W. C. Fields : his follies and fortunes (1949)

lobby gave an artist special distinction; other artists, who didn't have pictures from Bushnell's, looked up to him. In San Francisco, Fields also bought a diamond ring, an acquisition he had planned for some time. It was a good-sized stone, costing several hundred dollars, and showed up well, on a sunny day, for two or three blocks. Fields wore it with a princely air, somewhat tempered by his fear of having it snatched. Entering a high-class restaurant, he would exhibit the ring in a series of dazzling, flamboyant gestures, then eat with his ring hand tucked into his waistcoat, meanwhile darting quick, suspicious looks here and there, with particular reference to the waiters. As the money rolled in, Fields cultivated manorial tastes. He had fed on things like saloon herring and ditch water so long that he welcomed an opportunity to be fastidious. While other vaudeville people reposed in humble, traditional lodgings, Fields put up at the best hotels. Not for him the crowded trough of the boardinghouse, the shabby resorts of the theater. From town to town he dined richly, in the favored cafes of the bourbons. With his inborn pomp and fakery, he rapidly became a master at the impressive nuances of table skill. Customarily languid diners nudged one another in admiration of his style. He was patently born to the purple, and his manner was condescending. "This sauce," he would cry, waving toward a resplendent casserole. "Has the chef by some mischance omitted the paprika?" A waiter, stung, would bow low, and the gourmet's neighbors, eying their Newburg, would nibble and test in confusion. Fields always said that, in this era, he didn't believe he was making out too well with the waiters. They complied, but they gave him searching looks. He felt, also, that they emphasized "Sir" a little heavily and, on occasion, bowed too low. Like dogs, waiters seemed familiar with his past. In the first months of his vaudeville, Fields had an urge to ex 81