give the public what you think it ought

to want, or what you think would be good for it; but what it actually does want. I argue like this. Supposing

you went into a tobacconist's and asked for a packet of cigarettes, and the tobacconist told you that cigarettes were bad for you, and that he could only sell you a pipe and tobaccowhat should you say? [He rises excited].

Francis. Now what should I say? I don't think I should be able to think of anything clever enough until I got outside the shop.

Sir C. [not laughing, but insisting on his argument]. You see my point, eh? You see my point? I've got no moral axes to grind. I'm just a business man [more excitedly].

Francis. My dear boy, I'm not contradicting you.

Sir C. I know. I know. But some people make me angry. There seems to be a sort of notion about that because it's newspapers I sell, and not soap or flannel, I ought to be a cross between General Booth, H. G. Wells, and the Hague Conference. I'm a manufacturer, just like the fellows that sell soap and flannel: only a d-d sight more honest. There's no deception about my goods. You never know what there is in your soap or your flannel, but you know exactly what there is in my papers, and if you aren't pleased you don't buy. I make no pretence to be anything but a business man. And my specialty is, what the public wants-in printed matter.

Francis. But how did you find out what it wants? I suppose it wasn't vouchsafed to you in a dream.

Sir C. [hesitating]. I-I don't exactly know. > I began by thinking about what I should want myself. "The Lad's Own Budget" was the first. I knew well enough what I wanted when I was a boy of twelve, for in

believe me when I tell you that hot cakes were simply not in it, not in it! And so I went on, always keep

ing in mind-[Enter Page-boy with newspaper and letters, etc., on a salver. Exit.1

Francis. So the red disk doesn't absolutely bar the door to everybody?

Sir C. What do you mean? Oh, the messenger! He always comes in at this time [looks at clock]. He's four minutes late, by the way [looks at his watch]. No, it's that clock [glancing at paper and letters, then resuming his discourse]. Always keeping in mind how I captured the boy of twelve. I've sometimes thought of having an inscription painted over the door there: "Don't forget the boy of twelve" -[hastily] just for a lark, you know. At last I got as far as the "Daily Mercury," and I don't fancy any newspaper proprietor in my time is likely to get much further. A twelve-page paper for a halfpenny and the most expensive news service on earth! What do you think? [glancing again at letters].

Francis. I must confess I've never read the "Mercury."

Sir C. [astounded]. Never read the "Mercury"! Everybody reads the "Mercury."

Francis. I don't.

Sir C. [solemnly]. Do you seriously mean to say you've never read the "Mercury"? Why, man, it's nine years old, and sells over nine hundred thousand copies a day!

Francis. I noticed it about everywhere in the streets this morning, and so I bought a copy, and put it in my pocket, intending to have a look at it, but I forgot. Yes, here it is [taking folded paper from his pocket].

Sir C. [still astounded]. Well, I

said it was you who were the caution,

and by Jove it is! What do you read? Francis. When I'm out of reach of a daily post I read the "Times" Weekly Edition. Of course, my first care this morning was to get the "Manchester Guardian." I always have that when I can.

Sir C. Surprising what a craze there is among you cultured people for the "Manchester Guardian"! I'm always having that thrown at my head. Here! [tossing over newspaper from salver]. Here's the fourth edition of the "Evening Courier" just off the machine. Never read that either, I suppose.

Francis. No.

Sir C. [nodding his head as one with no further capacity for surprise]. Well, well! It's a sort of evening "Mercury." Have a look at it! Just excuse me for two minutes, will you? I must dictate one or two things at once. [Sits down to dictaphone, and begins speaking into it.] Mr. Cookson. Write Medwaysyou know, the clock people— Francis [curious, examining]. Hello! What's that dodge?

Sir C. It's a dictaphone. Never seen one before? Shorthand clerks get on your nerves so. You blaze away into it and then it repeats what you've said to the clerk-elsewhere, thank heaven!

Francis. How amusing! Sir C. [into dictaphone]-to cancel their contract for regulating clocks. They've been warned twice. Mine's four minutes fast. Write to Pneumatic Standard Time Company, or whatever its name is, and get an estimate for all the clocks in building. Typewriter. My dear Lady Calder, Many thanks for your most

Francis. [looking at "Courier"]. I say, who's Chate?

Sir C. Chate? Chate? He's a convict who got ten years for killing his mother or something. Let off lightly

under the First Offenders Act, I suppose. Immensely celebrated for his escape from Dartmoor Prison. They didn't catch him again for a fortnight. Why?

Francis. Only because of this, all across the front page of the "Courier": [pointing] "Chate, now at Holloway, comes out to-morrow."

Sir C. Ah! [He suddenly gets up and goes to door r. and opens it.] I say, Kendrick, are you there? Just a second. [Enter Kendrick.]

Kendrick, Yes?

Sir C. Oh, Francis, this is Mr. Kendrick. Kendrick, my brother. Kendrick [surprised]. Glad to meet you, sir. [They shake hands.]

Sir C. [to Kendrick]. You arranged about Chate? [Francis returns to study his newspapers.]

Kendrick. Chate?

Sir C. I told you three months ago we must have his story written by himself for the "Sunday Morning News."

Kendrick. Oh, yes! Well, it couldn't be done!

Sir C. Why?

Kendrick. We found that the "Sentinel" people had been paying his wife a pound a week for years on the understanding that they had his stuff when he came out.

Sir C. What do I care for the "Sentinel" people? If they have been paying a pound a week that's their lookout. We have got to have the story. If it's worked properly it'll be

Kendrick. Afraid it's too late now.

Sir C. Too late! Not a bit! Look here. Send young Perkins with a shorthand clerk. He must take the Renault car, and be outside Holloway Prison at five-thirty to-morrow morning. Let him have £200 in gold-gold, mind! You've time before the bank closes. He must be ready for Chate. The wife is certain to be there. Let him make friends with her. Tell her

the car is absolutely at their disposal. He can suggest breakfast. They're bound to accept. Anyhow, let him get Chate into some private room somewhere, out of London if possible. Then he can show the money. He must show the money. Roll it about the table. Explain to Chate that the money will be handed over to him after he has talked for a couple of hours about his escape and so on, and signed his name. The clerk can come back here by train with the stuff; but Perkins must take Chate, and his wife too if necessary, off to the seaside for a jaunt. He must take 'em out and lose 'em till Saturday morning. It'll be too late for the "Sentinel" people to do anything then. And you must begin to advertise as soon as the clerk turns up with the stuff. Is it all clear? Kendrick. Yes.

Sir C. [after looking at Francis, who is absorbed in newspapers, turns to dictaphone]-kind invitation, which I am very sorry not to be able to accept, as I shall be out of town on Sunday. With kind regards, Believe me, Yours sincerely. Typewriter. Don't type this on "Mercury" paper. Mr. Cookson. Ask Mr. Smythe to come round and see me at my flat at nine to-morrow morning. Mark the appointment for me. [Enter Kendrick.]

Kendrick. Sorry to disturb you [shutting door between the two rooms carefully, and speaking low]. Here's

Sir C. Have you given those instructions?

Kendrick. Yes, yes. Here's Macquoid. He insists on seeing you, and as I know you want to humor him a bit

Kendrick. By the way, I find there's a silly sort of mistake in the "Mercury" leader this morning.

Sir C. Oh! What?

Kendrick. Cettinje is mentioned as the capital of Bosnia.

Sir C. Well, isn't it?

Kendrick. Seems not. It ought to be Sarajevo. The worst of it is that it can't be explained as a slip of the pen, owing to unfortunate circumstantial details.

Sir C. Don't refer to it at all, then. Sit tight on it. I suppose that's Smythe's fault. [Kendrick nods.] Pity he's so careless-he's got more snap than all the rest of the crowd put together. I say, don't let them be too late for the bank.

Kendrick. No. [In a lower voice.] I hear a question is to be asked as to us in the House this afternoon.

Sir C. [after a little pause]. That's good! You might send that in to me as soon as it comes along.

Kendrick. Right oh! [Exit r.]

critic?

Sir C. Yes. I've just taken him on for "Men and Women"-our best sixpenny weekly. He's pretty good, isn't he?

Francis. Pretty good! He's the finest dramatic critic in Europe. I should like to meet him.

Sir C. Well, you shall. Bring him in, Kendrick, will you? [Exit Kendrick.]

Francis. He knows what he's talking about, that chap does, and he can write. [Enter Kendrick and Macquoid.]

Sir C. How do you do, Mr. Macquoid?

Macquoid [very curtly]. How do you

do?

Sir C. May I introduce my brother, Francis Worgan, an admirer of yours.

Francis [rising and showing his pleasure]. I'm delighted to

Macquoid [cutting him short]. How do you do? [Exit Kendrick.]

Sir C. Take this chair.

Macquoid. Sir Charles, I want to know what you mean by allowing ad

ditions to be made to my signed articles without my authority.

Sir C. [quickly resenting the tone]. Additions-without your authority!

Macquoid [taking an illustrated paper from under his arm and opening it]. Yes, sir. I have gathered since seeing this that you do it to other contributors; but you won't do it to me. My article on the matinée at the Prince's Theatre ended thus, as I wrote it: "Despite the strange excellence of the play -which has in a high degree the disturbing quality, the quality of being troublant-the interpretation did not amuse me. Mr. Percival Crocker, ‘abounding,' as the French say, ‘in his own sense,' showed pale gleams of comprehension; the rest of the company were as heaven made them." That's how I finished. But I find this

added, above my signature [in a shocked tone]; "This performance is to in all probability be followed by three others." [Stands aghast.] Look at it! [hands paper to Sir C.].

Sir C. [stiffly]. Well, Mr. Macquoid, there's surely nothing very dreadful about that. I have no doubt we put it in to oblige the theatre. Moreover, I see that without it the page would have been two lines short.

Macquoid. Nothing very dreadful? "To-in-all-probability-be-followed." It's an enormity, sir, an enormity!

Sir C. [very stiffly]. I'm afraid I don't quite follow you.

Francis. Mr. Macquoid no doubt means the split infinitive.

Macquoid. I should think I did mean the split infinitive! I was staggered, positively staggered, when I looked at my article. Since then I've been glancing through your paper, and I find split infinitives all over it! Scarcely a page of the wretched sheet without a portrait of a chorus girl and a split infinitive! Monstrous!

Sir C. I regret the addition, but I'm

bound to say I don't understand your annoyance.

Macquoid. Regret is useless. You must put in an apology, or at any rate an explanation, in next week's issue. I have my reputation to think about. If you imagine, Sir Charles, that because you pay me thirty pounds a month you have the right to plaster my work with split infinitives, you are tremendously mistaken.

Sir C. [shortly and firmly]. We shall not apologize, Mr. Macquoid, and we shall not explain. It would be contrary to our practice.

Macquoid [furious]. You are unscrupulous, Sir Charles. Get another dramatic critic. I've done with you. Good-day. [Exit quickly.]

Sir C. [laughing in spite of himself]. Well, of all the infernal cheek! That's the worst of these cultured johnnies. They're mad, every one of 'em. [In a different tone.] I say, what is a split infinitive?

Francis. A split infinitive is a cardinal sin. Sir C. Apparently. But what is it? Francis. In our beautiful English tongue, the infinitive mood of a verb begins with the particle "to."

Sir C. [thinking of Macquoid]. D-n the fellow!

Francis. Thus, "to swear." Now the "to" must never, never be separated from its verb, not even by a single word. If you write "To swear foolishly," you are correct. But if you write "To foolishly swear," you commit an infamy. And you didn't split your infinitive with one word, you split it with three. Imagine the crime.

Sir C. And do you mean to say that you cultured people care about that sort of thing?

Macquoid. You see it's worth thirty pounds a month to Macquoid.

Sir C. Ah! But he's in the Civil Service! Half of them are. [Sir Charles has rung a bell, and taken the