We use Optical Character Recognition (OCR) during our scanning and processing workflow to make the content of each page searchable. You can view the automatically generated text below as well as copy and paste individual pieces of text to quote in your own work.
Text recognition is never 100% accurate. Many parts of the scanned page may not be reflected in the OCR text output, including: images, page layout, certain fonts or handwriting.
Desmond is happy and carefree, Irish and prodigal, generous to a fault, loving life and all its beauties, never morbid. His voice has the ring of old Ireland in it; the cheer, enthusiasm, imagination and blarney of the old country
femond
iERTS
ilcheon with recently on i| hurried trip ™ N e w Y o r k it — except he ‘|s desperately Jlv ions to get k to Cali|)|.iia.
Look what V York has to me,” he “I have :r had a sick in my life, here I caught . They have |t me rushing 4md so madly, ejween sidetiping people I fjlt want to see, n searching for ij,;e I do, that I ^5e scarcely had klhour with my [iiher, the real ;on, outside of iness, for my . But I’ve al^s been like [fl t . always mting to get 3|k to Califorl|” he smiled,
I e s p o n s i b 1 y ,
6ch called for ;ame of hideI'i-seek from his .
Ijsually deep [iples.
IjAfter myAus|l|i 1 i a n trip,
■ i ch , by the
!/, lasted two years instead of six
fnths, and during which I played to most enthusiastic audiences I ever ;w, I opened in New York in ‘The of the Land.’ David Belasco nod my work in this. At least he said liwas pleased and offered me a threefir contract. I refused it because I hted to get back to California. Did you |,r hear of a more idiotic young cub? 'Every one says to me, ‘Bill, you ij,Et to let me be your manager. What ipuldn’t do with you ! You haven’t an lice of business in your make-up.’ I :.ays admit their accusations cheer.■iy. But I manage to get along someav without worrying over business dels. What’s the use? I honestly and ly love my work. I enjoy our Tuesevening crowd that goes to Vernon the prize-fights, our Saturday evens at the Los Angeles Athletic Club. I e my car, and to race it at topnotch ed over the beautiful California ds. Should a man ask for still more of life? I think not.”
“No, of course not,” I said, ‘‘but you really should have more photographs sent to us poor editors, who tear our hair to try and publicize you for both our sakes. Why not have a set taken at your beautiful house?”
‘‘My wife died just a year ago. The house is closed,” he said. “I am managing to live in an apartment and at the club.”
And then because he knew I was unhappy for thus having aired his secret sorrow, he entertained me with little anecdotes of his life, as only a born actor and an Irishman can :
“When Florence Reed and I were going out in the car to finish up the one picture I did here in New York, we got stalled and, as usual, a crowd of kids collected. One little urchin kept looking at me searchingly as he clambered over the mud-guards. His eyes grew larger and larger, until finally he burst out with, ‘Gee, fellows, here’s Billiam Desmond. Aren’t you Billiam Desmond ?’ I nodded (Continwed on page 77)
(Nineteen)