There is an old Chaplin picture about a crowded street car where the entrance of one man at the rear forces another out in front. A similar image came into Pat’s mind in the ensuing days whenever he thought of Orson Welles. Welles was in; Hobby was out. Never before had the studio been barred to Pat and though Welles was on another lot it seemed as if his large body, pushing in brashly from nowhere, had edged Pat out the gate.

‘Now where do you go?’ Pat thought. He had worked in the other studios but they were not his. At this studio he never felt unemployed¹ — in recent times of stress he had eaten property food on its stages — half a cold lobster² during a scene from The Divine Miss Carstairs; he had often slept on the sets and last winter made use of a Chesterfield overcoat from the costume department. Orson Welles had no business edging him out of this. Orson Welles belonged with the rest of the snobs³ back in New York.

On the third day he was frantic⁴ with gloom. He had sent note after note to Jack⁵ Berners and even asked Louie to intercede⁶ — now word came that Jack had left town. There were so few friends left. Desolate⁷, he stood in front of the automobile⁸ gate with a crowd of staring children, feeling that he had reached the end at last.

A great limousine⁹ rolled out, in the back of which Pat recognized the great overstuffed Roman face of Harold Marcus. The car rolled toward the children and, as one of them ran in front of it, slowed down. The old man spoke¹⁰ into the tube and the car halted. He leaned out blinking.

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