If you were a manager and wanted a play by a well-known author you would go to his agent--Elisabeth Marbury or Alice Kauser--and ask if he had time to write it. Should his reply be in the affirmative, you probably would pay him $250 for attaching his name to a contract stipulating that the manuscript must be delivered on such and such a date. Before that time, he would send you a scenario, or brief synopsis, of his story. If you accepted that, you would give the author another $250; if you rejected it, all would be over between you. The acceptance of the completed "'script" would be likely to cost you an additional $500, and the whole $1,000 would be placed to your credit and deducted from the first royalties accruing to the dramatist.
[Illustration: "_First catch your play_"]
Authors' royalties usually are on "a sliding scale." Such a one as we have in mind might get 5 per cent. of the first $4,000 that came into the box office; 7 per cent. of the next $3,000, and 10 per cent. of all in excess of that total. Thus, the playwright's income from a production that "did $8,000" a week would be $510. The agent would take 10 per cent. of this sum. Some dramatists receive better terms than these and some get worse; I have given the average. It is possible for an author to profit by such a property as "The Lion and the Mouse," which has been acted pretty constantly by two or more companies, to the extent of a quarter of a million dollars. Occasionally, a shrewd manager and an author without experience or self-confidence make a deal by which a play is sold outright. This is an unpleasant subject.
"How does the dramatist know the receipts of his play?" you ask. From a copy of the statement by which the manager knows. Did you ever hear of the operation called "counting up?" About an hour after the performance begins, the affable young man who takes your money through the box office window counts the tickets he has left, and subtracts the number of each kind from that which he had originally. The result is the number sold. That number is written on a report handed to the manager of the company appearing in the theater by which the young man is employed. He and the young man then count the sold tickets taken from the boxes into which you see them slipped when you give them to the official at the door. That result should be precisely the figure on the report. If it is greater the young man pays for the difference; if it is less nothing is said, since some people who bought tickets may have remained away. The statement of what has been disposed of, at what price, and with what total, is then signed jointly by the representative of the house and the representative of the company. Each keeps a copy of this statement and an additional copy is sent to the agent of the author. The transaction seems simple, but, if you will think the matter over, you will see that it is a nearly perfect method of preventing dishonesty.