“My uncle says his brother wanted to do something for you. He thought perhaps if you were a great writer he might invite you to come to his kingdom and write his life.”
“I never claimed to be—”
“My uncle says you are an ignominious writer—in your own land you permitted him to be touched by those dogs of the policemen.”
“Aw—bananas,” muttered Pat uncomfortably.
“He says my mother always wished you well. But now she is a high and sacred lady and should never see you again. He says we will go to our chambers in the Ambassador Hotel and meditate and pray and let you know what we decide.”
When they were released, and the two moguls were escorted apologetically to their car by a studio yes-man, it seemed to Pat that it had been pretty well decided already. He was angry. For the sake of getting his son a peek at Miss Granville, he had quite possibly lost his job—though he didn’t really think so. Or rather he was pretty sure that when his week was up he would have lost it anyhow. 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.
It was early dark of a September evening. 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. There was some activity in front of the door and Pat watched it idly. Such a quantity of baggage he had seldom seen, even in the train of Gloria Swanson or Joan Crawford. Then he started as he saw two or three men in turbans moving around among the baggage. So—they were running out on him.
Sir Singrim Dak Raj and his nephew Prince John, both pulling on gloves as if at a command, appeared at the door, as Pat stepped forward out of the darkness.
“Taking a powder, eh?” he said. “Say, when you get back there, tell them that one American could lick—”
“I have left a note for you,” said Prince John, turning from his Uncle’s side. “I say, you WERE nice this afternoon and it really was too bad.”
“Yes, it was,” agreed Pat.
“But we are providing for you,” John said. “After our prayers we decided that you will receive fifty sovereigns a month—two hundred and fifty dollars—for the rest of your natural life.”
“What will I have to do for it?” questioned Pat suspiciously.
“It will only be withdrawn in case—”
John leaned and whispered in Pat’s ear, and relief crept into Pat’s eyes. The condition had nothing to do with drink and blondes, really nothing to do with him at all.
John began to get in the limousine.
“Goodbye, putative father,” he said, almost with affection.
Pat stood looking after him.
“Goodbye son,” he said. He stood watching the limousine go out of sight. Then he turned away—feeling like—like Stella Dallas. There were tears in his eyes.
Potato Father—whatever that meant. After some consideration he added to himself: it’s better than not being a father at all.
IV
He awoke late next afternoon with a happy hangover—the cause of which he could not determine until young John’s voice seemed to spring into his ears, repeating: “Fifty sovereigns a month, with just one condition—that it be withdrawn in case of war, when all revenues of our state will revert to the British Empire.”
With a cry Pat sprang to the door. No Los Angeles Times lay against it, no Examiner—only Toddy’s Daily Form Sheet. He searched the orange pages frantically. Below the form sheets, the past performances, the endless oracles for endless racetracks, his eye was caught by a one-inch item:
LONDON. SEPTEMBER 3RD. ON THIS MORNING’S DECLARATION BY CHAMBERLAIN, DOUGIE CABLES “ENGLAND TO WIN. FRANCE TO PLACE. RUSSIA TO SHOW”.
