At this juncture Reece and Brouke romped in from the kitchen, each with a bottle. The host was following, expostulating.
"Have a drink, everybody!" cried Brouke. "The party's goin' stale."
They passed about the room filling up glasses with neat bourbon or gin; sometimes they mixed them. They paused occasionally to take a drink themselves. Finally they disappeared into the hallway looking for other empty glasses.
"Well," demanded Potkin, after the interruption had passed, "how about it?"
Clayton eyed him questioningly. "How about what?"
"I'm going to make a jungle picture," explained Potkin. "I got a contract for a Tarzan picture, and I want a Tarzan. I'll make a test of you tomorrow morning."
"You think I might fill the rôle of Tarzan of the Apes?" inquired Clayton, as a faint smile touched his lips.
"You ain't just what I want, but you might do. You see, Mr. Puant, here, can write a swell Tarzan story even if we ain't got no Tarzan at all. And, say! it will make you. You ought almost to pay me for such a chance. But I tell you what I do; I like you, Mr. Clayton; I give you fifty dollars a week, and look at all the publicity you get that it don't cost you nothing. You be over at the studio in the morning; and I make a test of you, eh?"
Clayton stood up. "I'll think it over," he said and started across the room.
A good-looking young woman came running in from the reception hall, Brouke was pursuing her. "Leave me alone, you cad!" she cried.