“Say, Dick, did you see where one of ——’s plays had made a great hit in New York?” asked McCord. “He’s made a strike this time.”
“No,” replied Dick solemnly, poking among the coals of the grate and drawing up a chair. “Sit down, Dreiser. Pull up a chair, Peter. This confounded grate smokes whenever the wind’s from the South. Still there’s nothing like a grate fire.”
We drew up chairs. I was revolving in my mind the charm of the room and a vision of greatness in play-writing. These two men seemed subtly involved with the perfection of the arts. In this atmosphere, with such companions, I felt that I could accomplish anything, and soon.
“I’ll tell you how it is with the game of play-writing,” observed Dick sententiously. “You have to have imagination and feeling and all that, but what’s more important than anything is a little business sense, to know how to get in with those fellows. You might have the finest play in the world in your pocket, but if you didn’t know how to dispose of it what good would it do you? None at all. You got to know that end first.”
He reached over and pulled the coal-scuttle into position as a footrest and then looked introspectively at the ceiling.
“The play’s the thing,” put in Peter. “If you could write a real good play you wouldn’t need to worry about getting it staged.”
“Aw, wouldn’t I? Listen to that now!” commented Dick irascibly. “I tell you, Peter, you don’t know anything about it. You only think you do; that’s all. Say, did Campbell have a good play in his pocket or didn’t he? You betcher neck he did. Did he get it staged? No, you betcher boots he didn’t. Don’t talk to me; I know.”
By his manner you would have thought he had a standing bone to pick with Peter, but this was only his way. It made me laugh.
“Well, the play’s the first thing to worry about anyhow,” I observed. “I wish I were in a position to write one.”
“Why don’t you try?” suggested McCord. “You ought to be able to do something in that line. I bet you could write a good one.”