VII
"Hello, Billy! Who's your good-looking friend?" Rosythe was in full
sail before a breeze of his own making.
How could I answer. "Why--er--"
The stranger spoke. "They call me Carpenter."
"Ah!" said the critic. "Mr. Carpenter, delighted to meet you." He
gave the stranger a hearty grip of the hand. "Are you on location?"
"Location?" said the other; and Rosythe shot an arrow of laughter
towards me. Perhaps he knew about the vagaries of my Aunt Caroline;
anyhow, he would have a fantastic tale to tell about me, and was
going to exploit it to the limit!
I made a pitiful attempt to protect my dignity. "Mr. Carpenter has
just arrived," I began--
"Just arrived, hey?" said the critic. "Oviparous, viviparous, or
oviviparous?" He raised his hand; actually, in the glory of his wit,
he was going to clap the stranger on the shoulder!
But his hand stayed in the air. Such a look as came on Carpenter's
face! "Hush!" he commanded. "Be silent!" And then: "Any man will
join in laughter; but who will join in disease?"
"Hey?" said Rosythe; and it was my turn to grin.
"Mr. Carpenter has just done me a great service," I explained. "I
got badly mauled in the mob--"
"Oh!" cried the other. "At the Excelsior Theatre!" Here was
something to talk about, to cover his bewilderment. "So you were in
it! I was watching them just now."
"Are they still at it?"
"Sure thing!"
"A fine set of boobs," I began--
"Boobs, nothing!" broke in the other. "What do you suppose they're
doing?"
"Saving us from Hun propaganda, so they told me."
"The hell of a lot they care about Hun propaganda! They are earning
five dollars a head."
"What?"
"Sure as you're born!"
"You really know that?"
"Know it? Pete Dailey was at a meeting of the Motion Picture
Directors' Association last night, and it was arranged to put up the
money and hire them. They're a lot of studio bums, doing a real mob
scene on a real location!"
"Well, I'll be damned!" I said. "And what about the police?"
"Police?" laughed the critic. "Would you expect the police to work
free when the soldiers are paid? Why, Jesus Christ----"
"I beg pardon?" said Carpenter.
"Why--er--" said Rosythe; and stopped, completely bluffed.
"You ought not swear," I remarked, gravely; and then, "I must
explain. I got pounded by that mob; I was knocked quite silly, and
this gentleman found me, and healed me in a wonderful way."
"Oh!" said the critic, with genuine interest. "Mind cure, hey? What
line?"
I was about to reply, but Carpenter, it appeared, was able to take
care of himself. "The line of love," he answered, gently.
"See here, Rosythe," I broke in, "I can't stand on the street. I'm
beginning to feel seedy again. I think I'll have a taxi."
"No," said the critic. "Come with me. I'm on the way to pick up the
missus. Right around the corner--a fine place to rest." And without
further ado he took me by the arm and led me along. He was a
good-hearted chap inside; his rowdyisms were just the weapons of his
profession. We went into an office building, and entered an
elevator. I did not know the building, or the offices we came to.
Rosythe pushed open a door, and I saw before me a spacious parlor,
with birds of paradise of the female sex lounging in upholstered
chairs. I was led to a vast plush sofa, and sank into it with a sigh
of relief.
The stranger stood beside me, and put his hand on my head once more.
It was truly a miracle, how the whirling and roaring ceased, and
peace came back to me; it must have shown in my face, for the moving
picture critic of the Western City "Times" stood watching me with a
quizzical smile playing over his face. I could read his thoughts, as
well as if he had uttered them: "Regular Svengali stuff, by God!"
