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 that these bozos agree to pay you a certain amount—and it's not an amount you can afford to sneeze at—whether they produce your funny piece or not. If they decide it's suitable for production, they pay you as much more. It isn't too late, is it?

Ambrose's eyes opened more widely as his surprise increased.

Too late for what? he asked.

Too late to sign, although I don't know but you'd better see Schwarzstein first and play one against the other, Jack mused.

I won't do it, Jack. I can't do it.

Hell! How many times have I got to tell you that doesn't make any difference. They think you can! Sign the papers and turn in the story of Little Red Riding Hood or Cinderella—that's always good hokum—or the Chicago fire or Tristan and Isolde: it really doesn't matter. In the end they'll probably use it and pay you the whole sum mentioned and then you can go and live in Persia or whereeverwherever [sic] you want to spend your riper years.

But Jack, when you heard I was going to Hollywood you telegraphed me that you thought I was crazy.

So I did. I believe it now. When I saw that telegram I had an idea that you yourself had conceived