work. That was his picture that had set the Acme people laughing,--they
who had come to carp and to talk knowingly of continuity and of technique
and dramatic values, and to criticize everything from the sets to the
photography. It was his picture; he had made it what it was. So he went
as a champion rather than as a culprit to face the powers above him.

Martinson and Bently Brown were waiting for him near the door. They were
not going to stay and see the next picture run, and that, in Luck's
opinion, was a bad-weather sign. But he came up to them cheerfully,
turning his hat in his fingers to find the front of it before he set it
on his head. (These limp, wool, knockabout hats are always more or less
confusing, and Luck was fastidious about his apparel.)

"Ah--Mr. Brown, this is Mr. Lindsay, ah--director who is producing your
stories." Martinson's tone was as neutral as he could make it.

Luck said that he was glad to meet Mr. Brown, which was a lie. At the
same instant he found the stitched-down bow on his hat, and from there
felt his way to the front. At the same time he decided that there was
going to be something doing presently, if Mart's manner meant anything at
all. Mart was a peaceable soul, and in the approaching crisis Luck knew
he would climb hurriedly upon the fence of neutrality and stay there; and
Luck could fight or climb a tree as he chose.

They went outside, and Luck turned his eyes sidewise and took a look at
Bently Brown. He measured him mentally from pigskin puttees to rakish,
stiff brimmed Stetson with careful dimples in the crown and a leather
hatband stamped with horses' heads and his initials. In a picture, Luck
would have cast Bently Brown, costume and all, for a comedy mining
engineer or something of that sort. You know the type: He arrives on the