Bring me, he commanded, one of the standard contracts for authors.
Chatting casually with Auburn Six about the casting of her next picture, he awaited the secretary's return, to all appearances in a most cheerful humour.
When the secretary entered with the contract, Griesheimer, without even glancing at it, passed it across his desk to Ambrose.
Read the third paragraph, he suggested.
Ambrose read the indicated lines which related to honorariums. A sum which seemed fantastic was mentioned.
That's the price we ordinarily pay for material, good material, Griesheimer announced. In your case I should double it.
But I tell you I don't want to write stories for films, cried Ambrose. I had no idea that you would make me an offer.
I suppose that's why you're here, the great man sneered, but in no unkindly fashion. Treble it, he added abruptly.
I want to go to Santa Fe! Ambrose reiterated.
Why you crave to go to Santa Fe is beyond me, Griesheimer replied, but we won't let no extraordinary ambition like that stand in our way. You can go to Santa Fe. We'll send a secretary or any other
