He was inclined to laugh; then her naïveté touched him.
“Well, sister,” he said, “if you put it that way—my name is Quiss—Harry B. Quiss. I live in New York—Hotel Huron. You can find me there when I’m not on location or at the studio.... The Crystal Films Corporation. We’re in the telephone book.”
Mr. Quiss might have added that the Crystal Films Corporation was also on its beam-ends. But he couldn’t quite do that. All he could say was: “Better stick to papa while the sticking’s good, girlie. There’s no money in pictures. They all bust sooner or later. Take it from one who’s been blown sky-high more’n twice. And expects to go up more’n twice more.”
He went slowly toward the pool below, gesticulating with his rod for emphasis:
“There’s no money in pictures—not even for stars. I don’t know where it all goes to. Don’t ask me who gets it. I don’t, anyway.”
CHAPTER VI
ON Monday evening at five o’clock the Whitewater herd was ready for milking.
Odell, Ed Lister, and the foreman, Gene Lyford, scrubbed their hands and faces and put on clean white canvas clothes. Clyde Storm, helper, went along the lime-freshened concrete alleys, shaking out bran and tossing in clover-hay. Everywhere in the steel stanchions beautiful Guernsey heads were turned to watch his progress. In the bull-pen the herd-bull pried and butted at the bars. The barn vibrated with his contented lowing.
Calves in their pens came crowding to the bars like herded deer, or went bucketing about, excited to playful combat by the social gathering after an all-day separation.
In the stalls sleek flanks were being wiped down until they glistened like the coats of thoroughbred horses; udders were washed with tepid water; the whole place smelled fresh and clean as a hayfield.