Truly, I was in an extraordinary position! What had I done to get this stranger wished onto me? And how long was he going to stay with me? I found myself recalling the plight of Mary who had a little lamb! Fate had me in its hands, and did not mean to consult me. We had gone less than a block further when I heard a voice, “Hello! Billy!” I turned. Oh, Lord! Oh, Lord! Of all the thankless encounters--Edgerton Rosythe, moving picture critic of the Western City “Times.” Precisely the most cynical, the most profane, the most boisterous person in a cynical and profane and boisterous business! And he had me here, in full daylight, with a figure just out of a stained glass window in St. Bartholomew's Church! VII “Hello, Billy! Who's your good-looking friend?” Rosythe was in full sail before a breeze of his own making. How could I answer. “Why--er--” The stranger spoke. “They call me Carpenter.” “Ah!” said the critic. “Mr. Carpenter, delighted to meet you.” He gave the stranger a hearty grip of the hand. “Are you on location?” “Location?” said the other; and Rosythe shot an arrow of laughter towards me. Perhaps he knew about the vagaries of my Aunt Caroline; anyhow, he would have a fantastic tale to tell about me, and was going to exploit it to the limit! I made a pitiful attempt to protect my dignity. “Mr. Carpenter has just arrived,” I began&& “Just arrived, hey?” said the critic. “Oviparous, viviparous, or oviviparous?” He raised his hand; actually, in the glory of his wit, he was going to clap the stranger on the shoulder! But his hand stayed in the air. Such a look as came on Carpenter's face! “Hush!” he commanded. “Be silent!” And then: “Any man will join in laughter; but who will join in disease?” “Hey?” said Rosythe; and it was my turn to grin. “Mr. Carpenter has just done me a great service,” I explained. “I got badly mauled in the mob--” “Oh!” cried the other. “At the Excelsior Theatre!” Here was something to talk about, to cover his bewilderment. “So you were in it! I was watching them just now.” “Are they still at it?” “Sure thing!” “A fine set of boobs,” I began-- “Boobs, nothing!” broke in the other. “What do you suppose they're doing?” “Saving us from Hun propaganda, so they told me.” “The hell of a lot they care about Hun propaganda! They are earning five dollars a head.” “What?” “Sure as you're born!” “You really know that?” “Know it? Pete Dailey was at a meeting of the Motion Picture Directors' Association last night, and it was arranged to put up the money and hire them. They're a lot of studio bums, doing a real mob scene on a real location!” “Well, I'll be damned!” I said. “And what about the police?” “Police?” laughed the critic. “Would you expect the police to work free when the soldiers are paid? Why, Jesus Christ----” “I beg pardon?” said Carpenter. “Why--er--” said Rosythe; and stopped, completely bluffed.