“We’re both up against it for fair,” I said; “and we’ll have to get in the ice-cutting business right away.  As I told you, this Signor Petroskinski is the marvel of the age, and we can simply coin money with him.  Two thousand dollars will start the driving wheels—­gi’ me your thousand and I’ll put it with mine.”

Bunch dug out his last bundle of big bills and I gave him the partnership articles I had framed up.

“We’ll open up in New Rochelle,” I said, “next Thursday night.  Charlie Osgood is a friend of mine and he’s laid out a gilt-edged route for me.  Mamaroneck Friday night, and then into Cos Cob for Saturday matinee and night.”

“That doesn’t sound like a glad hosannah to me!” Bunch grumbled.

“What, Cos Cob!” I answered.  “It’s aces.  Charlie Osgood says Cos Cob is a great Saturday night town because it’s pay-day at the gas works.  From there we jump to Green’s Farms for the Monday night show.”

“Is that place really on the map?” Bunch asked.

“Sure it is,” I said.  “Charlie says it’s a good Monday night town because two through freights lay over there till daylight.  Tuesday night we have to double back to Greenwich, and that’s where Charlie gave us the bum deal.  This gag of chasing us back over the same route is rotten, because somebody may be sitting up for us with a rock.  But Charlie says Greenwich has developed into a great show town since five new families’ moved there last summer.  Wednesday we get into Stamford for a run—­two performances.  Friday we are booked at South Norwalk and Saturday we play matinee and night at Saugatuck Junction.  Charlie says Saugatuck is a cinch money-maker because it’s a Junction.  When I asked him what there is about a Junction that makes it a safe play Charlie excused himself and went to lunch.  After Saugatuck we are not booked, because Charlie says something may fall down in New York and he may want to yank us right in.  And, say, if Signor Petroskinski, the Illusionist and Worker of Mystical Magic, ever gets a crack at a Broadway audience it’ll be a case of us matching John D. Rockefeller to see who has the most money.”

“No, we better not bring Skinski into New York,” Bunch advised.  “I’m afraid of the critics.”

“What critics?” I inquired.  “There are only four people in New York city who can write criticisms—­the rest of the bunch are slush-dealers, and a knock from any one of them is a boost.”

“I mean Mr. Stale,” Bunch put in.  “If he were to roast our Skinski it might hurt our business.”

“It would—­among the Swedes and Hungarians,” I cross-countered.  “I’m wise to Mr. Stale, nee Cohenheimer, the Human Harpoon!  Say, Bunch! he’s a joke.  I caught him the day he first left the blacksmith shop, some ten years ago, with a boathook in each hand and a toasting fork between his teeth.  That duck isn’t a critic, he’s only a Foofoo.”

“What the devil is a Foofoo?” Bunch asked.