"Anything!" grins Joe.
"Just what are you supposed to do in this picture?" she asks him.
"Fall off a horse!" says Joe.
"Is that all?" asks Gladys.
Joe nods.
"Well," Gladys tells him, "you won't do it! I don't want no crippled bridegroom at my weddin'. Now listen to me! If you could write that stuff you've been wastin' on the air around here, you ought to make a pretty good press agent. Mr. Potts, the man who owns the company and the fellow you or your father never palled around with, has a man on his payroll named Struther. He's head of what they call the publicity department, it says so on ten of his cards I have. He once claimed he'd do anything for me in such a loud voice that the floorwalker had to speak to him. I'm goin' over to the office now and ask him to give you a job back in New York. To be perfectly truthful with you, that's what I came over here for to-day in the first place!"
"But—but," stammers Joe. "I can't have you asking favors for me, Gladys, and—and, why New York?"
"Because," she says, "that's where I come from, and I want to look at it again—I'm simply crazy to yell down a dumbwaiter and throw a quarter in my own gas meter!"
Well—that's about all. They had a big weddin' right in the middle of Film City and everybody sent in and bought 'em a present. Potts got a flash at Gladys, moans regretfully and has the ceremony filmed, givin' the result to Joe as a special gift. Of course Gladys got Joe that job. That dame could have got frankfurters and sourkraut in Buckingham Palace! Before they left for New York, I tried Joe out.
"It'll be terrible here, when you're gone!" I says, "because you know more about makin' movies than Rockefeller does about oil."