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 friend, adding, You're looking fine, Jack, better than I've ever seen you.

Oh, I'm cured, Jack said. I only stay here now because I like it. You'll like it too.

I'm sure I shall, Ambrose replied sincerely.

The playwright sat down before the table laden with silver and turquoise and studied his friend sitting opposite. Jack was certainly tall and handsome, his mass of yellow hair brushed straight back from his high brow, his blue eyes frankly returning Ambrose's stare. Yet there was an unhealthy, if becoming, flush on the cheek-bones, while elsewhere his face seemed to be of an unnatural pallor. Ambrose wondered if Jack were actually cured.

I've had one hell of a time in Hollywood, Jack, was what he found to say.

You can't make my temperature rise by telling me that. What the devil ever gave you the wild idea of turning yourself loose in that bunch of steers?

I never had the idea, Jack, Ambrose was glad to confess. I was practically kidnapped.

He related the substance of his experiences on the train going west.

Jack rocked with laughter.

Tell me more! he cried. Tell me more of this simply idiotic story. It's the huskiest scream I've