‘Who’s this Welles?’ Pat asked of Louie, the studio bookie. ‘Every time I pick up a paper they got about this Welles.’

‘You know, he’s that beard,’ explained Louie.

‘Sure, I know he’s that beard, you couldn’t miss that. But what credits’s he got? What’s he done to draw one hundred and fifty grand a picture?’

What indeed? Had he, like Pat, been in Hollywood over twenty years? Did he have credits that would knock your eye out, extending up to — well, up to five years ago when Pat’s credits had begun to be few and far between?

‘Listen — they don’t last long,’ said Louie consolingly, ‘We’ve seen ’em come and we’ve seen ’em go. Hey, Pat?’

Yes — but meanwhile those who had toiled¹ in the vineyard through the heat of the day were lucky to get a few weeks at three-fifty. Men who had once had wives and Filipinos and swimming pools.

‘Maybe it’s the beard,’ said Louie. ‘Maybe you and I should grow a beard. My father had a beard but it never got him off Grand Street.’

The gift of hope had remained with Pat through his misfortunes — and the valuable alloy² of his hope was proximity³. Above all things one must stick around, one must be there when the glazed⁴, tired mind of the producer grappled with the question ‘Who?’ So presently Pat wandered out of the drug-store, and crossed the street to the lot that was home.

As he passed through the side entrance an unfamiliar⁵ studio policeman stood in his way.

‘Everybody in the front entrance now.’

‘I’m Hobby, the writer,’ Pat said.

The Cossack was unimpressed.

‘Got your card?’

‘I’m between pictures. But I’ve got an engagement with Jack⁶ Berners.’

‘Front gate.’

As he turned away Pat thought

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