this, if you ain't sewed up with Baird yet, the Bigart people would like to talk a little business to you. How about it?"
"Business?" Mr. Armytage fairly exploded this. He was unhappy and puzzled; in consequence, unamiable.
"Sure, business," confirmed Mr. Walberg. "I understand you just finished another five-reeler for the Buckeye outfit, but how about some stuff for us now? We can give you as good a company as that one last night and a good line of comedy. We got a gag man that simply never gets to the end of his string. He's doping out something right now that would fit you like a glove—and say, it would be a great idea to kind a' specialize in that spur act of yours. That got over big. We could work it in again. An act like that's good for a million laughs."
Mr. Armytage eyed Mr. Walberg coldly. Even Mr. Walberg felt an extensive area of glaciation setting in.
"I wouldn't think of it," said the actor, still gruffly.
"Do you mean that you can't come to the Bigart at all on any proposition?"
"That's what I mean," confirmed Mr. Armytage.
"Would three hundred and fifty a week interest you?"
"No," said Mr. Armytage, though he gulped twice before achieving it.
Mr. Walberg reported to his people that this Armytage lad was one hard-boiled proposition. He'd seen lots of 'em in his time, but this bird was a wonder.
Yet Mr. Armytage was not really so granitic of nature as the Bigart emissary had thought him. He had begun the interview with a smouldering resentment due to a misapprehension; he had been outraged by a suggestion that the spurs be again put to their offensive use; and he had been stunned by an offer of three hundred and fifty dollars a week. That was all.
Here was a new angle to the puzzles that distracted him. He was not only praised by the witless, but he had been found desirable by certain discerning overlords of filmdom.
