twenty minutes the party of six was in a police station facing a grizzled and philosophical desk sergeant.
“Disorderly conduct in a restaurant,” said the policeman who had brought the party in.
The author of “A Gay Coquette” stepped to the front. He wore nose-glasses and evening clothes, even if his shoes had been tans before they met the patent-leather-polish bottle.
“Mr. Sergeant,” said he, out of his throat, like Actor Irving, “I would like to protest against this arrest. The company of actors who are performing in a little play that I have written, in company with a friend and myself were having a little supper. We became deeply interested in the discussion as to which one of the cast is responsible for a scene in the sketch that lately has fallen so flat that the piece is about to become a failure. We may have been rather noisy and intolerant of interruption by the restaurant people; but the matter was of considerable importance to all of us. You see that we are sober and are not the kind of people who desire to raise disturbances. I hope that the case will not be pressed and that we may be allowed to go.”
“Who makes the charge?” asked the sergeant.
“Me,” said a white-aproned voice in the rear. “De restaurant sent me to. De gang was raisin’ a roughhouse and breakin’ dishes.”
“The dishes were paid for,” said the playwright. “They were not broken purposely. In her anger, be-
