"You mean the secretary was the daughter's husband all along, and he heard what the president said right there?" Nelly panted, stopping outside Miggleton's, in the light from the oyster-filled window.
"Yes; and he heard it all."
"Why, I think that's just a fine idea," declared Nelly, as they entered the restaurant. Though her little manner of dignity and even restraint was evident as ever, she seemed keenly joyous over his genius.
"Say, that's a corking idea for a play, Wrenn," exclaimed Tom, at their table, gallantly removing the ladies' wraps.
"It surely is," agreed Mrs. Arty.
"Why don't you write it?" asked Nelly.
"Aw--I couldn't write it!"
"Why, sure you could, Bill," insisted Tom. "Straight; you ought to write it. (Hey, waiter! Four fries and coffee!) You ought to write it. Why, it's a wonder; it 'd make a dev-- 'Scuse me, ladies. It'd make a howling hit. You might make a lot of money out of it."
The renewed warmth of their wet feet on the red-tile floor, the scent of fried oysters, the din of "Any Little Girl" on the piano, these added color to this moment of Mr. Wrenn's great resolve. The four stared at one another excitedly. Mr. Wrenn's eyelids fluttered. Tom brought his hand down on the table with a soft flat "plob" and declared: "Say, there might be a lot of money in it. Why, I've heard that Harry Smith--writes the words for these musical comedies--makes a mint of money."
"Mr. Poppins ought to help you in it--he's seen such a lot of plays," Mrs. Arty anxiously advised.
"That's a good idea," said Mr. Wrenn. It had, apparently, been ordained that he was to write it. They were now settling important details. So when Nelly cried, "I think it's just a fine idea; I knew you had lots of imagination," Tom interrupted her with: "No; you write it, Bill. I'll help you all I can, of course.... Tell you what you ought to do: get hold of Teddem--he's had a lot of stage experience; he'd help you about seeing the managers. That 'd be the hard part--you can write it, all right, but you'd have to get next to the guys on the inside, and Teddem--Say, you certainly ought to write this thing, Bill. Might make a lot of money."
"Oh, a lot!" breathed Nelly.
"Heard about a fellow," continued Tom--" fellow named Gene Wolf, I think it was--that was so broke he was sleeping in Bryant Park, and he made a hundred thousand dollars on his first play--or, no; tell you how it was: he sold it outright for ten thousand--something like that, anyway. I got that right from a fellow that's met him."