“I think he looks like the first plume on a hearse.”
“He looks all of that, but try again. Who does he remind you of? Catch this next one in the gambling hell—get the profile and the eyebrows and the chin—there!”
“Why—” Baird chuckled. “I’m a Swede if he don’t look like—”
“You got it!” the girl broke in excitedly. “I knew you would. I didn’t at first, this morning, because he was so hungry and needed a shave, and he darned near had me bawling when he couldn’t hold his cup o’ coffee except with two hands. But what d’you think?—pretty soon he tells me himself that he looks a great deal like Harold Parmalee and wouldn’t mind playing parts like Parmalee, though he prefers Western stuff. Wouldn’t that get you?”
The film was run again so that Baird could study the Gill face in the light of this new knowledge.
“He does, he does, he certainly does—if he don’t look like a No. 9 company of Parmalee I’ll eat that film. Say, Flips, you did find something.”
“Oh, I knew it; didn’t I tell you so?”
“But, listen—does he know he’s funny?”
“Not in a thousand years! He doesn’t know anything’s funny, near as I can make him.”
They were out in the light again, walking slowly back to the Buckeye offices.