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Another of Photoplay^s Fiction Contest Stories —
TOSCHA EMANUEL strode through the theaterbound crowds of Broadway with a gait of grandeur and majesty becoming his stature and magnificence. He luunmed and whistled a dash of a lightsome ditty as he hurried along. There was sparkle in the air with a glittering fall of a tiny thin snow that picked up the flashings of the billion and one lights of the alluring, dazzling, commanding signs of the street that is the midway of a nation.
Toscha was in a hurry, for in fifteen minutes he was to go on for his number at the Cajjalto where his rich, sonorous barytone added distinction to an ornate program of motion picture presentation. The theater was three minutes away and there were yet twelve minutes, he calculated by his wrist watch, in which to array himself in the formal dress of the soloist and stand ready for the rising curtain. That would be a pleasant moment. There would be a li\'ely hand of greeting, then an adoring silence as they waited for the opening notes, of his song.
The singer had lingered long at Weisberger's cafe over the kalbsnierenbraten with compote, and the glorious pfannkuchen with app\e sauce and the great beaker of coffee, lingering and regretting circumstance that made him hurry away when another whole ten minutes of luxurious loaf might as well have remained. Luxury in little things, things so small as an extra dessert and coffee, meant a \ ast deal to Emanuel. This biting circumstance of haste he deprecated so thoroughly was a matter of trivial precaution tied up with other troubles more or less minor, but formidable in the moments of their arising.
Those terrible creditors! They were the authors of all his woes. Toscha could view them only as unrelenting persecutors who i)ersisted in interposing unreasonable claims in the way of his comfortable living and comfortable pursuit of the career his god-given voice had laid open to him.
The grasping scoundrels! Now there was Sherman, the dealer who with no patience at all and only three months waiting for the second installment, had come and stripped Toscha's apartment in Sixty-fifth street of its magnificence of Persian ohjet d' art and period furnishings of the Grand Rapids renaissance. Thus at one
tragic blow he had been reduced from studio life down a whole ten blocks to a Fifty-fifth street rooming house in a row of sadly weathered brownstone fronts of decayed status.
And now this very day Pushkin the bootmaker had sent the last order C. O. D., and a collection of delayed mail forwarded
Toscha burst into song A stillness fell over tKe courtroom.
PISTOLS and
A taie of an ofF-stage drama of Broadway.
from the old address had brought an entire progressive serie^ letters from Sadoff the tailor threatening to take the v4 clothes off his back.
Wei! There was no justice in this land. Had he not gone Nate Kosenblum the lawyer at a cost of ten doUars.only to'
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