He was a bulky, rather
phlegmatic looking man, with a parrot-like crest of gray hair. He
did not look up as the girl entered. She stood a moment as if to
control her excitement, then spoke.
"Jeff, I found a million dollars for you this morning."
"Thanks!" said Mr. Baird, still not looking up. "Chuck it down in
the coal cellar, will you? We're littered with the stuff up here."
"On the level, Jeff."
Baird looked up. "On the level?"
"You'll say so."
"Shoot!"
"Well, he's a small-town hick that saved up seventy-two dollars to
come here from Goosewallow, Michigan, to go into pictures-took a
correspondence course in screen--acting and all that, and he went
broke and slept in a property room down in the village all last
week; no eats at all for three, four days. I'd noticed him around
the lot on different sets; something about him that makes you look a
second time. I don't know what it is-kind of innocent and bug-eyed
the way he'd rubber at things, but all the time like as if he
thought he was someone. Well, I keep running across him and pretty
soon I notice he's up against it. He still thinks he's someone, and
is very up-stage if you start to kid him the least bit, but the
signs are there, all right.
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