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14 r^, Mr. DeUille referred to it with some awe. It was abundantly clear that the "house staff" was on the policy-making level as to both movie and outside interests. We of the "office staff" were not a part of this charmed circle. The house staff called the office staff by their first names; the studio staff addressed key house-staff mem- bers only as "Mr. so-and-so" and "Miss so-and-so." The real power was up on the hill; as an office-staffer put it, "the differ- ence between Mount Olympus and an anthill." The late W. C. Fields lived for a time in a large gray stucco home, a level or two below the twin DeMille mansions. The red-nosed comic was not regarded as a chatty neighbor, least of all when DeMille was heading his powerful open-air tonneau to the studio. At this time of day Fields was apt to be just stir- ring himself from a highly bibulous funk. One night there were raps at his door. It was during World War II, and a blackout was in progress. Fields was not aware of the blackout, and there was some authority for the belief he was not altogether certain of the existence of the war. Fields, feeling little pain, glared at the figure outside his door. It was Cecil. It was obvious Fields did not relish a call from a man whose two homes looked down on his one, and whose chauffeurs, limousines and far-flung interests had been evening-long targets of the little band of cronies who regularly gathered at the Fields home for drinking bouts of very high amperage. Tm Cecil DeMille." Fields burbled slightly. "There's a blackout on." "A what!" "Don t you know we're having a blackout!" snorted DeMille, right in his neighbor s crimson nose. "A blackout!" Fields shouted back, broadcasting 100-proof fumes. "Yes, Mr. Fields, a blackout. Turn off your lights and fill your bathtub."