“Robert or John or Henry, what’s the odds?” countered Mr. Liebermann, and shrugged. “Are you, anyhow, so sure it was Robert? Seems to me—”
“Am I sure? Oh, Lord!” With an effort Mr. Gillespie regained control of his feelings. “The poet I am thinking of was the American poet, Bret Harte. And Harte wrote a poem about old John Burns of Gettysburg. I don’t believe that even you ever read that particular poem, Milt.” His elaborated sarcasm was lost, though, on Mr. Liebermann. “Anyhow, I’m going to introduce the character of John Burns into the main battle-shots. And this old-timer of mine is going to play him. We can use extracts from the poem for the sub-titles. That’s what I came over to tell you, Lobel, not to discuss with our cultured friend here whether the noblest poet that ever lived—a genius that every school child in this country should be familiar with—was named Robert Burns or Oscar Burns or Isadore Burns. By the way, have either of you seen Herzog this morning? He hasn’t been on the set, or if he has I missed him. I want to send him in to Hollywood to the address where the old boy’s stopping.”
Herzog may have been a capable assistant-director—the film world so acclaimed him—but as an emissary his performances might be open to criticism as lacking in some of the subtler shadings of diplomacy.
All went smoothly at the meeting in Mrs. H. Spicer’s parlor until after he delivered the purport of his superior’s message, Captain Teal harkening attentively.
“Very well, sir,” said the Captain. “I am indebted to you, sir, for bringing me this summons. Kindly present my compliments to Mr. Gillespie and inform him that I shall report for duty tomorrow morning promptly on the hour named.”
“He ain’t waiting for any compliments, I guess,” said Herzog. “What he wants is for you to be there on time so’s we can give you the dope on the bit you’re going to play and get you measured for the clothes and all. Did I mention to you that you’re cast for a battle scene? Well, you are. Possibly you seen some of this here war-stuff in your day, eh?”
“Sir,” said the Captain stiffly, “I had four years of service in a heroic struggle such as this world never before had seen. Permit me to ask you a question: Possibly—I say possibly—you may have heard of the War Between the Sections for the Southern Confederacy?”
“Well, if I did, it wasn’t by that name,” confessed the tactless Mr. Herzog. “What’s the diff’, if I did or I didn’t?”