Jimmy arrived at the Lyric Theatre in that glow of exultant feeling which every great artist should feel when driven to accomplishment by the urge of a great imaginative idea. He dashed through the lobby, pushed his way through a swinging door adjoining the ticket window marked “Manager’s Office” and leaned over a desk at which was seated a slender man with what might be called the old-young face, a face on which disillusionment and blase boredom seemed indelibly stamped. This was George Seymour, manager of the theatre, popularly known among traveling press agents as the “human icicle” because of his inborn and inherent distaste for humanity as a whole and for publicity men in particular. Mr. Seymour was going over a set of plans for the remodeling of the entrance of the theatre with an architect, and seemed supremely busy, but this little detail didn’t phase Jimmy.

“Well, Georgie, old man,” he said breezily, “here we are back again and this time we’ve brought the big idea along for a little visit. I want you to meet him.”

He slipped his hat down on the blueprint in front of Mr. Seymour, completely obliterating the graceful outlines of the architect’s new front elevation and swung himself up to a seat on the edge of the desk. A dangerous glint crept into Mr. Seymour’s eyes as he unconsciously fingered a heavy brass paperweight to the right of Jimmy’s hat.

“Perhaps,” he said in a voice whose quiet intensity was deadly in its menace, “perhaps you may not have noticed that I’m busy, Mr. Martin. I’m not interested in any big ideas just now except the one I’m discussing with this gentleman.”

“Forget that,” said Jimmy jauntily, pulling a cigar out of his pocket and lighting it while Mr. Seymour glowered at him. “That’s just an old blueprint for some improvement or other that can wait. My big idea can’t wait. I’ve got to put it over right now. And you’ve got to help me.”

Mr. Seymour’s architect, a precise man unused to such unceremonious business methods, laughed quietly.

“I guess, Seymour,” he said, “you’d better hear what he has to say. I’ve got a few minutes to spare. I’ll go into the next room. Persistence seems to be this gentleman’s middle name.”

Mr. Seymour, loathe to give in, looked around helplessly. Jimmy leaned over and deftly flecked a bit of cigar ashes from the lapel of the manager’s coat, a manoeuvre which sent his stock down ten points more.

“Stick around, old man,” he said pleasantly to the architect. “I don’t mind if you hear what I’ve got to say and I’m sure Georgie won’t either.”

“Don’t Georgie me, my friend,” replied Seymour, “state your business and get it over with. The only way I can get rid of you without calling for the police, I suppose, is to listen to you.”

“Well, it’s this way,” said Jimmie eagerly. “I’ve got to smear the Frolics girls all over the front page of one of your newspapers, and I’ve got an idea how to do it. Now don’t stop and pull that ‘it can’t be done’ gag on me. That’s the pet line of every house manager from Bangor, Maine, to San Diego. Every time you spring a new one they throw up their mitts and tell you that ‘it can’t be done.’ Clean the sand out of your running gear and go along with me on this one for once in your life.”

Mr. Seymour raised a protesting hand and tried to break in, but Jimmy rattled on.

“I’m going to pull a story,” he continued, “that a bunch of prominent members of the Washington Automobile Club are going to take all the girls for a joy ride next Sunday morning to a point midway between Washington and Baltimore and that another bunch of leading citizens—members of the automobile club of your own fair city are going to pick ’em up there in their cars and bring ’em into town. Ain’t it a great little idea?”

A sardonic smile brightened the face of the cynical Mr. Seymour.

“It’s certainly a great little idea, Mr. Martin,” he said, “and I have no doubt that all the city editors in town will be so grateful to you for letting them in on the story that they will have gold medals struck off commemorating the event.”

The underlying sarcasm of this speech did not check Jimmy’s enthusiasm.

“Of course, someone will have to stand for the story,” he said. “I’m not going up cold to any paper with a yarn like that and expect ’em to fall for it, without some confirmation. What I want you to do is to tip me off to some friend of yours, some nice, agreeable party who’s a member of the club and whose name carries a lot of class, a party who’s a good enough scout to help a fellow in a pinch. I’ll talk him into standing for the yarn, and slipping me a list of names. Can’t you suggest someone?”

Mr. Seymour’s eyes gleamed maliciously. He leaned over and grasped Jimmy’s arm in a pretense of great friendliness.

“I know just the man,” he said, “just the man.”

“Well, spill his name,” replied Jimmy. “I’ll get to him before lunch.”

“Donald McDonald’s the man,” said Mr. Seymour. “He’s the vice-president of the club and the president of the Merchant’s Trust Company. He’s a jovial, jolly, good fellow who’d be tickled to death to stand for a stunt like that. Just mention my name. There’s no doubt in the world, but what he’ll help us out. Is there, Larabee?”

Mr. Larabee, the architect, who was having a desperate time trying to smother a chuckle, assumed an expression of great wisdom and remarked:

“You couldn’t have suggested a better choice, Seymour.”

“His office is on the eleventh floor of the Merchants’ Trust building,” broke in Seymour. “Two blocks down and one block to the right.”

Jimmy jumped down from the desk, jabbed on his hat and started for the door.

“Thanks, fellows, for the tip,” he called back over his shoulder. “I’ll see you in a little while.”

As the door swung after him Seymour turned to Larabee and burst into a Mephistophelian laugh that would have been a credit to the late Lewis Morrison.

“Larabee,” he said. “They’ll pick him up in pieces down on Eleventh street just two minutes after he hits McDonald’s office. Can you imagine anyone going to that old boy with a fool proposition like that? Can you imagine it!”

“You certainly picked the last man in the world,” agreed Larabee. “Chorus girls and automobiles to meet ’em and a theatrical press agent. My God, Seymour, I really believe he won’t live long enough to even tell the doctor his name.”

It was mid-afternoon when Jimmy Martin returned to the Lyric Theatre. He breezed into George Seymour’s office with a grin on his face and an air of assurance that rather flabbergasted the manager.

“Well, Georgie,” he said, “you certainly gave me the right dope. I landed buttered side up. Fine fellow, McDonald. Great personality. Best little old scout I’ve met in years.”

“You saw him?” gasped Seymour incredulously.

“Saw him?” echoed Jimmy. “I should say I did. I lunched with him over at the Bankers’ Club and I’ve been out for a ride on the boulevard with him in his car. Fixed me up all right and he’s going to stand for everything.”

“What brand of dope is that you use, Martin?” inquired the manager sarcastically. “I’d like to recommend it to some of my friends.”

“Come down off the flying rings, Georgie,” retorted Jimmy. “What are you up in the air about? Didn’t you sic me onto him and didn’t he run to form just as you said he would. How’s this for a reception committee?”

Jimmy reached in his coat pocket and drew out a folded piece of paper.

“Some class to that bird,” he said. “He had the little old stenographer write it out for me. Here’s the names: Jonathan Wilde, president of the Kewanee Packing Company; Judson Davis, secretary and general manager of the Twistwool Knitting Company; Horace Chadwick, president of the Oystermen’s First National Bank; Col. Hannibal Roundtree, president of the Carrolton Country Club; Jefferson Tait, retired gentleman; Henry Quinby Blugsden, Maximilian Hendricks, Marshall....”

“Stop,” shouted Seymour. “You mean to tell me that McDonald gave you that list of names and said he’d stand for it?”

“You can play that three ways, Georgie,” responded Jimmy, shoving the paper under the other’s nose. “There’s the list on his own personal stationery. This is the reception committee that’s going to motor out Sunday morning to bring our flossy frails into your beautiful city. At least my friend McDonald says they are and of course, I’ve got to take his word. So have the papers. I gather he’s some important person.”

“Of course he is,” replied the dazed manager. “Of course he is—one of the biggest citizens in town. And that list—why that list just reeks with distinction. I can’t understand it. That crowd meeting chorus girls? Why the idea is—well, it’s just impossible. That’s the only word!”

“Gosh, if that’s the way you feel about it the darned thing must be going to develop into a bear of a story. Speaking for myself, I never met up with old James K. Impossible. He doesn’t belong to any of my clubs and whenever I think I see him coming I duck up a side street.”

“If you get any paper to stand for that story,” said Seymour, “it’ll stir up the whole town.”

“That’s where I belong,” replied the press agent jauntily. “Stirring up towns is one of the best little things I do. Choose your exit door, Georgie. I’m going to plant this yarn tonight and the intense excitement will begin to develop in the morning.”

He swung briskly out of the office and Seymour sat down, tried to figure the thing out. Somehow he couldn’t.