"What are you gonna do?" I says. "Speak quick, I can't stand excitement!"

For answer he takes me into the hotel across the street and leads me into the writin' room. He sits down and writes on a piece of paper for a minute and then he hands it to me.

"Cast your eyes over that," he says, "and if it's satisfactory--sign it!"

This is what I read,

"I, Alex Hanley, agree to hire one handsome, tall and perfectly built stevedore, longsh.o.r.eman, truck driver or some one engaged in a equally honest profession, one who has never appeared before a camera or upon any stage and who has no knowledge of theatricals, and within six months from date to make him a full fledged, acknowledged star of the moving pictures.

"In the event of said undertaking being successful, the undersigned agrees to pay Alex Hanley one thousand dollars. In the event of failure, Alex Hanley agrees to forfeit the same sum."

I handed it back to him.

"Listen!" I says. "Don't be a nut _all_ your life. You got as much chance of--"

"Did you ever see me fall down on anything?" he b.u.t.ts in, dippin' a pen in the ink and handin' it to me.

"Not even a banana peel," I admits. "But they is a limit to everything--even the war's over. In the first place, even if you could do this, it would cost you more than a thousand dollars and--"

"Leave that to me," he says, pushin' over the pen. "And sign here!"

"But--" I says.

"Hurry up, the ink will be dry," he cuts me off.

I give in.

"Alex," I says. "This is a crime! If I ever win one bet in my life, I'll win this one. You'll make a movie star outa a stevedore, hey?

Why--"

"Want a thousand more?" he grins pleasantly.

"No!" I hollers. "Let's go over and meet the girls."

The search for the future king of the movies begins merrily the next day. I went with Alex to see that he didn't put nothin' over on me and at the end of the week he had dug up three promisin' leads. They was a plumber's helper which had a wonderful figure, but a scar on his cheek showed up in a snapshot Alex took of him and he was laid aside with a sigh. Then they was a waiter which was better lookin' than Mary Pickford, but a trifle stoop-shouldered. The third guy was hustlin'

baggage at Grand Central Station and was a perfect Venus except for some missin' teeth which queered him when he smiled and what's a movie hero without a smile?

Well, I'm havin' the time of my life kiddin' Alex, when one day as we are walkin' along Third Avenue in search of his prey, he grabs me by the arm, yells, "I got him!" and starts across the street on the run.

They is a big truck standin' there and a husky on the back of it is engaged in coaxin' pig iron off of it on to the street. He stood about six foot three without bein' shaved and weighed accordingly, all bone and muscle not countin' his head. He turns around and--Oh, boy!!!!

Say! I seen some good lookers in my time, male and female, but this baby had it on 'em all! His hair is that black, wavy kind that the cabaret hounds wish they had and he's got a skin like a week old baby.

He must of painted his teeth with enamel twice a day and he's there with a pair of eyelashes that would make a chorus girl take carbolic.

On the level, he's so handsome he don't look real--and that with all the signs of honest toil at the truck on him, too! Alex taps him on the shoulder and he swings around.

"What's yours?" he growls.

"I have come to make your fortune," announces Alex with a grin. Then he turns to me. "Ain't he a peach, hey?" he says.

The big guy drops the pig iron and looks from Alex to me.

"What kinda stuff is this?" he growls. "What d'ye mean I'm a peach?"

"You are the luckiest man in New York," says Alex. "I have come to make you famous and rich!"

The big guy grins.

"Listen!" he says. "They're awful tough on hop fiends in this burg now and they'll be a copper along in a minute, so you better duck. I know you guys is no less than J. P. Morgan and John D. Rockefeller, if not more, and you'll gimme a million dollars in nickels if I'll tell you where to get a layout. But I ain't got the time, I gotta get this stuff off here and--"

With that he turns around and goes to work again.

"Drop that iron!" says Alex. "You'll never soil your hands with manual labor again."

"Hey!" snarls the big guy. "Git away, will you? I always feel sorry for you dope fiends, but if you guys don't lay off me, I'll bounce the two of you. Now, beat it!"

"Well," I says to Alex, "he's ignorant anyways. We got that part all settled and--"

"Look here!" says Alex, darin'ly grabbin' the big guy by the arm.

"We're neither dope fiends nor maniacs. I want to ask you a few questions and, if your answers suit me, I'll hire you for a hundred dollars a week to do special work for me. To show you I'm not foolin', take this for your trouble whether we do business or not."

With that he hands him a twenty dollar bill.

"Aha!" yells the big guy. "Coupla counterfeiters, hey?" He s.n.a.t.c.hes the bill and grabs Alex. "So you guys want me to pa.s.s this for you--I got it!" He starts to drag Alex along the pavement and half Third Avenue stops to watch it. "I'll git a reward for this!" I heard him mutter.

Alex throws him off--he's stronger than he looks.

"You better not take that head of yours into no pool room," he snarls, "or somebody'll get two billiard b.a.l.l.s and play with it for a set.

Take your hands off me and listen. That bill is as good as the inside of a church. C'mon into this store and I'll prove it!"

They's somethin' about Alex that makes this guy hesitate, and Alex pulls him into a cigar store, whilst I shoo away the disappointed crowd which looked for manslaughter at least.

In a minute they come out. The big guy has twenty single bills in his hand and a dazed look on his face. Alex is grinnin'.

"Now are you satisfied?" says Alex.

The big guy shoves the dough in his overalls.

"The sugar seems O.K.," he says. "Say! I gotta work a week for that much dough, so I might as well give you five minutes of my time.

What's the idea, hey?"

"Now, Delancey Calhoun," says Alex, "how would you--"

"Wait a minute!" grins the other guy. "I knowed they was a ball up somewheres. Where d'ye get that Calhoun stuff? My name's Tim O'Toole."

"Not no more!" says Alex, returnin' the grin. "From now on it's Delancey Calhoun--get that?"

"A nut is a funny thing," says O'Toole, pressin' the dough in his pocket. "But--sure, I'm Delancey Calhoun! That's a swell name at that--it sounds like a Lenox Avenue apartment house. What d'ye want me to do, outside of that?"