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Updated: May 20, 2025
For a week or more the stricken financier confined himself mostly to his rooms, where he sat smoking cigarettes, gazing at Japanese prints, and trying not to think about "props" and "rehl."
Rehl. $105.50"? What was "Cuts . . . $15"? And what in the name of everything infernal was this item for "Frames," in which mysterious luxury he had apparently indulged to the extent of ninety-four dollars and fifty cents? "Props" occurred on the list no fewer than seventeen times.
Was he, the man who, after planking down thirty-two thousand eight hundred and fifty-nine dollars, sixty-eight cents for "props" and "frames" and "rehl," had sold out for a paltry ten thousand, to be still further victimized? "They do deserve it, don't they, after working so hard?" "It's impossible," said Otis Pilkington vehemently. "Out of the question."
They had massacred his beautiful play, and, doing so, had not even made a success of it by their own sordid commercial lights. Business at Baltimore had been rotten! That meant more expense, further columns of figures with "frames" and "rehl" in front of them! He staggered into the station. "Hey!" cried the taxi-driver. Otis Pilkington turned. "Sixty-five cents, mister, if you please!
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