Owing to the dearth of new productions this summer, Pope had undertaken a series of magazine articles descriptive of the reigning theatrical beauties, and, while he detested women in general and the painted favorites of Broadway in particular, he had forced himself to write the common laudatory stuff which the public demanded.  Only once had he given free rein to his inclinations and written with a poisoned pen.  To-night, however, as he entered the stage door of Bergman’s Circuit Theater, it was with a different intent.

Regan, the stage-door tender, better known since his vaudeville days as “The Judge,” answered his greeting with a lugubrious shake of a bald head.

“I’m a sick man, Mr. Pope.  Same old trouble.”

“M-m-m.  Kidneys, isn’t it?”

“No.  Rheumatism.  I’m a beehive swarmin’ with pains.”

“To be sure.  It’s Hemphill, the door-man at the Columbus, who has the floating kidney.  I paid for his operation.”

“Hemphill.  Operation!  Ha!” The Judge cackled in a voice hoarse from alcoholic excesses.  “He bilked you, Mr. Pope.  He’s the guy that put the kid in kidney.  There’s nothing wrong with him.  He could do his old acrobatic turn if he wanted to.”

“I remember the act.”

“Me an’ Greenberg played the same bill with him twenty years ago.”  The Judge leaned forward, and a strong odor of whisky enveloped the caller.  “Could you slip me four bits for some liniment?”

The critic smiled.  “There’s a dollar, Regan.  Try Scotch for a change.  It’s better for you than these cheap blends.  And don’t breathe toward a lamp, or you’ll ignite.”

The Judge laughed wheezingly.  “I do take a drop now and then.”

“A drop?  You’d better take a tumble, or Bergman will let you out.”

“See here, you know all the managers, Mr. Pope.  Can’t you find a job for a swell dame?” the Judge inquired, anxiously.

“Who is she?”

“Lottie Devine.  She’s out with the ‘Peach Blossom Girls.’”

“Lottie Devine.  Why, she’s your wife, isn’t she?”

“Sure, and playing the ‘Wheel’ when she belongs in musical comedy.  She dances as good as she did when we worked together—­after she gets warmed up—­and she looks great in tights—­swellest legs in burlesque, Mr. Pope.  Can’t you place her?”

“She’s a trifle old, I’m afraid.”

“Huh!  She wigs up a lot better’n some of the squabs in this troupe.  Believe me, she’d fit any chorus.”

“Why don’t you ask Bergman?”

Mr. Regan shook his hairless head.  “He’s dippy on ‘types.’  This show’s full of ’em:  real blondes, real brunettes, bold and dashin’ ones, tall and statelies, blushers, shrinkers, laughers, and sadlings.  He won’t stand for make-up; he wants ’em with the dew on.  They’ve got to look natural for Bergman.  That’s some of ’em now.”  He nodded toward a group of young, fresh-cheeked girls who had entered the stage door and were hurrying down the hall.  “There ain’t a Hepnerized ensemble in the whole first act, and they wear talcum powder instead of tights.  It’s dimples he wants, not ‘fats.’  How them girls stand the draught I don’t know.  It would kill an old-timer.”