“It looks bad, Jim! Bad! Anyway you figure it, the result is the same. A financial smash and the sort of failure that doesn’t do your reputation any good in the motion picture business!”
Mr. Hammond was seated in the offices of the Alectrion Film Corporation in conclave with one of his close business associates, James McCarty.
The latter was a jolly red-faced Irishman with an habitual smile wreathing his wide, good-humored mouth. Just now the smile was not in evidence, in consequence of which James McCarty bore a rather close resemblance to a sorrowing kewpie.
Mr. Hammond’s own usually cheerful ruddy countenance was grave and he puffed absently at his cigar, now and then beating a nervous tattoo with his fingers on the edge of his desk. Even without the confirmation of his words it could be seen that the head of the Alectrion Film Corporation was in a state of extreme agitation.
“Anyway you figure it the thing looks bad,” he repeated unhappily.
“Wish I could disagree with you,” said McCarty, with a rueful shake of his head. “But I can’t and still keep my reputation for tellin’ the truth. You’ve had a streak of bad luck that’s uncanny, that’s what I call it.”
“And I’d call it something worse than that,” retorted Mr. Hammond grimly. “There’s the best director I ever had deserting me just at the most critical time and going over to the enemy. I tell you, I’d have thought twice about sinking so much cash in ‘The Girl of Gold’ if I hadn’t depended on Baxter to put it across strong.”
“Davidson would have been your next best bet,” said McCarty mournfully, with a hard pull at his cigar. “I’ve often said he was pretty near as good as Baxter.”
“Yes, and what does he do just at this time?” demanded Mr. Hammond bitterly. “Goes and gets typhoid fever, which puts him out of the picture—literally—for months to come——”
“And you under contract to produce ‘The Girl of Gold’ in six months,” finished McCarty.