[1] Copyright, 1926, by Octavus Roy Cohen.
J. Cæsar Clump, director-in-chief for the Midnight Pictures
Corporation, Inc., of Birmingham, Alabama, reclined in a hammock and
gazed languidly down upon the city of Algiers. He was engaged in the
task of whipping his brain into a subjective state, in order that he
might more efficiently consider a new story idea suggested that
morning by Forcep Swain, Midnight's elegant author.
Physical conditions were ideal. He was surrounded by the vivid
vegetation of the hotel gardens. Overhead the sun streamed warmly
from an unflecked sky. Through the iron grill of the garden gates he
could see the narrow, winding streets of Mustapha Superieur,
fashionable suburb of Algiers: and far below the harbor
stretched--all sapphire and burnished gold, studded with small and
picturesque ships: fishing boats with queer, triangular sails;
decrepit tramp steamers from Gibraltar, Marseilles, Venice, Naples,
Genoa and North African ports; one tremendous liner stopping over in
Algiers for a day in the course of a world cruise.
He extracted from his pocket a package of American cigarettes,
liberally besprinkled with Algerian revenue stamps. He selected one,
lighted it, and luxuriously inhaled the rich Virginia tobacco. He
raised his putteed legs from the ground, settled them comfortably in
the hammock, removed a checkered cap, and closed his eyes in order to
give his thought processes the benefit of full physical comfort.
And then his superb serenity was shattered by a crashing in the
shrubbery and a hoarse voice bellowing his name. Director Clump sat
up and stared with ill-concealed hostility toward the sound.
"Mistuh Clump!" came the harsh, masculine call: "Hey, Cæsar! Where
is you at?"
The director sighed and shook his head. Always when he slipped away
for an hour of undisturbed thought, there was something to destroy
his tranquillity. And usually it was this same person.
He waited resignedly until the enormous figure of Opus Randall,
Midnight's most popular comedian, burst through a hedge of flowers
and confronted him.
Mr. Randall was hot, tired, and indignant. His massive chest was
heaving with exertion, his pudgy face was beaded with perspiration,
and his fat legs trembled.
One glance at the face of the leading actor, and Director Clump knew
that peace had departed for the afternoon. There were times when
Opus was trying beyond the point of endurance--and this was one of
the times. Cæsar Clump assumed a resigned look, waved a languid
hand, and voiced a question.
"Well, Opus--wha's eatin' you now?"
Mr. Randall came close and hovered over the recumbent figure, upon
which he gazed with ill-concealed hostility. His voice quivered with
fury.
"Wha's the matter? Huh! That you could lay down there an' ask me
such!" He doubled one big fist and spanked it into the palm of the
other hand. "I reckon you know as well as me wha's the matter."
"Well, if you know an' I know--then us bofe knows, an' there ain't no
need talkin' about it."
"Gittin' sarcastical, is you? Just like you been doin' ever since us
fust come to Africa. You think you can talk to me like that--an'
ride me all the time when us is workin'--an' gimme dirty work to do.
I's good an' sick an' tired of it, an' I ain't gwine stan' it another
minute."
"What does you aim to do?" inquired the director. His tone was
smooth, but anger was commencing to smolder within the narrow bosom.
"Plenty!"
"What, f'r instant?"
Opus spluttered. He choked. He knew very well there was nothing he
could do--but he hated to be reminded of that fact. Director Clump
saw his opportunity and was quick to press the advantage.
"Now listen at me, Fat Boy. Ever since us left Bumminham you has
been makin' trouble. Nothin' ever suits you. Always you is fightin'
with Florian Slappey or Welford Potts or Aleck Champagne--or
somebody. An' now you comes bustin' in on my solichude yellin'
'cause I has been givin' you some funny scenes----"
"Funny? Great Sufferin' Tripe! Who says they is funny? You reckon
it's funny fo' me that you should chuck me overboard fo' some
fishermen to pull up in a net ... an' then a dawg-gone octopus gits
in that net with me an' I is almost drowned an' besides also scared
to death? I guess you think I just laughed myse'f sick, don't you?
An' was it funny I should fall down them stone steps in the native
quarter this mawnin'? Why di'n't you tell me there was a rope across
that street?"