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The Coming Collier
By C. BLYTHE SHERWOOD
IT was my first day in Hollywood — and, incidentally, my first day of sunshine. Months of slush and storm
had passed since last I'd romped, a pagan of the summertime, abandonedly in exercise and perspiration. A bov passed bv in comfortably soiled flannels and a ditto sweater. He was swinging a dreadnaught drive'-,
"Is there a tennis court near here?" I asked.
"Indeed, in hack of the hotel — nice and sunny, too. If you want to jilay. I'll be there with a friend of mine, and you can join u.s."
A mussed rush on the trunk followed, and a general scurry ; and on the courts this chap offered that we double up. "Let's take the sunny side," he advised. "Sunburn will do you good."
"Rut your nose '" It was extravagantly peeling.
"What's a little grease-paint, more or less?" he re torted and started the volley.
.\ few points., a few faults, a few games, the usual deuces and the usual darns, then, "Where do you come from, jiartncr'"
"Kew York."
He dropped his racket, "lireat Scott! Now we can form an Eastern club." He picked up his racket. "That's my country, too!"
photographs by Lifshey Anderson, X. Y
Buster Collier, whose pictures used to run in all the magazines sitting on his father's knee, is now a player of great promise. Being the son of William Collier, one of our bestknown comedians. Buster naturally displays a deep tendency to the serious side of life, and expects some day to become a great producer
The young Mr. Carr opposing us. single-lianded. was from Washington. For the moment, he didn't count at all.
"How's the new^ 'Midnight Frolic'?"
I told him and he served into the net twice.
"How's 'The Hottentot' going?" I reported. He cut a gorgeous slam.
"Ciee. it's great to meet someone who can talk your ownlanguage." and he suggested that we quit playing. Under the shade of a sheltering palm he continued, "How's Fd Wynn? Who's ahead for the h^iuity president' Have you seen Dick Ra'rthelmess ? He'soneof mvbest pals? How'sMary Hay .' Where'r, . . . ' "Sav, Collier, I think I better be going. So long, old man," and our Washington victor, (the score was something like 50-40), disappeared. "Collier?" I stared at him. "Yes."
"Buster Collier, whose pictures useil to run in all \he magazmcs sitting on his father's knee.'" "The same." "William Collier. Jrr "No other."
"Oh. Lord!" ... (I had been playing such rotten tennis.) Ry fanning his racket, he brought me to . . . He was impatient to iiear more. "Tell me ..."
Rut when my voice returned, I managed to summon enough strength to inquire. "Why your mention before of grease-paint? What are you
doing here?"
"What everybody else does — movies. I am {Cnntinucd nn page S2)
under contract with
(Fiftii riqht)