I SUPPOSE I CAN CLAI~WITH LORD BYRON THAT I AWOKE<br >one morning to find myself famous. I had gone to bed at<br >seven thirty of a cool September evening in 1926， exactly one<br >hour before the curtain was to rise on the opening night s<br >performance of Broadway. My telephone rang shortly after<br >eleven o clock， and I heard my press agent， S. N. Behrman，<br >report that the play was a colossal success.<br > "The house lights have been up for almost a minute，" he<br >said， "and they re still applauding the show. I ve never seen<br >anything like it."<br > "Where are you talking from?"<br > "I m in the box office. Can t you hear them?"<br > "Yes， I think so."<br > "It s come off exactly as you predicted. Well， Jed， you are<br >going to be enormously rich. You will have a splendid country<br >house and entertain the great of the world."<br > "The great of this world are all in the next world， Sam，" I<br >said. "Right now I m still famished for sleep."<br > "Better take your receiver off the hook， or you won t get<br > any sleep at all. Good-night."<br > My absence from the Broadhurst Theatre on that reputedly<br > momentous occasion would soon provide the first frail under-<br > pinnings to my "legendary" reputation. In a matter of hours a<br > Broadway columnist would call me to confirm the rumor that<br > I had spent the evening at home asleep "With so much at<br > stake， how could you possibly have done a thing like that?" he<br > said. "It was really quite simple，" I replied. "I took off my<br > clothes， got into bed， and closed my eyes." He subsequently<br > described me as enigmatic.<br ><br >