"Although I can't say," he adds, "that at all times I enjoyed being pulled out of bed at 2 a.m. to act as judge of an ethical debate between a fuddled cab-driver and a star halfback who had been celebrating a football victory. I fear I considered Bob's sense of humor somewhat overdeveloped. Just like him, running off like this. I trust the affair is not going to be made too unconventional."
I winks at Vee.
"Only an open-air performance," says I, "with maybe a little cheerin' music to liven things up. His instructions are to have it merry."
"Ah, yes!" says the Reverend Percy. "Quite so. I understand."
If he did he was a better guesser than me. For I was more or less at sea. We hadn't more than whirled in through the stone gate-posts of Harbor Hill, too, than I begun to scent complications. For there, lined up in front of the house, are four other machines, with a whole mob of people around 'em.
"Why!" says Vee. "Who can they be?"
"Looks like someone had beaten us to it," says I. "I'll go do some scoutin'."
Course, one close-up look is all that's needed. It's a movie outfit. I'm just gettin' hot under the collar, too, when I discovers that the gent in charge is none other than my old newspaper friend, Whitey Weeks. I'd heard how he'd gone into the film game as stage director, but I hadn't seen him at it yet. And here he is, big as life, wearin' a suit of noisy plaids as usual, and bossin' this assorted bunch of screen favorites like he'd done it all his life.
"A little lively with those grease-paints now, ladies," he's callin' out. "This isn't for a next spring release, you know."
"Huh!" says I, strollin' up. "Got the same old nerve with you, eh, Whitey?"