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MONTAGUE OR CAPULET 63
edly inspirational, cheer-up-and-chuckle speech by giving out with more sizzlers.
Finally the sequence was shot and the Bowery bums were delivered back to their favorite saloon, each with a five-dollar bill clutched in his hand. A few weeks later the picture was finished and released. Immediately letters of protest began to pour into the Triangle offices from deaf people, societies of deaf mutes, and various reform organizations. Anybody who understood lip reading knew that Doug was not making the sort of cute cracks to those booze fighters that the subtitles indicated. The company had to recall all the prints of the picture and get a lip reader to help edit out the ribaldry.
At the time we were working in the Fairbanks picture Ned Hay and I lived at 102 West Forty-fourth Street, just a few doors from the Lambs Club, in a room that cost us six dollars and fifty cents a week. When work was over for the day, we would dash for home, put on our best clothes, don our spats, take our walking sticks, and sally forth to wait in front of the Lambs Club for Dudley and Johnny. Then, after chatting for a few moments before the Lambs in order to give passing pedestrians the impression that we were prosperous members, we would stroll down Fortyfourth Street to the Claridge bar.
This was the gathering place for the masculine celebrities of Broadway. Any night we were likely to see William and Dustin Farnum, Lowell Sherman, Willard Mack, Arnold Daly, Caruso, Willie Collier, and many others. John Barrymore was almost as familiar a face in Claridge's bar as the bartender.
We four would step up to the brass rail and order a round of beers. One of us, with a gesture of largess, would pay for the first round. When that one was consumed, the next man would say, "Another round of beers, bartender."
Sometimes there would be a friendly argument as to who would pay.
"This one's on me."
"No, no. This is my treat."