corpse because it "wasn't the type!" etc., etc. and even etc!
Their thrilling plunge into the silent drama had disgusted Jerry Murphy and Pete Kift with hotel life. They were now a couple of artistes and all through with the St. Moe, so they thereupon got rosy with the manager and he promptly checked them out. By stating their pitiful case to Mr. Daft I managed to get them jobs as extras until he had finished with "Why Marry Your Husband?" at least. Knowing nothing of my intercession for them, they blew into the St. Moe one afternoon arm in arm and putting on dog like a sales person with her first engagement ring.
I pretended not to know what they were doing for an existence and they loftily informed me they were in pictures now, as Mr. Daft had quickly recognized their genius after seeing them in the hotel scene in his movie and had engaged them at exorbitant wages on the spot before Mr. D. Griffith could snatch them up. Really, this was a scream to me, especially as neither of 'em knew any more about the movies than they did about the Koran and were as out of place in a picture as a yacht on the desert. I'm positive they thought Alice Lake was a swimming pool!
"We're certainly sorry to see you still tied to the old switchboard and us on the top of the ladder, kid," says Jerry, looking around the lobby with a self-satisfied
