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THEY sat side by side on a straight little sofa in a producer's waiting room — Charlie Ruggles and Mary Boland, that popular comedy team of the screen. Charlie twirled his round little hat, his dimples nervously popping in and out like a pair of Jackin-the-box as he stole little side-wise peeks at Mary, silting so straight, so determined, with a decided nomonkey-business air.
Across the room, a blonde secretary sat behind a desk filing a long, gory-looking nail. Occasionally a Hash of crimson shot through the air as her manicured hand flew to a stray curl over an ear.
The silence grew thick and clingy like fungus on a bat tered oak tree.
"Hum-umm." Charlie suddenly cleared his throat and Mary jumped.
"Don't do that," she protested. "It's enough to shatter my nervous system."
"I — I can't help it if 1 have a frog in my throat, can 1? I've got to get it out, haven't I?"
"Charlie, you could be full of frogs for all I care. In fact, the way you keep jumping around it wouldn't Mir
Domestic rifts like Mary's and Charlie's happen in the best of screen families
By Sara Hamilton
Proof that mama loves papa — even if she did want him to
wear a horse-shoe charm around his neck and curl up his
hair like Francis Lederer. The producer couldn't believe
ma and pa had tired of each other
It's incompatibility. Charlie has a ranch where he raises
nuts and grapefruits. His pet is a Great Dane. He craves
quiet, peaceful evenings at home
prise me in the least if you were." Mary glared at him.
Charlie squirmed about uneasily.
"Quit fiddling," Mary snapped. "Can I help it if I have to fiddle?" Charlie demanded.
"Well, you don't have to fiddle here. There's a time and a place for fiddling. This isn't it."
The blonde secretary glanced witheringly at the sounding buzzer on her desk. With a sigh she threw down the nail file, yanked at her stocking, patted the curl again and disappeared through a door marked PRIVATE. In a few seconds she was back.
"The producer will see you now. Gwan in," she said.
Mary and Charlie rose. Charlie, at the door, tripped over Mary's feet and fell headlong into the astonished producer's lap.
"It's the hop toad in him," Mary explained. "He leaps before he looks."
" Well, this is indeed a pleasant surprise," the producer smiled when Charlie had regained his balance and his hat. "What can I do for you this morning?" He fairly beamed on the screen's greatest corned}' team. A team that brought many golden shekels into an undernourished box-office.
It was Man who spoke first. In firm, clear tones she said, "We want a divorce."
The pencil leaped six feet out of the startled producer's hand and landed at his feet. The producer stooped and Charlie stooped, their heads meeting with a thud.
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