"Well, well!" says he. "The illustrious and illuminating Torchy! Don't tell me you've just bought the estate?"
"Would it matter to you who owned it," says I, "if you wanted to use it bad?"
"Such cruel suspicions!" says he. "Sir, my permit!"
He's got it, straight enough—a note to the lodge-keeper, signed by Mrs. Vernon Markley, and statin' that the Unexcelled Film Company was to have the courtesy of the grounds any afternoon between the 15th and 25th.
"You see," explains Whitey, "we're staging an old English costume piece, and this Greek theater of Mrs. Markley's just fits in. Our president worked the deal for us. And we've got to do a thousand feet between now and five o'clock. Not in the same line, are you?"
And he glances towards our crowd, that's pilin' out of the cars and gazin' puzzled towards us.
"Do we look it?" says I. "No, what we was plannin' to pull off here was a weddin'. That's the groom there—my boss, Mr. Robert Ellins."
"Bob Ellins!" says Whitey. "Whe-e-ew!"
"Mrs. Markley must have forgot," says I. "Makes it kind of awkward for us, though."
"But see here," says Whitey. "A real wedding, you say? Why, that's odd! That's our stunt, with merry villagers and all that stuff. Now, say, why couldn't we—— Let's see! Do you suppose Mr. Ellins would mind if——"