closer.

“Join the army,” said Dale contemptuously, “I got no time for mixing it up. I got to make a picture.” His eyes fell on Pat. “Hello old-timer.”

“Hello Dick,” said Pat smiling. Then knowing the advantage of the psychological moment he took his chance.

“When do we work?” he said.

“How much?” Dick Dale asked the shoeshine boy—and to Pat, “It’s all done. I promised Mabel a screen credit for a long time. Look me up some day when you got an idea.”

He hailed someone by the barber shop and hurried off. Hudson and Hobby, men of letters who had never met, regarded each other. There were tears of anger in Hudson’s eyes.

“Authors get a tough break out here,” Pat said sympathetically. “They never ought to come.”

“Who’d make up the stories—these feebs?”

“Well anyhow, not authors,” said Pat. “They don’t want authors. They want writers—like me.”