There is an old Chaplin picture about a crowded street car where the entrance of one man at the rear forces another out in front. A similar image came into Pat’s mind in the ensuing days whenever he thought of Orson Welles. Welles was in; Hobby was out. Never before had the studio been barred to Pat and though Welles was on another lot it seemed as if his large body, pushing in brashly from nowhere, had edged Pat out the gate.

‘Now where do you go?’ Pat thought. He had worked in the other studios but they were not his. At this studio he never felt unemployed — in recent times of stress he had eaten property food on its stages — half a cold lobster during a scene from The Divine Miss Carstairs; he had often slept on the sets and last winter made use of a Chesterfield overcoat from the costume department. Orson Welles had no business edging him out of this. Orson Welles belonged with the rest of the snobs back in New York.

On the third day he was frantic with gloom. He had sent note after note to Jack Berners and even asked Louie to intercede — now word came that Jack had left town. There were so few friends left. Desolate, he stood in front of the automobile gate with a crowd of staring children, feeling that he had reached the end at last.

A great limousine rolled out, in the back of which Pat recognized the great overstuffed Roman face of Harold Marcus. The car rolled toward the children and, as one of them ran in front of it, slowed down. The old man spoke into the tube and the car halted. He leaned out blinking.

‘Is there no policeman here?’ he asked of Pat.

‘No, Mr Marcus,’ said Pat quickly. ‘There should be. I’m Pat Hobby, the writer — could you give me a lift down the street?’

It was unprecedented — it was an act of desperation but Pat’s need was great.

Mr Marcus looked at him closely.

‘Oh yes, I remember you,’ he said. ‘Get in.’

He might possibly have meant get up in front with the chauffeur. Pat compromised by opening one of the little seats. Mr Marcus was one of the most powerful men in the whole picture world. He did not occupy himself with production any longer. He spent most of his time rocking from coast to coast on fast trains, merging and launching, launching and merging, like a much divorced woman.

‘Some day those children’ll get hurt.’

‘Yes, Mr Marcus,’ agreed Pat heartily, ‘Mr Marcus —’

‘They ought to have a policeman there.’

‘Yes. Mr Marcus. Mr Marcus —’

‘Hm-m-m!’ said Mr Marcus. ‘Where do you want to be dropped?’

Pat geared h............