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Updated: May 2, 2025
"Weather cuts no figure with this matter. You know what I mean. What's the decision?" Luck scowled at the pretty girl on his wall calendar, and began to rub his right foot with the left and to curse the janitor with that part of his brain not occupied with the conversation. "Well, listen. You come out to the office, after awhile, and we'll go into this matter calmly," begged Martinson.
Certainly it was an urgent request that he return immediately to Los Angeles and to his old place at the Acme, and produce Western pictures under no supervision whatever. Luck gave a little chuckle when he pocketed that message, but he did not send any answer. He meant to wait and talk it over with the boys first. "Better proposition than before," Martinson said.
I never saw you square up to anything but the same old dime-novel West before. I wanted to see how it would hit you." "Well, it don't." Martinson waited a minute while that sunk in. When he spoke again, his manner was that of a man who has dismissed a disagreeable subject, and has taken up important business. "We've made quite a haul since you left. A bunch of one-reelers from Bently Brown.
"Yes, sir," replied Martinson, simply. "That's my position here." "This Mr. Pinkerton that runs this agency he wouldn't be about this place, now, would he?" asked Butler, carefully. "I'd like to talk to him personally, if I might, meaning no offense to you." "Mr. Pinkerton is in Chicago at present," replied Mr. Martinson. "I don't expect him back for a week or ten days.
It's tryin' to save her I am. It's him I want." He suddenly closed one big fist forcefully. Martinson, who had two daughters of his own, observed the suggestive movement. "I understand how you feel, Mr. Butler," he observed. "I am a father myself. We'll do all we can for you.
I'll take it as a great favor, and pay you well." "Never mind about that, Mr. Butler," replied Martinson. "You're welcome to anything this concern can do for you at its ordinary rates." He showed Butler to the door, and the old man went out. He was feeling very depressed over this very shabby. To think he should have to put detectives on the track of his Aileen, his daughter!
Martinson had spent an unpleasant evening with Bently Brown, or so he declared. He had called up several stockholders of the Acme, and had talked the matter over with them, and "Well, cut the preamble, Mart," snapped Luck, trying to warm one foot by rubbing it with the other one. "Do I go on with the work, or don't I?" "From the looks of the weather " Mart began to temporize.
"It's all tommyrot, of course. I don't say it's good; I say it's the stuff that goes. We're here to make what the public will pay to look at." Martinson, besides keeping his finger on the public pulse and attending to the marketing of the Acme wares and watching that expenses did not run too high, found a little time in which to be human.
"It's a wonder you wouldn't have jarred loose from some of that wisdom," Luck observed tartly. "You never gave me any dope at all on this Bently Brown person. You handed me the junk he stung you on and believe me, as drama he'd have stung you with it as a present! you handed it to me to film. I made the most of it." "You made a mess of it," Martinson corrected peevishly.
Knowing this, you will know also why he swore. Martinson thrust out his under lip at the oath, and tossed the script neatly into the clear space on the desk. "Oh, if that's the way you feel about it!" His tone was trenchant. "Sorry I offered any suggestions. There are some good bits, if they're worked up right, and I naturally supposed you wanted my opinion." "I did.
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