Anson, the actor, was sunning himself on the New York Rialto the other morning while other actors out of a job were gunning for the price of a breakfast. Along came a spare man with eyeglasses, a papier mache appearance, and a locomotor ataxia walk, a cross between a strut and a stutter, his left hand twiddling the dangling elastic of his glasses, his nose high in the air like a well-bred aristocrat. Abreast of him was a flush-faced man, voluminous of pod, and self-importance.