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 pery, its china, its shining silver, and its glittering glass, a rose carnation beside his plate, increased his cheer. Wrapping his dressing-gown well about him, he seated himself to lift the cover from his casserole of ham and eggs, to munch his toast Melba, and to pour out his coffee. At this juncture his eye discovered a telegram and three or four letters lying on the cloth. Slitting the flap with his butter-knife he opened the telegram first. It was from Harold Edwards, his manager, who wired that as The Stafford Will Case was still playing to capacity in New York he had decided to send a second company at once to Chicago. Ambrose received this information with a certain sense of pride, but there was nothing in the situation which called for action on his part. It merely assured him of yet further additions to his income. He could foresee the hour, rapidly approaching, when he might put away a competency which in the future would be his protective shield against the encroachments of the world. In a few months, what with Spider Boy and The Stafford Will Case pouring gold into his lap, he would be able to bury himself, if he so desired, in the forests of Cochin China.

He awakened sufficiently from his reverie to sip his coffee, eat a morsel of ham, and remove the contents from a second envelope. They informed him