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Fredric March says, "I might have been a gangster!" He stole. He was a hellion. Mothers who weep and pray over bad children— read this
March as the noble-looking Browning of "The Barretts of Wimpole Street."
FREDRIC MARCH was what we call, nowadays, a problem child. He was considerably worse than mischievous. The neighbors weren't fooling when they opined that he'd never escape hanging. Nowadays, if parents have a problem child and enough money, they call in a psychiatrist and have the child's mental innards overhauled. But if they haven't enough money or cannot get hold of one of these mind-doctors, the father usually administers lickings and the mother sheds bitter tears and prays pathetic prayers and wonders whatever will become of her boy. Or, perhaps, if they are really sensible about it, they summon their faith in the good Lord and the potent influence of a good home to set the young divil on the right path. Look back upon your own youth. Perhaps you did some pretty terrible things. So do most young people — especially boys. Listen to Fred's story, as he told it to me.
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Fredric March crumpled the motion picture' section of a newspaper, crushed it into a ball with strong, bronzed hands, and pitched it into a convenient waste basket. Freddie',s face was flushed, his eyes were flashing fire. He reached for and obtained a drink.
"Hell's bells !" he ejaculated. "I'm damn well sick of these sissy stories about little Freddie March.