Saturday Evening Post (18 January 1930)

“Look at those shoes,” said Bill —“twenty-eight dollars.”

Mr. Brancusi looked. “Purty.”

“Made to order.”

“I knew you were a great swell¹. You didn’t get me up here to show me those shoes, did you?”

“I am not a great swell. Who said I was a great swell?” demanded Bill. “Just because I’ve got more education than most people in show business.”

“And then, you know, you’re a handsome young fellow,” said Brancusi dryly.

“Sure I am — compared to you anyhow. The girls think I must be an actor, till they find out. . . . Got a cigarette? What’s more, I look like a man — which is more than most of these pretty boys round Times Square do.”

“Good-looking. Gentleman. Good shoes. Shot with luck.”

“You’re wrong there,” objected Bill. “Brains. Three years — nine shows — four big hits — only one flop². Where do you see any luck in that?”

A little bored, Brancusi just gazed. What he would have seen — had he not made his eyes opaque³ and taken to thinking about something else — was a fresh-faced young Irishman exuding⁴ aggressiveness and self-confidence until the air of his office was thick with it. Presently, Brancusi knew, Bill would hear the sound of his own voice and be ashamed and retire into his other humor — the quietly superior, sensitive one, the patron of the arts, modelled on the intellectuals of the Theatre Guild⁵. Bill McChesney had not quite decided⁶ between the two, such blends are seldom complete before thirty.

“Take Ames, take Hopkins, take Harris — take any of them,” Bill insisted. “What have they got on me? What’s the matter? Do you want a drink?"— seeing Brancusi’s glance wander toward the cabinet on the opposite wall.

“I never drink in the morning. I just wondered who was it keeps on knocking. You ought to make it stop it. I get a nervous fidgets, kind of half crazy, with that kind of thing.”

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