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IT STINKS
ment which might ease the mental effort from the toil of storywriting.
"What a crabby killjoy you are, Horatio." Edgar spat at the cuspidor disgustedly. "Always puncturing anybody's ideabubble, with that lousy pet line of yours, before it gets the slightest chance for life. Order!" he yelled.
Edgar Savage was the scenario chief and could yell back at anyone. Plus his position, he was proud of several brain children in the form of what he called original stories, which were declared boxoffice successes.
"Furthermore," Edgar continued with some dignity, "that pet line used to be funny when you first pulled it. Now it's shopworn. Get somethin' new." After snapping his black eyes around the table, he concluded commandingly : "Now let's have quiet an' get going. Am I right, boys?"
"Right as hell, Edgar!" Ham Edwards exclaimed through uneven gold. "Somebody's goin' tuh give Horatio a permanent wave sometime for that crack of his."
Ham Edwards was a short, squint-eyed, canny individual who always wore a tattered straw hat when in conference — for luck, he declared. But in reality it afforded him an opportunity to lean back in his comfortable chair with the luck hat over his eyes, and while assuming the attitude of thinking, to snatch a nap of forty winks many times during the long afternoons. He was second in command; was also a successful writer, even if his stuff was drivel. The name Ham had stayed with him since his acting days, when he had been much younger and less rotund.
"Now listen, an' get it, Horatio!" Jay chimed in, a thin, redhaired man of forty-two — a lesser light, fearful of his job. "We
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