CHAPTER ELEVEN
THE sound of gasps and wails, of pleadings and imprecations, echoed through the gloomy old building off Madison Square.
"Awful!" shouted a man's voice when the agony had come to an end. "Simply awful!"
"Then why can't you let me do it my own way?" demanded the tearful voice of a woman.
"That's just what's the matter. You haven't got any way. If you'd pull a few feathers from the wings of your imagination and stick them in the tail of your judgment, you might get somewhere."
"Then stop ridiculing me!"
"I'll ridicule you as long as you don't do things right. I'm the big ki-ky of this kennel, and you're going to do what I say."
"If you're claiming to be a dog, I agree with you," was the impassioned retort.
"Then we'll let it go at that and get back to our work. And just save a little of that pep, please, for professional purposes!"
It was the labour-pains of Art, and the olive-skinned Hebrew known as Herman Krassler come to coach Torrie Throssel in her new part. He had worked with her an hour, at first quietly and patiently, then excitedly and explosively, before Storrow in the next room fully understood what was taking place. He realized, during what became an incredibly noisy scene, that the fiery-hearted little man of the stage was putting forth every effort to impart fire to the protesting and somewhat bewildered girl confronting him. It was an emotional "bit," ap-
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