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BILL FIELDS is a very sick man these days. Hollywood's Bill and the world's best loved comedian. Outside the gates of Paramount studios from early dawn people have gathered in little groups since hearing the word of his dangerous illness to be near the place in which Bill had worked so long.
One or two who wandered by there in the past have glimpsed him sitting outside the sound stage door, the sun streaming over his sandy head like a warm benediction and catching the hue of his geranium colored nose.
Out of the group outside the gates one old codger will tell of Bill and his goodness. " Bill he could call me more names than they is in the dictionary," the old fellow says. "But he is slippin' me a liver all the time he is adoin' it."
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Stars drive by as they stand there, these people who love Bill Fields, but suddenly all the business of glamour and romance, sham and show has gone out of them, making them just one of the group standing around the gates, missing Bill.
On the other side of the world other people of fame, riches, and renown become just humans loving Bill.
Into Paramount studios in the past months have poured thousands of letter asking about Bill. Into his home poured hundreds more. Noted people, people of wealth, people of fame, plain people like us, all asking the same question:
"Will Bill Fields ever make another picture? Will our Bill make another picture5 Is he so seriously ill?'
The answer, from his director and hi friend was always the