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W. C. Fields
sacrilegious old devil, what do you mean pulling this kind of thing in here? You're going straight to hell!" To the priests, he said, "If you punks are from Central Casting I'll see that you never get any more work in this town."
"Forgive him, Fathers," cried Fields in a loud voice, "he knoweth not what he do."
After a sort of blanket, all-around curse, Grady left, and the priests waved Fields' apology aside. They were having a wonderful time ; they had come to see Hollywood, and they were getting a rare, secular close-up of film high life at its best. The diners turned their attention to Chasen's excellent food and drink, their spirits high, their minds at peace.
Below decks, Grady was far from easy. A disturbing notion had begun to set in. Had he by chance committed a harebrained act of lese clergy? Had he, acting with typical lay impulsiveness, denounced two authentic messengers of the Lord? He went back upstairs and looked in timidly. But his old pard, the skinflint, was involved in such an earnest wassail, and seemed so comradely with the befrocked pair, that his anger revived, and he hurled several more "sacrileges" and "fakers" at them before retiring. Fields' pious intonation pursued him down the stairs. Grady passed a restless evening. By midnight he was drenched in a perspiration of remorse.
He visited them once more, to thrust in his head and say, "You fellows are from Central Casting, aren't you?" The priests bent their heads, Fields made a sign to ward off the devil, and the visitor withdrew with celerity.
When the party left, around one o'clock, Grady accompanied them to the door. His face was a study in conflicting emotions. "I still don't believe it," he said, as Fields drew delicately aside to let the priests pass. The comedian's booming "Forgive him, Fathers!" rang through the restaurant as the door swung shut.
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