thought that was the end of 'em, but I couldn't think my way into a clean collar!
Gettin' exactly no service from me, this magic-lantern director turns his attentions to the half-wit of our party, Ptomaine Joe. Every time I sent the silly Ptomaine into town for somethin' we needed, Hubert and Myrtle promoted him unbeknownst to me. They fussed all over the big banana, let him watch 'em "shootin'" their idiotical movie from a place right beside the camera, introduced him to all the female members of the troupe, and told him it was a rotten shame he took up boxin' instead of pictures, as they could plainly see by viewin' him that a wonderful actor was lost to the public. You can imagine the effect all this hokum had on a guy like Ptomaine, which as usual had crashed wildly in love with Myrtle the first time he looked at this panic. Here he was bein' allowed the rare boon of seein' a movie bein' made from the inside, caperin' around with the beautiful bathin' girls durin' his spare moments and bein' heartily assured by one and all that he was the crocodile's watch fob! A few days of this thomas foolery and Ptomaine was walkin' on air. He didn't know what it was all about, but he's as happy as a girl with her first engagement ring and useless to me at our camp.
As a further bribe to Mr. Ptomaine—already sold, if they only knew it—Myrtle hung around this gil continuously, even goin' to the extent of posin' for publicity photos with him. In return, Ptomaine told her he was the greatest scrapper since Cain, had fought 386 battles, only lost one, and that with a heavily
