Baird watched the film absorbedly. Three times it was run for the sole purpose of exposing to this small audience Merton Gill’s notion of being consumed with ennui among pleasures that had palled. In the gambling-hall bit it could be observed that he thought not too well of cigarettes. “He screens well, too,” remarked the girl. “Of course I couldn’t be sure of that.” “He screens all right,” agreed Baird. “Well, what do you think?” “I think he looks like the first plume on a hearse.” “He looks all of that, but try again. Who does he remind you of? Catch this next one in the gambling hell--get the profile and the eyebrows and the chin--there!” “Why--” Baird chuckled. “I’m a Swede if he don’t look like--” “You got it!” the girl broke in excitedly. “I knew you would. I didn’t at first, this morning, because he was so hungry and needed a shave, and he darned near had me bawling when he couldn’t hold his cup o’ coffee except with two hands. But what d’you think?--pretty soon he tells me himself that he looks a great deal like Harold Parmalee and wouldn’t mind playing parts like Parmalee, though he prefers Western stuff. Wouldn’t that get you?” The film was run again so that Baird could study the Gill face in the light of this new knowledge. “He does, he does, he certainly does--if he don’t look like a No. 9 company of Parmalee I’ll eat that film. Say, Flips, you did find something.” “Oh, I knew it; didn’t I tell you so?” “But, listen--does he know he’s funny?” “Not in a thousand years! He doesn’t know anything’s funny, near as I can make him.” They were out in the light again, walking slowly back to the Buckeye offices. “Get this,” said Baird seriously. “You may think I’m kidding, but only yesterday I was trying to think if I couldn’t dig up some guy that looked more like Parmalee than Parmalee himself does--just enough more to get the laugh, see? And you spring this lad on me. All he needs is the eyebrows worked up a little bit. But how about him--will he handle? Because if he will I’ll use him in the new five-reeler.” “Will he handle?” Miss Montague echoed the words with deep emphasis. “Leave him to me. He’s got to handle. I already got twenty-five bucks invested in his screen career. And, Jeff, he’ll be easy to work, except he don’t know he’s funny. If he found out he was, it might queer him--see what I mean? He’s one of that kind--you can tell it. How will you use him? He could never do Buckeye stuff.”