"Dear Kemmel," he wrote, in his ugly, sprawling, impatient hand. "Take the bloody show right off, and fire Adair, and keep the others on half-salary till you can fix me up a route outside of New York. In God’s name, what do you think I’m made of, that I’m to play a number two company all around the clock while he’s starring my hit on Broadway? And don’t you put up any back-talk about it, either, for I mean every word of it if it takes my last red--though you must see that it don’t. If we have to go forfeit on the theater, hell’s bells, pay the bloody cormorants, and do you hear, Get Out!!! For I’m sick of the whole business. Fix it up with Mallory to send out something like this, even if you have to pay space rates for it, and I want it featured:--’The substitution of Mr. Cyril Adair for Mr. Shamus O’Dowd in the star-rôle of _A Broth of a Boy_ has resulted so disastrously to the management that the Herald Square Theater will be dark on Monday night, and all outstanding tickets refunded at the box-office. The experiment was an unfortunate one for all parties, for Mr. O’Dowd, previous to his departure from New York, owing to his doctor’s orders, was playing to enormous business, and bade fair to remain all the season. In Mr. O’Dowd’s hands _A Broth of a Boy_ has been a record money-maker, and friends of the genial star will be enthusiastic to learn of his early return to harness. The old adage of the lion’s skin is thus verified again, and we are not disparaging Mr. Cyril Adair when we say he was unlucky to be cast for the Donkey.’
"I hope this is all clear, and that I have not overlooked anything. Perhaps when you are about it you had better fire Grace Farquar, too. Pretty girls are cheap, and I should like another more come-on, preferably a blonde this time. Received your check for $1,182.40. No more for the present. Cordially yours, Shamus O’Dowd."
The right girl’s cheek against his own is usually worth more to a man than all the philosophy to be found in books. Adair was stunned; he was too helpless, too hurt even to murmur. When one is struck by a thunderbolt, one lies where one falls. He expected Phyllis to fall also, and in a dull, heart-broken way was surprised by her intrepidity. She picked up the great, despairing creature; kissed him, petted him, crooned over him like a baby, smiling through her tears, and exerting all her pretty fancifulness to make him smile, too. Men may excel in marching up to cannon and saving people from burning buildings, and descending to the bottom of the sea in submarines; but in the forlorn hopes of life it is most often the women who lead.