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An Unprintable Interview With Miss Cowl 305
“Ah, yes, pompano,” I say with full, enriched voice. “He’s always been one of my favorite fishes; even superior to the sand-dab, don’t you think, Miss Cowl?”
“He could lick the sand-dab any day in a stand-up fight,” says Jane, splendidly — “he’s twice as big.”
And yet this girl who can co-write plays as humanly as she acts them will sit on a gold chair and tell you that the lighter, the colloquial, the catch-ascatch-can interview (I try to think of it as the human interview) is not for her!
Listen, girls — it’s coming out how Jane’s histrionic talent was first exhibited to the world; it’s coming out with the — wait till I ask.
“Jane,” I say, “what is this delectable bird?” “Guinea fowl — I couldn’t get any prairie chicken.” “And the ebony trimming?”
“A mere truffle,” says Jane.
So there you know what it’s coming out with. “I’m Boston born,” Jane confesses, “and mother used to drag me home from New York on the Fall River boat — to show the relatives what a big, nice girl I was for three. And one day on the boat she lost me; she lost me for thirty minutes. And just when they were going to stop the boat and drag the river, mother found me — in the salon. I was holding a derby hat half full of money and was surrounded by a hundred laughing men.
“ ‘How did you get that money?’ mother demanded. “I showed her. I coughed and dramatically spat in, or at, one of the large bright brass cuspidors that ornamented the salon. I had, it seems, been strangely interested in the expectorant feats of an elderly tobacco-chewing gentleman. I had followed and