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Updated: June 2, 2025
"You laughed," Luck pointed out laconically. Then his eyes twinkled suddenly. "'Laugh and the world laughs with you," he quoted shamelessly, and took a long, satisfying suck at his cigar. "The world won't step up and pay damages to Bently Brown," Martinson reminded him, "if that picture is released as it stands. How many have you made, so far?"
"What's he mean sue the company'?" "He means sue the company," Martinson retorted grimly. "That clause in the contract where we agree to produce his stories in a manner befitting the quality and fame of these several stories in fiction; he's got grounds for action there, and he's going to make the most of it. He's sore, anyway.
Luck had no qualms of conscience, either for his treatment of Martinson and his overtures, or for his disturbances of five other perfectly inoffensive movie managers. He dressed with mechanical precision and with his mind shuttling back and forth from his Big Picture to the possibilities of his next position.
He had taken some trouble in smoothing down the ruffled temper of Bently Brown, even before viewing the trial run of the picture. Martinson hated disputes as a cat hates to walk in fresh-fallen snow, and the parting tirade of Bently Brown had affected him unpleasantly.
There's a man there, a banker by the name of Cowperwood Frank A. Cowperwood " "Wait a moment," said Martinson, drawing an ample pad out of his pocket and producing a lead-pencil; "I want to get that. How do you spell it?" Butler told him. "Yes; now go on." "He has a place in Third Street Frank A. Cowperwood any one can show you where it is. He's just failed there recently."
"Oh, that's the man," interpolated Martinson. "I've heard of him. He's mixed up in some city embezzlement case over there. I suppose the reason you didn't go to our Philadelphia office is because you didn't want our local men over there to know anything about it. Isn't that it?" "That's the man, and that's the reason," said Butler. "I don't care to have anything of this known in Philadelphy.
The old man got up as he said this, very positive, very rugged. "And don't send me men that haven't sinse lots of it, plase. I want men that are fathers, if you've got 'em and that have sinse enough to hold their tongues not b'ys." "I understand, Mr. Butler," Martinson replied. "Depend on it, you'll have the best we have, and you can trust them. They'll be discreet. You can depend on that.
He was dressed in a suit of dark-brown wool cloth, which struck Butler as peculiarly showy, and wore a large horseshoe diamond pin. The old man himself invariably wore conservative gray. "How do you do?" said Butler, when a boy ushered him into the presence of this worthy, whose name was Martinson Gilbert Martinson, of American and Irish extraction.
He was not sure that he would, even now. He wanted to "look these fellys over," as he said in his mind. He would decide then what he wanted to do. He went to one of the windows and looked down into the street, where there was a perfect swirl of omnibuses and vehicles of all sorts. Mr. Martinson quietly closed the door. "Now then, if there's anything I can do for you," Mr. Martinson paused.
Once start along a smooth trail, and everything seems to conspire toward a pleasant trip. To prove it, Luck found another telegram waiting for him in Albuquerque. This was from Martinson, and might be interpreted as an apology more or less abject.
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