Rabbit Tait, sat elegantly upon a kitchen chair. He was a figure, that Rabbit Tait--christened Thomas. His trousers might be spotty, and their hem resembled the jagged edges of magnified razor blades shown in the advertisements, but his shirt was purple, with narrow red stripes, his sleeve garters were of silvered metal, and on one sausage-like forefinger was a ring with a ruby which would have been worth two hundred thousand dollars had it not been made of glass.
Tait was not tall, but he was comfortably round; his face was flushed; his red mustache was so beautifully curled that he resembled a detective; and his sandy hair was roached down over his forehead in one of the most elegant locks ever seen on the wrong side of a mahogany bar.
Out from the neat white cottage behind the filling station, a residence with all modern conveniences except bathrooms, gas and electricity, charged his spouse, Mrs. Bessie Tait, herding their son Terry. Now Bessie was not beautiful. She had a hard-boiled-egg forehead and a flatiron jaw, which harmonized with her milk-can voice to compose a domestic symphony.
Nor was Rabbit Tait, for all his dashing air, an Apollo. But Terry, aged six, was a freak of beauty. He was too good to be true.
He had, surely, come off a magazine cover. He had golden hair, like blown thistledown in a sunset, his skin was white silk, his big eyes violet, his nose straight, and his mouth had twisting little smiles which caused the most loyal drunkards to go home and reform.
How he had ever happened to Rabbit and Bessie Tait, how the angels or the stork, or Doc McQueech had ever happened to leave Terry in the cottage behind the Y Wurry Filling Station instead of in the baronial clapboard castle of the Mechanicville banker, is a mystery which is left to the eugenists.
Bessie was speaking in a manner not befitting the mother of a Christmas-card cherub: Why don't you get busy? Go out and grab some bozo's bus by the radiator cap and make him come in and buy some gas?
I just want you to come and scratch its back where the mosquitoes been biting it, you poor sap! And then you can take care of this brat. Under my feet the whole dog-gone day! Bessie was obviously in one of her more powerful moods, and it is to be feared that we should have had the distressing spectacle of Mr.
Tait going to work, driven by his good lady's iron jaw and granite will, had not, that second, a limousine stopped at the filling station.
In the limousine was a lady so rich, so rich and old, that she had to be virtuous. She had white hair and a complexion like an old china cup. Glancing out while Rabbit Tait cheerily turned the handle of the gas pump, she saw Terry.
You must take him there, and introduce him to Doctor Wimple, the curate--he's so fond of the little ones! I'm sure your dear little boy could be sent to some church school free, and think--these dreadful modern days--otherwise, with his beauty, he might get drawn into the movies as a child star, or some frightful thing like that, and be ruined!
Bessie absently slapped him, and mused, "Say, Rabbit, the old lettuce gimme a good idea. The kid might do good in the movies. Gee, maybe he could make a hundred bucks a week. I've heard some of these kids do. Golly, I'd like to have a cane with a silver dog's-head top!
Tait and, gloomily, "Besides, I might miss a job changing an inner tube. Just like you--throw away fifty cents on a fool chance that we might be able to farm the brat out at maybe fifty bucks a week some day, maybe!
Abraham Hamilton Granville, president and G. Other movie satraps might have Pompeian swimming pools, cathedral organs and ballrooms floored with platinum, but it was Mr. Granville's genius--so had it been, indeed, ever since he had introduced the Holdfast Patent Button, which had put over the renowned Abe Grossburg Little Gents' Pants Co.
Granville's peculiar genius that he always thought up something a little different. He had caused cunning craftsmen to erect a fish bowl--no vulgar aquarium but a real, classy, round, glass, parlor fish bowl--twenty feet high and sixty in circumference, on the red-and-green marble terrace of his mansion, Casa Scarlatta.
Poppy Peaks is an addition to Hollywood, built by the more refined and sensitive and otherwise rich members of the movie colony when Hollywood itself became too common for their aristocratic tradition. And of all the county families and nobility of Poppy Peaks, none were more select than the intellectual powers gathered about Mr.
Granville this hazy California August afternoon.
Granville and the production manager, Mr. Eisbein, there was Wiggins, the press agent--formerly the most celebrated red-dog player and mint-julep specialist on the coast, a man who was questionable only in his belief that mange cure will cause thinning mouse-colored hair to turn into raven richness.
But even more important than these mad magnates o' midnight was a quiet and genteel family sitting together in scarlet-painted basket chairs.Find the lastest information about home based business, working from home and advertising sources!
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