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 which he himself had borne. "I'm sorry," Don said miserably.

"You shouldn't have done it. I had a lot of confidence in you. I gave you one of the best things I had. I made a place for this Miss What's-her-name too. Shoved her in over another girl. And that's a thing stage managers don't like, either—having their company broken up that way. It leaves me open to a lot of hot roasting—the whole business."

"I'm sorry. If you'll give me another chance"

"I can't give you another chance like that. I haven't got it."

"Haven't you anything?"

Kidder hesitated, swung around in his swivel chair, and began to look over his typewritten lists. Don waited, as shamefacedly as a schoolboy who has been lectured before a whole classroom—for Kidder's nonchalant stenographer had been rustling papers at the other side of the office. The telephone rang, and Kidder left Don's fate in the scales while he busied himself with more important affairs. When he had hung up the "receiver," he took another glance at his lists, and said, without turning around: "No. I haven't anything. I'm filled up. I may have an opening next week, in 'Appomattox'—I don't know. It'll only be fifty cents a night, anyhow. I can get lots of hobos for these war plays. That's all I've got."

He returned to the opening of his letters and left Don to take himself out of the office.

Fifty cents a night! That would be, with two matinées, four dollars a week. He was paying two