"Why don't you write a 'nut' part for him?" asked one of them of the
playwright as they surveyed me critically as if I was some rare
specimen of bug life.
"That would never do," he answered. "Real 'nuts' can never play the
part on the stage. You've got to have a man of intelligence."
"Look here," I broke in. "You've got to stop talking about me before
my face as if I wasn't really present. Nuts I may be, but I can still
understand English, even when badly spoken, and resent it. Lay off
that stuff or I'll be constrained to introduce you to a new brand of
'Biff! Bang!'"
Saying this, I struck an heroic attitude, but it seemed to produce no
startling change in their calm, deliberate examination of me.
"He'll do, I think, as a Show Girl," the dance-master mused dreamily.
"Like a cabbage, every one of his features is bad, but the whole
effect is not revolting. Strange, isn't it, how such things happen."
At this point the musician broke in.
"He ain't agoing to dance to my music if I know it. He'll ruin it." At
which remark I executed a few rather simple but nevertheless neat
steps I had learned at the last charity Bazaar to which I had
contributed my services, and these few steps were sufficient to close
the deal.
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