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the sudden reversal in his fortunes was, "We're scraping the bottom of the barrel." At the time of these utterances he had about a million dollars in cash lying idle in various banks. Nevertheless, the day after his return from the San Francisco picnic he was crouched in the shrubbery again, on this occasion checking up on the chauffeur. The comedian had a small secretary's memo pad, upon which he kept track of all his cars' mileage. Noting a big jump in the figures for the silver-plated Lincoln (possibly as a result of the picnic) he said of the chauffeur to another servant, "That bird's using those cars for a taxi service and by God it's got to stop!" Sure enough, around eleven o'clock he saw the chauffeur step quietly to the garage, start up the station wagon, and drive off. Fields checked his watch and waited. The man was gone eighteen minutes, just enough time to pick up a fare on Hollywood Boulevard and deliver it to, say, the Beverly Hills Hotel. As the car turned into the garage, Fields skipped out with a wild look in his eye. He held up one hand and said, "Ha!"
"Sir?" said the chauffeur, applying the brakes.
"Big tip?"
"Pardon me?" asked the chauffeur.
"Exactly where have you been?" said Fields.
"Cook asked me to pick up three cans of sardines and a loaf of pumpernickel," said the chauffeur, exhibiting a basket.
"Sardines, hey?" said Fields keenly.
"Yes, sir."
"What brand?"
The chauffeur examined the cans and said, "Norwegian Little Dandies — packed in mustard."
"What store?"
"Fleishhacker's Friendly Delicatessen."
Fields made some rapid calculations on his pad; then he said, "All right this time — drive on." He went up to check the story with the cook, and was chagrined to find nothing actionable.
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