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Updated: June 2, 2025
He excused himself from the chair between Martinson and Mollie Ryan, the stenographer, and went over to confer with the Happy Family and the dried little man who kept clannishly together as usual, and he forgot to return to his place.
He was sorry chiefly because he had been compelled to use such mild language over the telephone. It would be almost worth a trip to the office just to tell Martinson without stint what he thought of him and all his works.
He opened a desk drawer, and took out a bundle of folded scripts tied with a dingy blue tape. Martinson was a matter-of-fact man; he really did not understand just how much Luck's new story meant to its author. If he had, he surely would not have been quite so brisk and so frankly elated over that untidy lot of Bently Brown scenarios.
Martinson, Thornton's youthful hero at the Camberton Theological School, would meet them in his episcopal robes on the little green in front of the church, and then the party, not more than a dozen, could walk together into the bare old building, and in the solemn quiet of the country noon complete the marriage. A quiet dinner, and then away from the Four Corners. But it could not be so.
Being human, intensely so in some ways, the first set of prints they turned out Luck sent to Los Angeles with a mental godspeed and a hope that Bently Brown and Martinson would see it and "get wise to what a real Western picture looked like."
"Scanlon," interpolated Butler, easily; "that's as good a name as any if you want to use one. I'm keepin' me own to meself for the present." "Scanlon," continued Martinson, easily. "I really don't care whether it's your right name or not. I was just going to say that it might not be necessary to have your right name under any circumstances it all depends upon what you want to know.
Luck, smoking a cigarette absent-mindedly by the window while he stared out across two vacant lots to a tawdry apartment house, and saw a sage-covered plain instead of what was before his eyes, started from his daydream and glanced at Martinson inquiringly. "Well, what do you think of it?" he asked. Martinson cleared his throat again, and shuffled the typed sheets in his hands.
For a full two minutes Luck smoked and did not speak, and as he had done once before, Martinson repented his harshness when it was too late. "Personally, your version struck me as awfully funny," he began placatingly. "Who gives a cuss how it struck you personally?" Luck stood up with unexpected haste.
He had been so proud of Aileen. A dark, smoldering rage burned in his heart against Cowperwood. "A relative of yours possibly, I suppose," remarked Martinson, tactfully. "You needn't tell me any more just give me a description if you wish. We may be able to work from that." He saw quite clearly what a fine old citizen in his way he was dealing with here, and also that the man was greatly troubled.
He crawled out again, this time dragging the bedspread with him for drapery. "H'l-lo!" There was no compromise in his voice, which was guttural. "Luck? This is Martinson. You are to retake all of the Bently Brown pictures which you have made so far, under the personal supervision of Bently Brown himself, who will pass upon all film before accepted by the company. This is final." "Martinson?
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