From Sinclair Lewis,
1536 Nashville Avenue,
New Orleans, La.

FELLOW TROUPER

The Second of a Series of Stories
about MATT & MYRT CARNIVAL -- TROUPERS

by Sinclair Lewis

The Capering Carnivals, Matt and Myrt, were finishing their number in the floor-show at the Silver-Plaza Grill. Matt did a polite imitation of M. President and Mrs. Roosevelt. You might say, "Have you been baffled in seeing the small, plump, pink Myrtle, Carnival, who at sixty still looked like a coquettish sixteen-year-old?" But Matt was really convincing, for he wore eyeglasses and said "My friends," and what more could you expect? In the way of MATT & MYRT characterization? You could tell right away that he was doing the President -- that is, if you just knew before hand, from the look of it, that he was going to do it.

They closed their number with an Old-Time Dance Olio, which a buck-and-wing and a cakewalk -- slim little Matt and fat little Myrt leaning backward almost to their heels and solemnly kicking, arm in arm, Matt reverently gesturing with a star-spangled gilt hat as though this were a solemn wedding procession in an insane asylum.

The low-minded Herman Beagle, M.M. manager of the Grill, noted that there was fairly good applause, and that the Carnivals would

["-2-", "centrally knew their earnest and highly 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-3-

lection of Moorish villas, dog races, sazerac cocktails, real English dukes, girls practically in bathing-suits, cabanas like tiny Mount Vernons and miniscule Warwick Castles, quiet gentlemen who were once hijackers but have reformed and gone into policy-numbers, schools for young New York gentlemen whose minds are not vigorous enough for Northern Winters, villas so modernistic that they look like sawed-off glass bottles, Olde English bars, Cuban bars, Mexican bars, Alt Heidelberg bars, and bars. But between shows, the Carnivals did not reside in this residential world's fair. They lived in a shack on the beach. The beach of an island, ten miles out, down to the shore. Sweetly singing that newest favorite of the far-flung radio millions, "Rasberry pie, Jazzberry pie, nobody loves his sweetie like I," they sped out to their island estate, down palm-hid roads and across a causeway to their island estate. It was near to dawn, which for them was the beginning of their evening and restful loafing. They rode in the Tenbrink Six

/ station wagon in which they had driven to Florida from their Wisconsin farm. It was a very nice station wagon, and not over eight years old. Of course, they came roaring up at twenty-five miles an hour, and Matt said happily, "Golly it's good to be home. And I like to give out to my public, but I always was a great hand for domesticity."

"Since when?" said Myrt, with the greatest derision and fondness, among the hairy dunes,

Their castle was a two-room abode, with a magnificent porch, with only two lazy cocoanut palms and the wide cream-colored beach between it and the gentle breakers. They tore off their sneakers and sat on the edge of the porch, happily trailing their toes in the cold sand. The growing light was only a saffron band beyond

-4-

a bay of dark silver waters. The man palms clattered softly, as in minute manmark alarm at a WWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWW flight of half-seen pelicans low above the waves, and after them came, mysterious as a secret wartime patrol, a smutty fishing boats, slipping from darkness to darkness. The reeding tide left a patch of wet beach shining like silver metal.

"Golly, this is the good life," said Matt, contentedly. "And if you can just look out mmm through the inlet there, and look far enough, you can see the coast of Africa, across there, and all them jungles in the sun."

"Yes. We'll go there, WWWWWWWWWWWWWMMM too......some day," said Myrt.

"You bet, old sweetie. You and me are going to go everywhere some day," said Matt. And he lay back on the porch, happily falling asleep.

He woke to the sound of the Splendid Springs Daily Bubble banging on the porch, the young carrier's shout of "Morning, Ma -- how's Greta Garbo, today?" MMM Myrt's rustling opening of the sheet, and then her shout, "Matt! He's coming here?"

"Who's coming?" he grumbled.

"And he's going to stay at the Silver-Plaza!"

"Who is?"

"Maybe he'll like our act, and put us in a revue, if he ever writes one -- and he's got to, even if he does say he's quit the stage for keeps -- oh, the theater needs him. Doesn't it!"

"Needs WHO? Who is the guy? MMM Whoyuh talking about? Donald Duck or Charley McCarthy?"

"No! Evan MMMMM Wycoff! 'He's coming here!"

"No! Maybe we'll see him."

-5-

young Evan Wycoff -- twenty-five years he had been on the stage and he was still but forty -- was the best beloved of all the actors who were cosmopolitan enough to eat pumpkin pie on Piccadilly and veal nam pie in New York. He was actor, playwright, composer, dancer, director; his careless gracefulness had lured two hemispheres away from war. He was the best ambassador that England had ever sent to an America somewhat bored by diplomats who never saw any save the Best and Richest, and lecturing British authors who publicly informed Americans that their high buildings had a lot of stories, and their factories manufactured, and their deserts were surprisingly deserted and that, in fact, the only trouble with the blasted country was that they didn't like it. Apparently, Evan did like it, and he knew it so intimately that in any Broadway play he could tell right off which of the characters represented Heywood Broun, and which Alexander Woollcott. But he had shocked the country recently by abruptly closing his monstrosely successful play "Fantastic Toe," and announcing that he was sick of mining done with mining and a lifetime of mining forever.

Now actors like Matt and Myrt Carnival may be humanly jealous of fellow members of a cast who steal their scenes, yet as a group, as a devoted sect, they love the creators of great drama. Matt and Myrt had never seen Evan Wycoff, yet they thought of him as a son of whom they were tearfully proud. They always called him Evan, and they exulted to each other, "Hey, listen, seen how Evan's packing 'em in at the Music Box? Swell!" After a good deal of weighty thought, he added, "Here!" And, "Maybe we'll see him some day." And "Maybe he'll come to the Grill, some night. Say, I'll bet he'll like our routine."

-6-

III

They saw Evan Wycoff, but not at the Grill. When he
Evan
arrived at Splendid Springs, he leased the celebrated Brosseaux
Mansion, which resembled an atoll in being a mass of palms and
 coral walls surrounding a swimming-pool, the size of the
navigable Strolling
it with premonitions of carelessness,
average lagoon. Simple-heantly, Matt and Myrt strolled past
him
and saw him in white flannels, espadrilles, and a beret poking
about his elegant and temporarily ancestral acres. They recognized
his GRACE, graceful awkwardness, his cherubically impertinent face.
this, their spiritual son, with sick excitement, he showed
WMWM didn't seem to be having much fun in his new role as lord
of the manor. He was swinging a polo mallet and, while they
watched, he suddenly glared at the mallet, hurled it into the
half an acre plot of expensive camelias, and then kicked a camelia.
They saw him later on the terrace of the millionaire Esplanade
Club, drinking in the more expensive combinations of rum and lime
juice, and laughing with -- at -- the golden sons and daughters
of bathtub factories and pork-packing and real estate. They
saw him drive past them in a converted mountain locomotive. He
was driving too rapidly fast, and his face was tense.

"He's getting about as much fun out of retiring as Walter Winshell
camelias as Joe Louis would," sighed Matt.

Then Myrt accidentally met him on the beach, as Matt has
always been certain that she managed the accident.

Myrt was at present collecting sea shells, which are so
distinguished a feature of Florida that all the better-conducted
hotels send out a respectable colored man to dump
on the beach.
a bushel of new ones at dawn every morning. Myrt was a chronic
collector, anyway. In her day she had collected razor blades
and much autographed (in acid) by Hollywood male stars,

had collected book-matches, trolley-car transfers, false mustaches worn by Mmm Orson Welles, and soda-pop labels. But never had

Category of junk had ever delighted her so much as she was to give it as in her conquest of the more delicately named sea-shells. Already she could display a Scotch Bonnet, a Ponderous Ark, a Half-Naked Pen, a Rock Eater, a Modest Siliquaria, and a Cross-Barred Venus. Her collection was spread over a top and the window-sills, the top of the ice-box, the tops of their trunks, and once Matt found a can of cold cream in their dressing-room. Himself, he did not hold with collecting. For all his fondness for her, he had never been moved even by her collection of gin-bottle labels, and now he sat all afternoon on the porch, reading Variety, and glancing far down the beach where, in a bathing suit which she had worn in a seashore number in the chorus in 1906, she prowled and dug and pounced. Presently she had

"Huh! Did he know about it?"

"Well, not much, I guess. He was pretty distant. I guess

It was more than five minutes before we was calling each other 'Myrt' and 'Evan.' But he said maybe some night he'd drop in at our dressing-room. And I gave him the sweetest Tulip Horse Mussel shell, and he smiled real sweet and he'd send it to his sister."

"Well now, that certainly mmnm shows he was interested!"

"Maybe so, but I don't know. He hasn't got any sister."

In the next fortnight, Evan did not keep the promise to see them, on stage or off, and during that time the Splendid Springs season was opened by the arrival of the Tenbrinks.

-11-

on 'em and there isn't one single person remembers when it was that
the Singing McSorleys played the Poli Circuit? Why don't you get
Miss Tenbrink and the two of you come out for a picnic Sunday noon,
breakfast at our shack on the MMMM island?"

Matt looked disgusted, Evan looked uncomfortable, but Evan
hesitated, "Right. We'll do it. Twelve mm next Sunday? Which
island is it?"

"It's L'île des Onze Hommes Chacun avec Une Barbe-Blue
L'île des Onze Hommes Chacun avec Une Barbe Bleu
Qui Etaient Tuees par Jean Lafitte

"Mudfish Island."

"Oh yes, of course. The historical name was L'Île des Onze Hommes Chacun Avec Une Barbe Bleu Qui Etaient Tuees Mais Tous par L'Illustre Jean Lafitte, wasn't it?" said Evan.

"Yuh, sure, that's the correct name," said Matt.

"We'll be there."

it all

Myrt explained/to the protesting Matt, on their way home;
"No, I'm right, dearie. Once Evan gets a chance to sit around
in his undershirt again, and spit on the sand, and smell of garlic,
he'll be sick of his castle, and this gaseline girl will think we're
all three vulgar, and boy will unmeet girl, and Evan will get t'
hell back to the stage, where he belongs."

"You collector! You Florence Nightingale! You Will Hay's!
When do you take up the share-croppers?" protested Matt. "That's
how it always goes when an actor mamsma gets collected by a well-
meaning wife. If I hadn't married m you -- I mean, if you hadn't
up and married me, when I wasn't looking, I might be be playing
Ibsen with Eva L'Égalienne now."

"Do you think Evan would like his potatoes in French-fried?" said Myrt.

-14-

squirrelish estates that I can stand is a shack my brother and I own in Ontario." Myrt looked It was evident that Myrt was looking with distrust at Lelia's MIMIC frail floweriness. "Lend me an extra pair of slacks, will you, and a sweater, or one of Mr. Carnival's undershirts, or something, and I'll show you how to mix a salad dressing. Chives and marjoram, that's the trick!" haven't got sniffed "I MIMIC MIMIC any," trembled Myrt.

"I have! In the car! Also a magnum of champagne!"

"Cham ---!" said Myrt.

"---pagne!" said Matt. Then he tried to be stern again, and disapprovingly said Lelia. Evan must be lured from her scented languor back to the stage. But Myrt was MIMIC. Satisfied, treacherously won. She looked languishingly at the princess, and crowed, "I can lend you Matt's eccentric-hobo-clog costume. It needs a little nice dirtying up. You'll look divinely sweet in it, Lelia. Just like the chorus!"

"Just!" said the princess. "I think I'll stroll down the beach a bit, while you're efficient Yankees produce a feast."

After Evan's amiably insolent retreat, Matt looked with a certain doubt.

VI

Miss Lelia Tenbrink could have served professionally as cook to J.Pierpont Morgan, or even to Tyrone Power. She was a four-handed cook; she could mix salad-dressing, wash and dry the mixing-bowl, fry the small spicy Florida oysters, and wash out a dish-towel simultaneously. She chased Matt and Myrt out of the small kitchen, and they hung about the door, watching her now, at last, as they would have watched Helen Hayes rehearsing. In setting the table, she added both her elbows, and the vanishing four canary-bird trick to the night/electric hands she had already been

seized Myrt, and on that porch on Mudfish Island was seen such an exhibition of twisting, eccentric grace as would have raised up any audience on Broadway or Mayfair or the Boulevard in noisy ecstacy. And Lelia fried some more oysters and they sat down to picnic dinner like three man/happy maniacs and a misanthrope. The latter was Mr. Evan Wycoff.

"Mr. and Mrs. Carnival want you to go back to the stage, Evan," bubbled Lelia. "I agree! Write a play for you and me to appear in. You can see I can do stage dancing."

Evan suggested with deadly amiability, "There are many moments on the stage when dancing isn't enough, pet, isn't enough. I don't remember that Portia has ever been played as a jitterbug. I don't know, though. I'm so old-fashioned, I can remember Bernard Shaw and Shirley Temple. Nowadays, I doubt they're playing a swing version of Othello under the title of 'Hop Up the Homocide.'"

Evan rose, and murmured as sweetly as a suckling dove, "That would be the final curtain! An amateur lady backer to give me the company orders and an amateur lady leading lady to carry them out. No, my Lelia, you remain among the sweet-scented azaleas, a maiden dreaming among the dreamy twill flowers, as frail as they, in fact considerably frailer, and stay to hell off the stage -- as I now certainly shall. Thank you, Matt and Myrt. We must -- uh -- we must -- uh -- have lunch together some day."

Afterward, Matt fretted, "Have we coaxed him back to the stage, do you think?" helped any in setting him interested in the stage again?"

["-17-", "that old photo-\ngraph of me and my sister in him 'The Two Orphans/' My that\nwas good snow! They don't have snow on the stage like that today.\nBut one thing I do know We've got to help Lelia with her career.\nShe's a real sweet girl, and I never did object to money except that\nit always seems to make folks come in after the curtain is up, and\nshe'll make a real professional. We must help\nher.", "\"Lelia,\" pontificated Matt, \"Lelia is a slitch.\"", "Mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm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-19-

tinguish our Anglo-Franco-Germanico-American aristocracy from the common American herd: MM speaking French with the accent of a German waiter, mm losing at roulette, drinking daiquiri cocktails, driving a car and mmmm piloting an aeroplane, almost as well as a three-weeks student of the piebster sort, playing contract, being obedient to tailors and dressmakers and being disintimately obedient to doctors, and/knowing Elsa Maxwell, Prince Mike Romanoff, and one of the waiters at the Stork Club. Indeed so popular and gilded was she that Matt and Myrt could not tell whether it was her private De Medici quality or her public art that made her the most applauded entertainer who had ever appeared at the MM Grill. She was so encored that within a week mmam she was adorning the floor for an hour instead of fifteen minutes. And before the vogue had become anemic, Mr. EMM Beagle started new publicity campaigns by generously raising Lelia's take from a hundred to a thousand dollars a week. A dozen Florida papers, and one in Saskatchewan, carried a photostat of the new contract.

Without any dragging in names, Mr. Beagle let it be known that the corporation owning the Silver-Plaza were delighted at being able to give all this money to Miss Tenbrink, and he made them rhetorical history by the phrase, "Her genius has changed Lely from a poor little rich girl to a rich big rich girl."

Miss Lelia Tenbrink changed her name to Lelia. She no longer came to Matt and Myrt for dance instruction; she was no longer able to remember their names offhand. And she found it impossible to dress in the star's dressing-room, next to the Carnivals'. Mr. Beagle came to them, whining, "Would you folks mind moving down to the basement for a while? Miss Tenbrink needs your room for her alligator."

Matt started to speak, but Myrt kicked him. If they could hold on here for one more month, they would have enough laid by for

-21-

Matt turned to MMM Myrt for help, but she had treacherously gone. He tried to think of all the things he might do to Mr. Beagle, mmmm but he got no ideas beyond a much too obvious desire to yank off his shirt-front in the presence of millions and millions of spectators and demonstrate that under it he wore pink silk underwear. He was still thinking when Myrt returned with an elegant and tenderly smiling Evan Wycoff.

H" said simply too divine. Friend Beagle, it's splendid that you're going to give our friends Matt and Myrt two months' salary," caroled Evan, in a manmmn voice packed with mmmmmmmn nightingales in a Tuscan manmgarden, and New Orleans pralines, and orange-blossom honey, and choirboys at vesper.

"It may be mmmm, but I ain't going to do it, and Lelia backs me up. She may be a pretty little ---"

"Slitch," said MMM Myrt.

"--- a pretty little slitch -- no, no, I don't mean that, I mean a pretty little tramp, but she's got just as clear a head as I have."

"That's true. Then I shall be able to give the newspapers such a charming story," said Evan, "about her owning the place and forcing her way into the show. The columnists will love it."

"Two months mmmmm salary did you say?" said Mr. Beagle. "I'll go write out a check."

"No. Money. Tin. Dough." Evan looked somewhat unhappy, as though for the first time in weeks he was really happy. Mr. Beagle looked much less happy, but he trotted off for the money, and to Matt and Mm Myrt spoke with what was, for him, Evanycoff, funereal seriousness:

"You win, you two. I was sick of the shop. Of all the American critics that tell you you're a lilac-scented, and all the London