“Take it from me, young man, you’d better worry,” growled Verba morosely.
“But, Verba,” contended Offutt, “there must be somebody loose who’ll fit the part. What with thousands of actors looking for engagements——”
[212]
“Say, Offutt, what’s the use of going over that again?” broke in Verba in a tone which indicated he was prepared to go over it again. “To begin with, there aren’t thousands of actors looking for jobs. There are a few actors looking for jobs—and a few thousand others looking for jobs who only think they can act. Offhand, I can list you just three men fit to play this grandfather part—or four, if you stick in Grainger as an added starter.”
He held up a long, slender hand, ticking off the names on his fingers.
“There’s Warburton, and there’s Pell, and there’s old Gabe Clayton. Warburton’s tied up in the pictures. Damn the movies! They’re stealing everybody worth a hang. I got a swell offer myself yesterday from the Ziegler crowd to direct features for ’em. The letter’s on my desk now. Old Gabe is in a sanitarium taking the rest cure—which means for the time being he’s practically sober, but not available for us or anybody else. And Guy Pell’s under contract to Fructer Brothers, and you know what a swell chance there is of their loaning him to our shop.
“That doesn’t leave anybody but Grainger, who’s so swelled up with conceit that he’s impossible. And, anyhow, he’s too young. Just as I told you yesterday, I only figured him in as a last chance. I don’t want a young fellow playing this part—with his face all messed up with false whiskers and an artificial squeak in [213] his voice. I want an old man—one that looks old and talks old and can play old.
“He’s got to be right or nothing’s right. You may have written this piece, boy; but, by gum, I’m responsible for the way it’s cast, and I want a regular, honest-to-God grandfather. Only,” he added, quoting the tag of a current Broadway story, “only there ain’t no such animal.”
“I still insist, Verba,” put in Offutt, “that you overestimate the importance of the grandfather—he’s only a character bit.”
“Son,” said Verba, “you talk like an author! Maybe you thought he was a bit when you wrote him in; but he’s not. He’s going to carry this play. He’s the axle that the whole action turns on and if he’s wrong the whole thing’s wrong. If he falls down your play falls down.”
“Well, suppose he is,” said Offutt plaintively. The bruised worm was beginning to turn. “Am I to blame because I write a part so human and so lifelike that nobody’s competent to do it?”