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

extracting useful ideas. He went through newspapers, marked objectionable passages, sometimes pretty well covering the entire paper, and made reminders to write letters about them. Some nights he scribbled over dozens of sheets with dialogue, which he hoped to incorporate into movies. As often as not, he tore them all up the next morning. Once in a while, if feeling extraordinarily bold, he would arm himself and "make a search" of the grounds. During some of these excursions, as he frequently did in his room, he conducted a bluffing monologue, to indicate that he was not alone and that an intruder, if he didn't cut and run, would shortly find himself in a sorry mess. One of the comedian's servants, on a night when the moon was bright, saw him tiptoeing along, this time as silent as his shadow behind him, now stopping to listen, again feeling around bushes or birdbaths, the pistol high in his hand, the accusative nose uptilted at the old, familiar angle. With Miss Monti and Miss Michael he liked to make week-end trips back to Seboba Hot Springs, to rest up and get away from his telephone. Because of his patronage, and the publicity it got, the place became popular, drawing from the city many other people suffering from faulty nerves, and some who hoped to acquire faulty nerves by fashionable exposure. Fields resented the progress of the resort. "The joint's getting crowded," he began to say, repeating his ancient refrain. Though his illness had abated, his mind, so long chaffed by sick nerves, was more than ever subject to suspicions. One night as he sat on the porch of his bungalow, talking to his companions, two prize fighters came up and said, "Good evening, Mr. Fields." Their intention, as they sought relief from the monotony of their training, was nothing more sinister than to observe at close hand a man who had always delighted them. Fields, however, construed their presence as a blatant plot to kidnap him. He had been expecting it for months, 3*3