The stage hands were busy rolling in trunks which express-men had dumped on the sidewalk, the electrician was busy mentally rehearsing light effects according to the formula on a printed light plot which was being explained to him by a performer.  “Props” was busy trying to satisfy everyone with what he had on hand, or good-naturedly sending out for what had not been clearly specified on the property plot.  The spot-light man in the gallery out front was busy getting his lamp ready for the matinee, and consulting his light plot.  And the stage-manager was quite the busiest one of them all, shoving his scenery here and there to make room for the newly arrived sets, directing the flying of the hanging stuff, and settling questions with the directness of a czar.

Suddenly through the caverny house sounded the noise of the orchestra tuning up.  The leader appeared and greeted the performers he knew like long lost brothers and sisters, and then Brass Check Number One dropped into his hand, and the Monday morning rehearsal began.  Then it was that Mr. Author learned that it is not the acts, which are rehearsed on Monday morning, it is the vaudeville orchestra, and the light men and “Props.”

This was borne in forcibly when Mr. Producer arrived with the performers and “Success” went into rehearsal.  Although the entire staff of the theatre had been rehearsed the night before at the final dress rehearsal, Mr. Producer wished to change some lights, to instruct “Props” more clearly, and to jack up the orchestra into perfection.  Therefore they all went through the act once more.  Then the scrub-women appeared and demanded the centre of the stage with great swishes of watery cloths.  The curtain came down to hide the stage from the front of the house, and the first early comers of the audience filtered in.

Mr. Author has never been able to recall just how “Success” played that first performance.  He has dim memories of a throbbing heart, fears that lines would be forgotten or the whole “big” scene fall to pieces; and finally of a vast relief when the curtain came down, amid—­applause.  The curtain went up and came down a number of times, but Mr. Author was too busy pinching himself to make sure that he wasn’t dreaming, to count how many curtains the act took.

It seemed to him like a tremendous hit, but Mr. Producer was in a rage.  There were scores of points that had not “got over,” half a dozen of his finest effects had been ruined, and he was bound those points should “get over,” and those effects shine out clear and big.

Looking back on that week, Mr. Author recalls it as a nightmare of changes.  They cut out speeches, and changed speeches, and took out bits of business, and added new bits—­they changed everything in the act, and some of the changes they changed back again, until by Saturday the act was hardly to be recognized.  And then they played two more performances to crowded houses that applauded like madmen; and Mr. Producer smiled for the first time.