Mr. Bernstein edged his chair closer to the wicker table and leaned across it. “Say,” he began with a glow of enthusiasm, “this place and that servant and you! It would be great. I says to Greenfield--he’s my best director--I says to him before I came up here, ‘Now what we want is one of them old-time, sort of before-the-war Southern aristocrats.’ When I saw you, colonel, I--gee, sir, I says to myself: ‘Sammy Bernstein, there’s your man!’ It ain’t your clothes, colonel, it’s the way you look. Say, I’ve got a fellow at the studio--dress him up in a silk hat and white tie and patent-leather pumps, and he looks like a duke. But you put that guy into his every-days, and, bless your soul, you wouldn’t know him from a tin-peddler! Now, it ain’t so with you. You’d look the part in your shirt-sleeves. When I saw you, I says to myself: ‘Sam Bernstein, there’s the real article--ain’t any near-seal about that, either!’” “Mr. Bernstein, say no more,” said the colonel. “I’m a modest man!” Bernstein expanded, smiling. “Sir, I’ll make it two thousand dollars for this place, that old negro, and you in one five-reeler. Two thousand dollars down! Isn’t any work in it. You just stand and look natural.” This time the colonel’s eyes did more than twinkle; he laughed heartily. “Mr. Bernstein, I never looked natural before a camera in my life. I’m afraid we can’t come to an agreement. I’m too old for the movies, sir. I’ll have to decline.” Bernstein’s face fell. “You don’t mean it, colonel; you can’t mean that!” The colonel nodded, then he pulled a moment at his cigar. “I’m afraid I do mean it. Perhaps Plato--that’s my man--might be interested. I’ll ask him.” Bernstein held up his hands. “Not without you, colonel!” He sat and stared for a moment at the old man opposite, a look of hopeless commiseration on his face. “Say,” he groaned at last, “you people down here haven’t got any enterprise! This is my second experience. I’m surprised, colonel; I’m pained. This town--it’s perfect, sir, for the part, it’s kind of dead-and-alive and shady, and there’s the pickaninnies. You could do any amount of close-ups and cut-backs on ’em. Gee, it’s too bad!” He shook his head regretfully. “I reckon you could get the pickaninnies all right,” remarked the colonel comfortingly. “Tried it?” Mr. Bernstein shook his head. “No, sir! I’ve been after Mrs. William Carter. Know her?” The colonel, a little startled, took the cigar from between his teeth. “I have that honor, sir.” The motion-picture manager turned his head slowly and gave him a cryptic look. Then he knocked the ashes from his cigar, stuck it in the other corner of his mouth, and resumed sadly: