I call for help. He will have to see my personal representative, Mr. Robinson.
He says, "I won't take 'No' for an answer."
And I let him know that the only thing he isn't going to do on the trip is to photograph me. I explain that it would be a violation of contract with the First National exhibitors.
"I have been assigned to photograph you and I'm going to photograph you," he says. And then he told me of his other camera conquests, of his various experiences with politicians who did not want to be photographed.
"I had to break through the palace walls to photograph the King of England, but I got him. Also had quite a time with Foch, but I have his face in celluloid now." And he smiled as he deprecatingly looked up and down my somewhat small and slight figure.
This is the last straw. I defy him to photograph me. For from now on I have made up my mind that I am going to lock myself in my cabin—I'll fool him.
But my whole evening is spoiled. I go to bed cursing the motion-picture industry, the makers of film, and those responsible for camera men. Why did I take the trip? What is it all for? It has gotten beyond me already and it is my trip, my vacation.
It is early, and I decide to read a bit. I pick up a booklet of poems by Claude McKay, a young negro poet who is writing splendid verse of the inspired sort. Reading a few of his gems, my own annoyances seem puny and almost childish.
I read:
The Tropics of New York.