You don't think . . .
I certainly do. You're an Albino goofer and as wet as a Turkish towel after William H. Taft gets through with it. Have you got that contract with you?
Yes.
Let me see it.
Ambrose passed the contract to Jack and for several moments there was silence as the latter carefully perused its contents.
Why didn't you sign this? Jack inquired, folding up the paper only after he had examined the final clause.
Why, Jack, I can't write screen stuff. You know that!
What difference does that make? Jack demanded stolidly.
How could I carry out the terms of that contract without manufacturing a script?
That's a lot of Santa Claus. I'll bet you haven't read it.
Ambrose admitted the truth of this accusation.
The terms of this contract are up to Griesheimer and L.L.B. It's their business, not yours.
What do you mean?
I mean that this contract says plain as sky-writing
