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W. C. Fields
roughly. "For heaven's sake, Mr. Fields, get rid of that toothpick!" he said.
"What for?" Fields asked.
"Because the judge might see it and decide against us," the lawyer told him.
Fields was appalled by the logic in this advice. He never forgot it. He worked up a long, eloquent, feverish tirade about a system of justice in which the merits of a case were forgotten and the decision hinged on a defendant's use of a toothpick. At home, almost any mention of lawyers or doctors, by guests or by the radio, might set him off, and he would go stamping about the place, in the manner of Huckleberry Finn's father denouncing the government — damning judges, cursing quacks, and in general blasting a world in which a harmless addiction to splinters could cause the heads to roll.
After one spirited performance in Melbourne, Fields strolled back to his hotel and found a cablegram from Charles Dillingham, the New York producer, which said, "Can you come to New York immediately. Have speaking part for you in Watch Your Step" Fields sat down on the edge of his bed and reflected on the vagaries of fortune. The message represented the successful conclusion of a campaign he had conducted with unabated vigor since his engagement with Mclntyre and Heath. "Other managers couldn't seem to see anything except that label of 'comedy juggler' that had been pinned on me," he explained to an interviewer later. "For ten years I fought to get rid of that label. But not a manager would let me have a speaking part. I begged and pleaded like the rawest beginner, but they only laughed at me and told me to stick to the thing I knew how to do. I had to live, so I went on with my vaudeville engagements, wandering around the world, making plenty of money, but getting more and more discouraged about the future."
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