But she was gone. Another district attorney had the floor.
"Mr. Chaplin, are you a Bolshevik?"
"No."
"Then why are you going to Europe?"
"For a holiday."
"What holiday?"
"Pardon me, folks, but I did not sleep well on the train and I must go to bed."
Like a football player picking a hole in the line, I had seen the bedroom door open and a friendly hand beckon. I made for it. Within I had every opportunity to anticipate the terror that awaited me on my holiday. Not the crowds. I love them. They are friendly and instantaneous. But interviewers! Then we went to the News office, and the trip was accomplished without casualty. There we met photographers. I didn't relish facing them. I hate still pictures.
But it had to be done. I was the judge in the contest and they must have pictures of the judge.
Now I had always pictured a judge as being a rather dignified personage, but I learned about judges from them. Their idea of the way to photograph a judge was to have him standing on his head or with one leg pointing east. They suggested a moustache, a Derby hat, and a cane.