"But," said the actor-manager, with a sudden recollection, "how about the besom?"
"The besom!" repeated Pinchas, nonplussed for once.
"Yes, thou sayest thou hast seen all the plays I have produced. Hast thou not noticed that I have a besom in all my plays?"
"An old garden-besom it is," said the actor-manager. "And it is the cause of all my luck." He took up a house-broom that stood in the corner. "In comedy I sweep the floor with it--so--and the people grin; in comic-opera I beat time with it as I sing--so--and the people laugh; in farce I beat my mother-in-law with it--so--and the people roar; in tragedy I lean upon it--so--and the people thrill; in melodrama I sweep away the snow with it--so--and the people burst into tears. Usually I have my plays written beforehand and the authors are aware of the besom. Dost thou think," he concluded doubtfully, "that thou hast sufficient ingenuity to work in the besom now that the play is written?"
Pinchas put his finger to his nose and smiled reassuringly.
"Good, then!" said Pinchas; "I shall not fail."
The door closed upon him. In another moment it reopened a bit and he thrust his grinning face through the aperture.
"Ten per cent. of the receipts!" he said with his cajoling digito-nasal gesture.
"Certainly," rejoined the actor-manager briskly. "After paying the expenses--ten per cent. of the receipts."
Pinchas strode forth into the street and lit a new cigar in his exultation. How lucky the play was not yet written! Now he would be able to make it all turn round the axis of the besom. "It shall be all besom!" His own phrase rang in his ears like voluptuous marriage bells. Yes, it should, indeed, be all besom. With that besom he would sweep all his enemies--all the foul conspirators--in one clean sweep, down, down to Sheol. He would sweep them along the floor with it--so--and grin; he would beat time to their yells of agony--so--and laugh; he would beat them over the heads--so--and roar; he would lean upon it in statuesque greatness--so--and thrill; he would sweep away their remains with it--so--and weep for joy of countermining and quelling the long persecution.
All night he wrote the play at railway speed, like a night express--puffing out volumes of smoke as he panted along. "I dip my pen in their blood," he said from time to time, and threw back his head and laughed aloud in the silence of the small hours.