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Oh, Those Days With Victor, The Arabian Knight!
By DOROTHY SPENSLEY
SIX foot three, the son of a bishop. The son of the Bishop of Claremont. There are eight more Hke him at home in England, near London. Eight more and one sister, Lily. There are ChfFord and Kenneth and Leo and Arthur and —
Victor McLaglen was the champion heavyweight boxer of the British Army. And never learned to swear, so he declares, until he came to Hollywood and played Captain Flagg in "What Price Glory.?"
He has shoulders like Hercules and a horse that stands seventeen hands high that he exercises every morning at six o'clock sharp over the hills and brambles out Beverly Hills way.
He was a boxer in Canada. He was a sailor on the seven salty seas. He's lived in India, on the banks of the Ganges. In Bombay. In South Africa, at Capetown. He's trekked through China and paused for a moment, just for a moment for a Hawaiian lei.
He was the Provost Mars h a 1 of Baghdad, with a
A bishop's son, captain in the British Army during the war; and now movie actor — that is, or these are, Victor McLaglen
twelve-room house at his disposal. Today he occupies a dressing-room at the Fox studio. A dainty dressing-room hung with red velvet drapes with an apple-green wastebasket and black nymphs, unclad, leaping. He grins, sheepishly, impishly, at the • rococo motion picture luxury and thinks of the black tents of the Bedouins.
Oh gosh, those Arabian nights. Here's a real Baghdad Daddy. A tight-lipped Englishman with close-cropped brown hair who used to wear a fez on his head and fuzz on his upper lip when General Maude and General Townshend were making Mesopotamia safe for the faithful, praise be to Allah, and Mohammed, his Prophet! When Colonel Thomas Edward Lawrence was kicking up railroad tracks with tulips of dynamite. Kicking up that Hun Berlin-to-Baghdad railway.
Oh, those days of Haroun-al-Raschid, of Aladdin, of Sinbad-the-Sailor! Those magic lamps! Those marvelous women !
Where Eve Is Buried
VICTOR was the Provost Marshal of Baghdad. It's like being chief of police in Paradise. The original Paradise in which Adam and Eve strolled on the banks of the Tigris. Miles south, in the Arabian country near Mecca, is where gracious Eve is buried. So believe the faithful.
Victor was the one who signed permits and passed out three-month sentences to offenders. A. P. M. they called him worshipfully. Six-footthree with a tight-lipped smile. No wonder they worshipped the Ingliz. He spoke Arabic, "tongue oithe angels." He spoke their language.
"They used to come to me," said Victor, strangely out of place in the red velvet and finery of his dressing-room, "and salaam. Soft-voiced and respectful they would preface their requests with, 'Ah, sahib, last night you did come to Photot by Aatrey (Continued on page jd)
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