“She ees being dressed—”
“Vell, speed her up! I got no time. I got—Jesus Christ!”
“Yes, exactly,” said Mary Magna.
The great man of the pictures stood rooted to the spot. “Vot's dis? Some joke you people playin' on me?” He shot a suspicious glance from one to another of us.
“No,” said Mary, “he's real. Honest to God!”
“Oh! You bring him for an engagement. Vell, I don't do no business outside my office. Send him to see Lipsky in de mornin'.”
“He hasn't asked for an engagement,” said Mary.
“Oh, he ain't. Vell, vot's he hangin' about for? Been gittin' a permanent vave? Ha, ha, ha!”
“Cut it out, Abey,” said Mary Magna. “This is a gentleman, and you must be decent. Mr. Carpenter, meet Mr. T-S.”
“Carpenter, eh? Vell, Mr. Carpenter, if I vas to make a picture vit you I gotta spend a million dollars on it—you know you can't make no cheap skate picture fer a ting like dat, if you do you got a piece o' cheese. It'd gotta be a costume picture, and you got shoost as much show to market vun o' dem today as you got vit a pauper's funeral. I spend all dat money, and no show to git it back, and den you actors tink I'm makin' ten million a veek off you—”