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THE DUKE OF BROOKLYN 43
Mr. Sheer, it seemed, was sending a company of actors to Florida to shoot a picture. They were to leave in a few days. He looked me over carefully. I twirled my mustache and exposed my profile. He wasn't sure, but Miss Collins persisted. I was just the type. Finally Mr. Sheer got down to business. Did I have a wardrobe?
I owned exactly two suits, but I assured Mr. Sheer that I had a complete wardrobe.
"Tails?"
"Naturally."
"Cutaway?"
"But of course."
"Sport clothes?"
"Certainly/'
"The salary is seventy-five a week," said Mr. Sheer. "Report to my office at ten o'clock on Tuesday morning."
When Father heard the news, he threw up his hands. What manner of son had he spawned? Hadn't I frittered away enough time at this movie nonsense? Hadn't we already settled this foolishness?
I explained to him about the fortune I was to get— seventyfive dollars a week! For a moment he was nonplused, but then he brushed the money aside. It was temporary. There was no future for a ham actor— one day flush, the next day broke. Did I want to become a no-good, a dead beat, a hobo? But I was stubborn. I had my mother's Irish blood and her silent backing, too. Dead beat or hobo, I still wanted to be an actor. So finally, with a shrug that lifted his coattails practically to his shoulder blades. Father accepted the inevitable, and Mother once more packed my bag.
"If anything goes wrong," she said, "come home for a good meal. We've plenty to eat, praise the Lord, if nothing else."