Mr. Wrenn was
silent for a while. But as they were stamping through the
rivulets of wheel-tracks that crisscrossed on a slushy
street-crossing Mr. Wrenn regained his advantage by crying,
"Say, don't you think that play 'd have been better if the
promoter 'd had an awful grouch on the young miner and 'd had to
crawfish when the miner saved him?"
"Why, yes; it would!" Nelly glowed at him.
"Wouldn't wonder if it would," agreed Tom, kicking the December
slush off his feet and patting Mr. Wrenn's back.
"Well, look here," said Mr. Wrenn, as they left Broadway, with
its crowds betokening the approach of Christmas, and stamped to
the quieter side of Forty-second, "why wouldn't this make a
slick play: say there's an awfully rich old guy; say he's a
railway president or something, d' you see? Well, he's got a
secretary there in the office--on the stage, see? The scene is
his office. Well, this guy's--the rich old guy's--daughter
comes in and says she's married to a poor man and she won't tell
his name, but she wants some money from her dad.
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