Considering the ceaseless irritations he was subjected to, his behaviour throughout was exemplary. It was in the comic scenes he appeared at his worst. Seeing no humour in them himself, he registered nothing beyond the suggestion of outraged dignity upon the film. When Mr. Eastlake saw Eliphalet’s comedy—for he was in the habit of having the day’s work projected for his approval each evening on a miniature screen—he was exceeding wroth. Consequently he visited the studio next morning and engaged the old actor in conversation. “Seems to me,” he said, “your comedy is not a strong point. Now, Bulmore told me you could be screamingly funny when you like.” “Funny!” echoed Eliphalet. “I have never been funny in my life.” “Well, that’s what he told me, and on the strength of it I made the engagement. Sorry to bother you, but if this film is to be released, you really must whack a bit of fun into your part.” “I will do my best,” said Eliphalet loftily. “But ‘every tree is known by his own fruit. For of thorns men do not gather figs, nor of a bramble-bush gather they grapes.’” And having delivered this dictum, he bowed and walked away. It is doubtful whether Eliphalet’s efforts to be funny would have given amusement to a village idiot. He was frankly at sea with the ridiculous—at sea in an unexplored ocean, and his flounderings were pitiful to behold. So Mr. Eastlake and the producer held a conference and decided it was useless to proceed. “We’ll burn the lot,” said Eastlake. “Pay him off and start afresh. That fellow Bulmore fairly sold us a dog.” Next morning Eliphalet was politely informed that his services were no longer required. No reasons were given, nor any reproaches made. Film companies conduct their business on business lines. There is no “incompetent” clause in their contracts. When a performer has failed to give satisfaction, he is paid in full, and another is engaged. Eliphalet received a cheque for thirty-five guineas, and a polite “Good-day” from the cashier. While he was buttoning his coat in the hall he heard Mr. Eastlake’s voice sounding through his office door: “No, Bulmore—and we are not likely to have any more work for you either.” “But why, old man? Why?” “I might ask you why—why you told us those wonderful tales about your clever friend. He’s let us in for a couple of thousand feet that aren’t worth the price of fixing salts.” “Whew! That’s bad! I thought he’d be all right—straight I did.” “But why turn him on to us if you wanted the job yourself?” There was a pause; then Bulmore’s voice: “He was dead broke, and I wanted to do him a good turn.” “At our expense.” “And my own, old man, by the looks of it.” Eliphalet waited for no more, but flushing for shame, slipped out into the street and hurried away. “I made a favour of doing it,” he muttered. Bulmore’s money in his pocket burnt like a hot coal.