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 actually they made him ill—but he did not refuse this one.

You don't know. . . ? There was awe in the magnate's voice. In reply to a button he pushed on his desk, a secretary entered almost instantaneously. Griesheimer entrusted a heap of papers to him with the instruction, Tell Dick Ruby I'll see him in thirty minutes.

The secretary vanished noiselessly while Griesheimer leaned forward and said, Now, Mr. Deacon, will you please say that again.

Ambrose, extremely uncomfortable in a very comfortable huge leather arm-chair, nervously twisted the brim of his hat.

I said, he reiterated, that I don't think I can write stories for the films. I never saw any moving pictures, he went on wildly.

Never saw no pictures! I wonder if you're making the mistake so many of these young smart alecks make today of not taking pictures seriously. I wonder if you know, Mr. Deacon, that this is America's fourth largest industry and probably will be, probably will be, I say, the greatest of the world's arts. Why, we're working in raw material we don't know about ourselves yet, it's so vast, it's so great, it's so unprecedented. . . . Griesheimer, having delivered