's lesson about the effects of condensation and vaporization would have been lost to the world."
"And the play will be a success?" I said.