As I was leaving the apartment in the morning I met Buffalo coming in. He said he had a chance of a couple of fights and could I loan him $150 to start training. I had not much confidence in his staging a comeback, but I made him out a check for the amount, payable to bearer. He said he was going to train at Coney Island, and gave me an address.
The studios seemed to be deserted. Miss Greenberger was not at her window, and there were only two small sets on the big stage where Mat Moore and a director named Kelly were finishing up a couple of two-reelers. I went to get some personal things in my office. Coming out I bumped into Director Kelly, very red in the face and talking to himself. He did not stop. As I passed Miss Greenberger's window Julius hailed me from behind it. I followed him into his office which was topsy-turvy. Ink all over the desk, papers all over the floor and chairs upset—one side of Julius' collar was undone and there was ink on him too, and blood on his nose.
"You know that guy, Kelly?" said Julius. "He says you're a lousy director."
I waited.
"Are you going to let him get away with it?" said Julius.
"He didn't say it to me," I said.
"Well, I'm telling you," said Julius.
"And all this?" I said pointing to the office.
"I just threw the sonovabitch out of here," said Julius wiping his nose.
"Where's Miss Greenberger ?" I said.
"That's what I'd like to know," said Julius. "Whenever I really need her she ain't there."
I helped him straighten up the office and told him the best way to stop a nose bleed was to lay down on his back and press his finger against his upper lip.
"What you going to do, go to California with that efficiency expert?" said Julius.
"Haven't made up my mind yet," I said.
"What that guy don't know about making pictures would fill the telephone book," he said.
I was standing before Benton's full length portrait of me. Three quarters of it had disappeared. Below the head and shoulders, the fluted Whistlerian moulding framed an expanse of plaster wall and stretcher. The job had been neatly done. I rang for the elevator boy.
"Was that little man with the cape here?" I said.
"Just after you left," he said. "He gave you no message for me?"
"No."
I felt like taking my .45 Colt and an antique sword that hung on one side of the mantelpiece and starting for the Lincoln Arcade and Benton. Then Ralph Barton came in. He took a look at the picture and began to laugh.
"What the hell's so funny?" I said.
"It looks a damn sight better the way it is," he said.
"At least he could have asked me before cutting off the rest of it," I said.
"He practically did last night. You heard him say he needed canvas."
A week passed before I saw Benton again. He blew in as if nothing unusual had happened.
"For all the lousy bloody bandits I ever met—"
"It was a pretty lousy trick, I must admit," said Benton. "But I had to get hold of some canvas. I'll take the rest of it and fix it up for you. It will be much more interesting when I get through with it."
Before he departed, the remains of my portrait rolled up under his arm, he said casually:
"You've no use for the frame and stretcher now. Leave them with the elevator boy. He can help me bring them up to Barton's studio in the morning. I'm doing my heroic figure organization there. My place is too small."
There had been no word from Buffalo for a week. I decided to go and see how he was getting along with his training, so I took the subway to Brooklyn and there boarded the L for Coney Island. After some searching I located him in a room off the veranda of a ramshackle two-story frame hotel. He had a wild-eyed bleached blond with him.
"Excuse me," I said, backing out. "I thought these were your training quarters."
"I'll be right out," said Buffalo. When he came out, pulling a sweater over his head, his step was unsteady.
"Leaving for California on Saturday," I said, "Came down to see you work out, and say goodbye."
"Gee, that's too bad," he said. "Ain't worked out for two days."
He held out his left hand. The thumb was bandaged.
"California...California...that's sure a long way to go."
He talked like a man just wakened from a heavy sleep, and his eyes had a vacant look. His nostrils were twitching too.
"Where does the jane come in on the training?" I said.
"Oh, just a friend. Only been here a few minutes. Runs a shooting gallery."
"Looks to me like she was full of hop. You look kind of that way yourself, if you ask me."
"Oh, no," said Buffalo, "nothing like that."
"And the fight?"
"Postponed for a couple of weeks," he said looking away.
"Well, here's one won't see it," I said. "I'll be on the train."
He seemed to be hearing about half of what I was saying, and understanding less.
"Goodbye, Buffalo," I said taking his hand.
"Goodbye, kid," he said.
For a moment or two he appeared to be making an effort to pull himself together, as if he wanted to say something to me, but he could not sustain the effort.
"So long, kid. Good luck," he said releasing my hand.
I watched him go up the steps. Crossing the veranda he was stepping over things that were not there. I recalled that vacant look I had often surprised in his eyes and began to wonder if he had not been at it right along, under our noses. He had certainly covered it up well. I kept wondering about him as I walked back to the L. Not far off now, the last kayo, I thought to myself as I boarded it.
On Friday at the office, they gave me my ticket for California, and one for Big Bill. I had insisted on taking him along with me. I went up to say goodbye to Mr. Lawrie who had been obliged to come to New York on account of the number and importance of his commissions. I lunched with Mrs. Winthrop, and in the afternoon took her to see the Chinese picture. She brought a faded Jersey Lily with her in the person of Mrs. Langtry. I thought it was rather tragic that Mrs. Langtry had not died when she was younger, and still beautiful; or at least that she had not let herself grow old gracefully. But she was quite entertaining if you did not look at her. Perhaps, if she had been someone else I would not have noticed her yellow teeth, the enamel that cracked when she smiled, or the unhappy shade of red she had dyed her hair. Both ladies thought the picture was fine and Mrs. Winthrop prophesied that I would be as famous as Griffith some day.
When I got back to East 19th Street I stopped in to break the California news to Ralph Barton.
"What are you doing about your apartment?" he said.
"Sub-let it furnished to Theda Bara for the rest of the lease."
"My God," he said, "what with the Players' Club around the corner, Jack Barrymore on Gramercy Square and my brother in stock, I'm beginning to feel I'm in the profession. And another will be here in a few minutes."
"Another what?" I said.
"Another actor," he said. "A terrible ham. We were at school together back in the wilds of Kansas. Here he is now."
A slender cleanshaven young man in tight fitting clothes, a wide brimmed straw hat tilted over his ear and prominent eyes made an effective entrance. Behind him a shorter, more jovial looking man, paused to upstage him and close the door.
"The fat guy is my brother," said Ralph. "The young man with the funny hat is Mr. William Powell."
As I shook hands with Mr. Powell, Ralph said:
"Any time you want an eat-em-alive villain for the movies, here's one needs no makeup."
"In pictures?" I asked.
"Hell, no," said Ralph. "He's a bloody stock company matinee idol out Kansas way, and the bête-noir of all juvenile leading men like my fat brother. He has made villainy popular in the middle west."
"If you ever have anything for me, I'm free," said Mr. Powell. I'd like to have a go at the movies."
When they were taking my trunk out in the morning the elevator boy brought in a very small parcel. It contained a painting in a blue and gold home-made frame, 18 inches by 12: all that remained of Benton's full length portrait of me—the head. After one look at it I got mad and smashed it over the back of a chair and flung the debris in the fireplace....I have often since regretted having done so, and the loss of the first and last portrait ever painted of me.
The morning's mail brought a letter from my father. Hy brother had been cited for gallantry in action. Owing to heavy casualties his promotion had been rapid. He was already company commander, with three pips on his sleeve.
The letter ended with a prayer that his life might be spared.
On Sunday morning the suburbs of Chicago were slipping away behind us. I was with H.O. Davis on board the Santa Fe Limited, breakfasting on California figs and cream; another youth off to test the soundness of that slogan's advice: Go West young man!