“I’ve got a confession to make, Bruce.”
“Confession!” he said. “What confession?”
“You remember that skit on the film you wrote and gave me about six weeks ago?”
“No.”
“Yes, you do—about an Octoroon.”
He chuckled. “Oh! ah! That!”
I took a deep breath, and went on:
“Well, I sold it; and the price of course belongs to you.”
“What? Who’d print a thing like that?”