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' Somewhat flabbergasted, Gooddorf leaned back in his swivel chair. But they were too late--Pat Hobby could stand no more. "Where does he think--" The studio policeman pushed past; Wilson pushed past--two aghast men from another table rushed up to survey the situation. He was going to finish the script by himself and hand it to Berners with the statement that Wilcox had not contributed a single line. He blew up when he was half through and went on a twenty-four-hour bat--and next morning arrived back at the studio to find a message that Mr. Pat was in a sick and confused state when his door opened and René Wilcox came in with a typescript in one hand, and a copy of Berners' note in the other. Fear started his mind working--he was struck by his first original idea since he had been on the job. He had another drink, bought breath tablets and for awhile amused himself at the nickel machine in the drugstore. "This afternoon I got an important angle to work on. Had a quarrel with a certain young lady just before he came, but today Hobby brought us together. So give him to me--you fellows don't want him any more." Berners picked up his secretary's phone. Men who had once had wives and Filipinos and swimming pools. Above all things one must stick around, one must be there when the glazed, tired mind of the producer grappled with the question 'Who? As the sun grew hotter moment by moment, Pat Hobby took refuge under the faint protection of the umbrella and inspected a soiled folder which had been dropped by Mr Venske. But he wanted a place to sit a minute so with a knock he pushed it open. 'Well, that's very--very original advice, Mr Hobby.' 'Pat Hobby,' he said. Man I came to see is at lunch.' He sat down across from her and picked up a copy of a photo magazine. He had an idea about a man who meets a girl in an office and he thinks she's a stenographer but she turns out to be a writer. So that's the notion,' he concluded after five minutes. He was to repair a messy sequence in a hurry, but the word "hurry" neither frightened nor inspired him for Pat had been in Hollywood since he was thirty--now he was forty-nine. There was a guard there but there were always people passing to and fro and he joined one of the groups. Well, for all I know you may be a plain clothes man.' He held open a copy of a photo magazine under Pat's nose. But to lose it to an enemy, or at least to one who has become scapegoat for our misfortunes--that is a hardship. Any resemblance must be faint and far-fetched and he was aware of the fact. He aimed a blow at Pat which missed and landed full in Mr Smith's mouth. 'I got to get to work,' he told Miss Raudenbush at eleven. He looked at her with infinite reproach and went out in front of the Writers' Building. The sultry person was tall and of a fine carriage, dressed in excellent English clothes except for a turban. The projector on one side of the screen and the camera on the other were so synchronized that the result could show a star standing on his head before an indifferent crowd on 42nd Street--a real crowd and a real star--and the poor eye could only conclude that it was being deluded and never quite guess how. As they moved softly forward Pat heard the word 'Lights' and stopped in his tracks. ' screamed a voice, 'What the living, blazing hell! I'd rather swing.' He turned away, his face set, and started toward the door. I won't say anything about this afternoon.' When he had gone, Pat and Helen sat in silence. But the good old silent days you got somebody's plot and a smart secretary and gulped benzedrine 'structure' at her six or eight hours every week. After talkies came he always teamed up with some man who wrote dialogue. 'I've got a list of credits second to none,' he told Jack Berners. We can't put a man on salary unless he's got an idea.' 'How can you get ideas off salary? There it was again--that name, sinister and remorseless, spreading like a dark cloud over all his skies. And she divorced you in 1927 when I was a few months old. But I'd like to see her.' It was one of those bad days for showing people around. 'It's your last chance.' Suddenly he was amazed to see Helen Kagle spring up and run after Gooddorf--try to throw her arms around him. But you were an amusing guy in those days, and besides we were all too busy.' Pat sniffled suddenly. 'Plenty.' 'But too late,' said Gooddorf, and added, 'you've probably got a new Christmas wish by now, and I'll grant it to you. For Lou also, the studio had been home for many years. He was a writer but he had never written much, nor even read all the 'originals' he worked from, because it made his head bang to read much. 'They want I should meet this new Orson Welles that's in Hollywood.' 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They were sending over a new one any minute--but she would scarcely expect a present the first day. Her secret, he considered, was a very valuable asset, and he wondered how many careers had turned on just such an asset. 'Usually.' He seemed about to add more when a call boy entered with an envelope and handed it to Helen Kagle--whereupon Harry turned and hurried out. ' burst forth Miss Kagle, after opening the envelope. 'You the head of a script department, me an associate producer. 'And as for a written confession--I've got it.' 'I doubt you. You've been taken in.' 'I've seen it,' said Pat with growing confidence. As for just sitting down anywhere, even with secretaries or extras--Pat would rather catch a sandwich at the corner. And in the commissary, where they were placed hard by the Big Table, his producer, Max Leam, looked up, did a little "takem" and winked. I didn't know Ronald Colman looked like that." Pat pointed suddenly to the floor. " She jumped and Pat laughed at his joke--but Helen Earle was already staring starry-eyed at the costume extras who filled the hall with the colors of the First Empire. "Well, Max Leam--that man facing us--Max Leam and I have a script about a Doc. So this doctor in the script he tells them to boil some water. And now he would have to take the rap--because Walter Herrick was powerful and popular, a three thousand a week man who wrote hit shows in New York. "I took a chance in sending for you," said Jack Berners. Wilcox is inexperienced and that's where you come in. It did not seem to him that it had been love--but looking at her now, that appeared rather too bad. And it was that way for three straight days--one was asleep or else the other--and sometimes both. "I have two brothers in the Guards." "You're lucky to be here in Hollywood." "That's as it may be." "Well, what's your idea of the start of the picture? It gives me an almost physical nausea." "So then, we got to have something in its place. 'Just speak to his secretary.' After a minute the man turned from the phone. The problem, be it one of health or of production, is faced courageously and with groans at from one to five thousand a week. 'But this one has got me down,' said Mr Banizon, '--because how did the artillery shell get in the trunk of Claudette Colbert or Betty Field or whoever we decide to use? 'The worse part of it is that Woll told me the ending,' continued the producer. Or rather he was pretty sure that when his week was up he would have lost it anyhow.Waiting for her, he walked the corridor, glancing into open offices for signs of life. 'Buck and Mexicans approaching the hyacenda.' 'The what? Some, he felt sure, had been thus raised to affluence. It's the young squirts who ought to do the writing--I ought to do more supervising.' 'Or--? He was in the midst of his day dream when Harry Gooddorf unexpectedly walked in. His smile was less robust when he saw Helen, 'Oh, hello Helen--didn't know you and Pat had got together. 'Ten bucks--just ten bucks--from an executive--after eighteen years.' It was Pat's chance. We're on the gravy train for life--no more writing--no more pounding the keys. ' 'No--but I've got some information about your doings on that date.' Gooddorf's face reddened; for a moment it looked as if he were going to throw Pat out of the room--then suddenly he gasped, licked his lips and stared at his desk. 'And it's enough to hang you.' 'Well, by God, if there's any publicity I'll run you out of town.' 'You'll run me out of town.' 'I don't want any publicity.' 'Then I think you'd better come along with me. ' 'I know a bar where we can be alone.' The Muncherie was in fact deserted, save for the bartender and Helen Kagle who sat at a table, jumpy with alarm. Detouring to the Red Cross Station he asked for the doctor. Then I'll come back." She had finished, and now she turned--vivid and young and with a bright consoling smile. I'm about to go to lunch." He was aware of an old, old feeling--left over from the time when he had had wives--a feeling that to invite this little beauty to lunch might cause trouble. The nurse--her name was Helen Earle--peered about eagerly. Pat was piqued to see her interest go out to these nonentities. He says, 'Boil some water--lots of it.' And we were wondering what the people would do then." "Why--they'd probably boil it," Helen said, and then, somewhat confused by the question, "What people? "They told me sit anywhere." He beckoned a waitress--who hesitated, looking for an answer in the faces of her superiors. "But there's a job that you just may be able to help out with." Though Pat Hobby was not offended, either as man or writer, a formal protest was called for. I've got more screen credits than a dog has got fleas." "Maybe I chose the wrong word," said Jack. About money we'll pay you just what Republic paid you last month--three-fifty a week. You used to be a good man for structure." "Used to be! What kind of collaborating can a man do if he walks out? On the fourth day they had several conferences in which Pat again put forward his idea about the war as a regenerating force for ballet dancers. That's why I want to plant the war--" "I'm late to luncheon," said René Wilcox. We got to explain it so the audience will believe it.' He was in the office of Louie the studio bookie and his present audience also included Pat Hobby, venerable script-stooge of forty-nine. But though it was a pretty bad break he remembered most clearly from the afternoon that Sir Singrim was 'the third richest man in India', and after dinner at a bar on La Cienega he decided to go down to the Ambassador Hotel and find out the result of the prayer and meditation. The Ambassador was full of memories to Pat--the Coconut Grove in the great days, when directors found pretty girls in the afternoon and made stars of them by night.