“Does it?”
“Just exactly.”
“What is it?”
“Well—it’s a sort of protector.”
A slight draught of uneasiness blew in Pat’s mind.
“Protector for what? Against the explosion?”
“Heck no! The explosion is phony—just a process shot. This is something else.”
“What is it?” persisted Pat. “If I got to be protected against something I got a right to know what it is.”
Near the false front of a warehouse a battery of cameras were getting into position. George Hilliard came suddenly out of a group and toward Pat and putting his arm on his shoulder steered him toward the actors’ dressing tent. Once inside he handed Pat a flask.
“Have a drink, old man.”
Pat took a long pull.
“There’s a bit of business, Pat,” Hilliard said, “needs some new costuming. I’ll explain it while they dress you.”
Pat was divested of coat and vest, his trousers were loosened and in an instant a hinged iron doublet was fastened about his middle, extending from his armpits to his crotch very much like a plaster cast.
“This is the very finest strongest iron, Pat,” Hilliard assured him. “The very best in tensile strength and resistance. It was built in Pittsburgh.”
Pat suddenly resisted the attempts of two dressers to pull his trousers up over the thing and to slip on his coat and vest.
“What’s it for?” he demanded, arms flailing. “I want to know. You’re not going to shoot at me if that’s what—”
“No shooting.”
“Then what IS it? I’m no stunt man—”
“You signed a contract just like McCarthy’s to do anything within reason—and our lawyers have certified this.”
“What IS it?” Pat’s mouth was dry.
“It’s an automobile.”
“You’re going to hit me with an automobile.”
“Give me a chance to tell you,” begged Hilliard. “Nobody’s going to hit you. The auto’s going to pass over you, that’s all. This case is so strong—”
“Oh no!” said Pat. “Oh no!” He tore at the iron corselet. “Not on your—”
George Hilliard pinioned his arms firmly.
“Pat, you almost wrecked this picture once—you’re not going to do it again. Be a man.”
“That’s what I’m going to be. You’re not going to squash me out flat like that extra last month.”
He broke off. Behind Hilliard he saw a face he knew—a hateful and dreaded face—that of the collector for the North Hollywood Finance and Loan Company. Over in the parking lot stood his coupe, faithful pal and servant since 1934, companion of his misfortunes, his only certain home.
“Either you fill your contract,” said George Hilliard, “—or you’re out of pictures for keeps.”
The man from the finance company had taken a step forward. Pat turned to Hilliard.
“Will you loan me—” he faltered, “—will you advance me twenty-five dollars?”
“Sure,” said Hilliard.
Pat spoke fiercely to the credit man:
“You hear that? You’ll get your money, but if this thing breaks, my death’ll be on your head.”
The next few minutes passed in a dream. He heard Hilliard’s last instructions as they walked from the tent. Pat was to be lying in a shallow ditch to touch off the dynamite—and then the hero would drive the car slowly across his middle. Pat listened dimly. A picture of himself, cracked like an egg by the factory wall, lay a-thwart his mind.
He picked up the torch and lay down in the ditch. Afar off he heard the call “Quiet”, then Hilliard’s voice and the noise of the car warming up.
“Action!” called someone. There was the sound of the car growing nearer—louder. And then Pat Hobby knew no more.
IV
When he awoke it was dark and quiet. For some moments he failed to recognize his whereabouts. Then he saw that stars were out in the California sky and that he was somewhere alone—no—he was held tight in someone’s arms. But the arms were of iron and he realized that he was still in the metallic casing. And then it all came back to him—up to the moment when he heard the approach of the car.
As far as he could determine he was unhurt—but why out here and alone?
He struggled to get up but found it was impossible and after a horrified moment he let out a cry for help. For five minutes he called out at intervals until finally a voice came from far away; and assistance arrived in the form of a studio policeman.
“What is it fella? A drop too much?”
“Hell no,” cried Pat. “I was in the shooting this afternoon. It was a lousy trick to go off and leave me in this ditch.”
“They must have forgot you in the excitement.”
“Forgot me! I was the excitement. If you don’t believe me then feel what I got on!”
The cop helped him to his feet.
“They was upset,” he explained. “A star don’t break his leg every day.”
“What’s that? Did something happen?”
“Well, as I heard, he was supposed to drive the car at a bump and the car turned over and broke his leg. They had to stop shooting and they’re all kind of gloomy.”
“And they leave me inside this—this stove. How do I get it off tonight? How’m I going to drive my car?”
But for all his rage Pat felt a certain fierce pride. He was Something in this set-up—someone to be reckoned with after years of neglect. He had managed to hold up the picture once more.
