Potter." Tinker came forward to the orchestra
railing.
"I've been thinking about this play, Mr. Tinker," Potter said,
shaking his head despondently. "I don't know about it. I'm very,
very doubtful about it." He peered over Tinker's head, squinting
his eyes, and seemed for the first time to be aware of the
playwright's presence. "Oh, are you there, Mr. Canby? When did
you come in?"
"I've been here all the time," said the dishevelled Canby,
coming forward. "I supposed it was my business to be here, but-"
"Very glad to have you if you wish," Potter interrupted
gloomily. "Any time. Any time you like. I was just telling Mr.
Tinker that I don't know about your play. I don't know if it'll
do at all."
"If you'd play it," Canby began, "the way I wrote it--"
"In the first place," Potter said with sudden vehemence, "it
lacks Punch! Where's your Punch in this play, Mr. Canby? Where
is there any Punch whatever in the whole four acts? Surely,
after this rehearsal, you don't mean to claim that the first act
has one single ounce of Punch in it!"
"But you've twisted this act all round," the unhappy young man
protested.
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