Rex T. Stout

“ He arrived at the theater a little after eight, feeling that it would not do to display any eagerness in the matter. He would show them that he was an old hand at this theater business. The lobby was filled with loungers, and Mr. Chidden found some difficulty in making his way to the brass rails that guarded the entrance to the auditorium. There he presented the card Mr. Burrie had given him to a fat, pompous personage who was mostly red face and white shirt front.
Mr. Chidden spoke to him in a low and mysterious tone.
“From Mr. Burrie,” said he. “I'm an official.” ”

“ Chidden better. If he could not properly be called a student of the modern drama, it was only because he had lacked opportunity for the collection of material. He had never seen the interior of a Broadway theater. But he spent twenty cents every night during the season at the stock theater around the corner on Eighth Avenue, and he was known to the delicatessen proprietor, tailor, cabmen, and other gentlemen of the neighborhood as a man to whom the deepest subtleties of the actor's art were an open book. ”

“ He'll tell you what to do. You should have come early so as not to disturb people.”
Mr. Chidden smothered the retort that rose to his lips, edged his way through to the empty seat, sat down, and looked about him. The parquet was filled with men in evening dress and women with necks, of all ages and appearances. It was what the newspapers call a “typical first-night audience,” but the sight was new to Mr. Chidden, and he spent several minutes studying it. ”

“ Many of 'em. But it's no go. It's fate. I was a merchant once, you know—had a shop up in New Rochelle. Forced out and had to come here. If I get a job, it's no good.”
Mr. Chidden sighed, turning toward the door. He had nearly reached it when he was halted abruptly by the voice of Mr. Glover.
“I might find something for you at the theater,” said the actor.
Mr. Chidden stood with his mouth open and his hand on the doorknob. He seemed amazed.
“At the theater!” he stammered finally. “You don't mean—on the stage?” ”

“ Chidden, having waited impatiently for the other to finish.
The actor explained:
“A come-on guy for the audience—to start the applause and keep it up. The theaters all have 'em, more or less.”
“Could you—do you think——” stammered Mr. Chidden, his face pale with hope.
“Sure! At least I think so. It means fifty cents or a dollar a night, a little spending money—and, besides, you get to see the show. I'll see Burrie this afternoon at rehearsal and let you know in the morning.” ”

“ At sound of her brother's entrance, she stood up and turned to look at him.
“Well?” she observed truculently.
“I just wanted to tell you,” said Mr. Chidden, standing by the door, “that I've got a job.”
His sister snorted contemptuously, and was silent, awaiting details.
“It's a night job at the theater,” the little man continued. “Mr. Glover recommended me. A sort of critic, you might say. I won't be home till midnight, so you'd better have Annie tend to the furnace in the morning. I saw Mr. Burrie, the manager, yesterday. At the Columbus. Probably I'll be working for him all winter.” Mr. ”

“ He pronounced it “clacker.” “Burrie has a première on Thursday, and he'll probably need 'em. I hear it's a rotten show—nothing to it except the courtroom scene and a bit of character done by a friend of mine. Something in my line, I believe. Pretty fat—sure to get a hand.” ”