of
the title. _The Soul of Littlefoot Law_ remained as great a mystery when
the picture was finished as it had been at the start. Littlefoot Law, by
the way, was Pink. That much the audience discovered, and no more; for as
to his soul, he did not seem to own one.

Luck, still hunched down so that his back hair rubbed against his chair
back, was laughing with his jaws wide apart and his fine teeth still
gleaming in the half darkness, when Ted, general errand boy at the
office, came straddling over intervening laps and laid a compelling hand
on his shoulder.

"Say, Luck," he whispered excitedly, "the audience author's with Mart,
and they both want t' see you. And, say, I guess you're in Dutch, all
right; the author's awful mad, and so is Mart. But say, no matter what
they do to you, Luck, take it from me, that pit'cher's a humdinger! I
like to died a-laughing!"

CHAPTER SEVEN

BENTLY BROWN DOES NOT APPRECIATE COMEDY

Luck unhooked his hat from his knee, brought his laughing jaws together
with that eloquent, downward tilt to the corners of his mouth, sat up
straight, considered swiftly the possibilities of the next half hour, and
paid tribute in one expressive word of four letters before he went
crawling over half a dozen pairs of knees to do battle for his picture.
His picture, you understand. For since he had made it irresistible comedy
instead of very mediocre drama, he felt all the pride of creation in his
work. That was his picture that had set the Acme people laughing,--they
who had come to carp and to talk knowingly of continuity and of technique
and dramatic values, and to criticize everything from the sets to the
photography. It was his picture; he had made it what it was. So he went
as a champion rather than as a culprit to face the powers above him.

Martinson and Bently Brown were waiting for him near the door. They were
not going to stay and see the next picture run, and that, in Luck's
opinion, was a bad-weather sign. But he came up to them cheerfully,
turning his hat in his fingers to find the front of it before he set it
on his head. (These limp, wool, knockabout hats are always more or less
confusing, and Luck was fastidious about his apparel.)

"Ah--Mr. Brown, this is Mr. Lindsay, ah--director who is producing your
stories." Martinson's tone was as neutral as he could make it.

Luck said that he was glad to meet Mr. Brown, which was a lie. At the
same instant he found the stitched-down b