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CHATS WITH THE PLAYERS
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gratulate her upon some portion of her work in stories h*e had written for her for screen portrayal, but the smiling eyes did not give a welcome license to begin conversation, and he was too timid to break the ice. And it was strange how the ice was broken; well worth telling here. A kitten had wander
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about. No one was in sight then, and she climbed the tree. Kitty didn't take kindly to the new company. Florence was a stranger who had never been introduced, and kitty objected. But Florence chatted to it, and it spat back every time her hand went forth. The scribe happened along from a motorboat trip. He heard some one calling his name.
My word ! There was Florence LaBadie perched
ed out into the world from a bed under an old house near the waterfront. Perhaps it was its first time aw ay from its mother's c are. A dog spied it and cut off escape thru the underground pass a g e, and the kitten cut for the nearest shelter, which happened to be a tree
near the shore. It perched on the first branch and looked down upon the fox-terrier, with back raised and tail looking 1 i k e a chimney-sweep 's brush. The snarling bark of the enemy caused the kitten to climb higher, and, after the dog left, the kitten forgot how it got up there. About this time Miss LaBadie came from a swim in Hudson Park. She heard a plaintive) "meow!" and sought out the sound. She located it in the tree and talked baby-talk to it. It failed to dislodge its kittenship. Florence, modest under all conditions, looked
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in the branches of a tree ! The scribe looked about for the camera crowd. She and he were, evidently, the only human beings within forty miles of that particular tree. The writer went to the tree: "Did you call?" Then she pointed to the kitten. Would he help her to dislodge it so that it could get to its mother? Never anything surer, and, altho several years the other side of forty, the scribe climbed the tree, caring naught for the aches and pains that would come with morn