"Mr. Swiftbrain—appointment—3.30."
He grabbed a telephone, repeated my claim of an appointment, listened a moment, then waved me to an upholstered chair that looked rather better than the ones from the Kaiser's Throne Room that are now for sale in New York.
"I am to send you in in five minutes!"
I was glad of the respite, for it would enable me to recover my breath. Office boys who were in the waiting-room—ready to "Post o'er land and ocean without rest" in obedience to the autocrat of the switchboard—were so full of the jazz-time spirit of this temple of the movies that they couldn't keep still. Even when resting, their feet beat time to some inaudible, syncopated rhythm.
During my five minutes of probation much business was transacted. Trembling writers of scenarios entered, left their manuscripts, and passed out. Girls with handfuls of documents minced in and out passing from one department to another, and each carried herself with the air of a film queen. Hasty young men registering "urgent business" passed through with the air of a Douglas Fairbanks or Dustin Farnum. Their well-tailored coat-tails streamed back like the robes of Hyperion when
"His flaming robes streamed out beyond his heels
And gave a roar as if of earthly fire."
Suddenly I heard the snap of a gold watch-case and an authoritative arm shot out, pointing to the door through which the main traffic was passing.
"Down to the far end! Turn to the left!—Room Umpty-Umph!"
Rising as if from a catapult I fell in step behind a hasty edition of Fatty Arbuckle. When I reached the properly numbered door and opened it, I was met by a man who knew my name and business. He registered "welcome" and waved me to a chair. I accepted the courtesy and registered "attention." He bounced back into his swivel chair and registered "candor." And he was astonishingly candid.