parents and they put me up very comfortably in a big bright room with Hazel. One of Peter's choice collection of brothers was sprawled all over the kitchen table, ravenously reading a three-year-old-magazine.
"Here, Frequent!" called his father. "Take the lady's grips upstairs!"
"Frequent?" I says, trying not to laugh in his son's weird features. "Isn't that a queer name for a human being?"
"Wal, you see, I was the eighth child," explained Frequent—and passed up the stairs with my suitcases.
In a few days I'd fitted myself into the gay life on the farm as if I'd never lived anywhere else, really. I resumed my acquaintance with Mr. Daft and Royal Underwood Corona, who battled furiously day and night over the constant changes the director kept making in Royal's novel while filming it. In fact, Royal barked and meowed that Mr. Daft had put everything into the picture but the battle of Chickamauga and all that was left of Royal's original story was its name. In return, Mr. Daft coolly told the raging Royal that the company had bought his book, "My Wife's Husband," for its box-office title only and not for the story, which neither Mr. Daft nor anybody connected with him had read or had the slightest intention of reading. At that, Royal rushed out of the house tear-
