# Spider Boy/Chapter 7

It was nearly ten in the morning when Ambrose awakened and as he slowly recovered consciousness he could not immediately remember where he was. Realization came soon enough, however, and with it remorse. His head throbbed violently. He had, he recalled, as protection against his diffidence, drunk rather freely. Now he sought a water-bottle and poured out and swallowed one, two, three glasses of water.
It was not until he had bathed that it flashed across his mind that he had promised to call upon Auburn Six this morning. He had once been acquainted with a man whose constant preoccupation was the fear that he would be caught in some inextricable situation. To provide himself with a means of escape he had secured a small quantity of potassium cyanide which he wore in a ring on one of his fingers. His fears proved eventually to be well-grounded, for he met his death in a railroad accident, in which his ring-finger was pinioned under the wreckage in such a manner that he was unable to reach it and consequently was burned alive. ​In such a moment as the present the mere recollection of this fatal history was sufficient to considerably raise the spirits of Ambrose Deacon. He faced the prospect of meeting Auburn Six with resignation, if not relief. Something, at least, would be settled definitely today. He would go with her willingly to see Griesheimer and that one, inevitably, would kick him out. Then, conceivably, he might explain to Imperia Starling that he had failed in an alien quarter and be on his way to New Mexico. It seemed a logical theory.
With his coffee something in the nature of cheer arrived in the form of a telegram from Jack Story which read: They must be nearly through with you you poor sap stop expect you any day now. Ambrose fervently hoped this message was prophetic as he crunched his toast Melba.
His chronic perturbation returned redoubled, however, when the complications involved in ordering a taxi occurred to him. If he instructed his valet to attend to this matter, the man would probably retort with surprise that one of Miss Starling's cars was always at Mr. Deacon's disposal. Nor could he telephone for a taxi himself without informing the doorman that he was expecting one. After much agitated cogitation he determined that the better way ​would be to slip quietly out of the house on foot and trust to the chance of discovering an unoccupied taxi on the road. To be sure, his previous experience in the motor had informed him that Imperia's house was located at a considerable distance from other habitations. This fact was not reassuring, but he did not permit it to interfere with his plan. The road assuredly was lonely, but in the circumstances—he simply could not imagine any valid excuse which would permit him to face a footman with a request for a taxi—it seemed to be the only course of action open to him. He therefore dressed as rapidly as possible and made his way softly out of the house.
He had closed the door behind him with extreme care and was suddenly conscious that he was tiptoeing down the drive as if he were a sneak-thief. Despite the fact that his heart was beating violently and that he would have stopped dead in his tracks had any one called to him, he smiled when he recalled that there was no reason whatever why he should not walk out in the morning if he chose to do so. Moreover he had no evidence that his mode of departure had been observed. Certainly no one called him back. Probably Imperia herself was sleeping, would continue to sleep for several hours.
​Once on the open highway he stood at the top of a hill. Orange groves, protected by stone walls, bordered the road on either side. He began his descent as casually as possible, but walking down hill his stride accelerated automatically. As a result, he discovered in a little while that he was growing uncomfortably warm. He made repeated efforts to slacken his pace, but they were unavailing.
A little later, believing himself far enough away from the Starling house so that a certain amount of confidence returned to him, he began to look about for a reasonable opportunity to employ a telephone as he had not met an automobile of any description. The road, for the most part, was still hedged in by walls and groves of orange trees. Occasionally the wall was punctured by a gate but the house was invariably set so far back that it was not even visible. At last the wall broke away and villas set near the road on broad lawns and terraces came into view, but the appearance of these estates was so imposing that Ambrose did not dare approach them. Any one of these residences might be occupied by a friend of Imperia's, a friend indeed who having dined with her last night might recognize him, and who would regard his conduct as eccentric, to say the least. Beads of perspiration moistened his brow. He ​groaned as his ungovernable knees bent faster and faster beneath him.
It was nearly half an hour after he had left Imperia's house that, at a cross-road, he encountered a milkwagon propelled by a motor. The driver having hesitated for a few moments to adjust some disordered mechanism, Ambrose summoned enough courage to address him.
Are you going to Hollywood? he demanded.
Betcher life, son, replied the driver with that hearty, informal enthusiasm indigenous in California to bellboys, teamsters, and the like. Want to come along?
It was highly probable that Ambrose never would have discovered sufficient authority to make a direct request to this effect, but he was so relieved to have the invitation thrust upon him in so sunny a manner that he responded almost cheerfully: It would be awfully good of you. Just drop me anywhere where I can pick up a taxi.
Once they were seated side by side high on the front of the vehicle, the driver regarded Ambrose with curiosity.
I s'pose your car cashed in? he suggested interrogatively.
Cashed in?
​Busted. Smashed.
Ambrose nodded violently, gratefully
Yes, he said, I met with an accident. I'm hunting a garage.
I'd just as lief go back and pull you down, the young man offered.
Ambrose hastened to object to this friendly proposal.
It's too bad for that! he cried. We'd never get the car down. I lost three wheels, he concluded desperately.
Whew! The driver whistled his astonishment. I'd like to see that. I'd just as lief drive back.
The fact is, Ambrose protested, mopping his brow, I'm in a hurry. . . . Got to attend to some business before I go back for the car. I'm late now.
The driver was obviously disappointed.
All right, he replied in a tone somewhat colder than that which he had previously employed, I'll get you down the hill in no time.
They drove along. Presently the milkman again addressed Ambrose: You came out pretty well. . . . He was inspecting Ambrose closely. . . . Not even a scratch. I don't see how you could lose three wheels without getting mussed up a little.
​Yes, I did, didn't I? Ambrose agreed, grinning idiotically.
The milkman, driving straight ahead, stared at his strange passenger for a few seconds and then a silence fell between the two, a silence so complete that it created an embarrassment in Ambrose, but he could not think of a word to add to what had already been said. His embarrassment was by no means dissipated when, a little while later, they struck Wilshire Boulevard. In fact he was so utterly confused that he could not decide whether or not to give the fellow a tip. Eventually he decided against this procedure—the man might resent it, he considered as the car paused—and, with a self-conscious, flippant, Well, thank you; I'll see you again some time, he swung off the high box, balanced precariously on the mud-guard, stumbled, lost himself, and fell flat on his belly in the street.
Picking himself up hastily, he brushed what he could of the dust from his clothes, resentfully aware at the same time that the milkman had not waited to see whether he had killed himself, when suddenly he perceived that he was being closely scrutinized. He stared back at a figure on the kerb and, recognizing Herbert Ringrose, went forward to speak to him.
Well, Mr. Deacon? In Ringrose's tone was ​blended bland astonishment with an even more suave disapproval.
Smiling feebly, Ambrose held out his hand with an extremely unsuccessful effort to be jovial. His manner, as he inquired, How are you, Mr. Ringrose? was rather like that of an ocean voyager who steps off the gangway to meet an unexpected creditor on the dock.
Ringrose was silent, but stern rebuke shone from his eye.
I suppose you are wondering . . . I suppose it seems strange to you . . . You probably think . . .
It was typical of Ambrose that while inwardly he could discover no reason why he should explain or apologize, outwardly he was compelled to do so.
I do indeed, the moving picture director assented. I think it is very strange. What in the world were you doing on a milkwagon and why did you pop off it in this undignified manner? You are the guest of one of the great celebrities of the world and anything eccentric you may do is likely to reflect on her popularity . . . even on mine when I make her pictures. I'd like to know, he went on solemnly, how you think Golden Dreams will go in the movie houses when it becomes known to the fans that Miss Starling's guest, Ambrose Deacon, the eminent play​wright, is in the habit of driving down Wilshire Boulevard on the box of a delivery wagon, more, that he is bounced off this box to roll in the street like a keg of beer. It will certainly be believed that her hospitality is at fault, that she refused him the use of her cars.
Oh no! cried Ambrose in anguish. They won't think that! They'll never know!
I can't imagine what the fans will think if they find out. You never can tell. The fans are peculiar. They are entirely through with Rosalba Dolfinger because it became known that she did not eat turkey on Thanksgiving. They have shown conclusively, by remaining away in vast crowds from the theatres where her pictures have been announced, that they do not care for Lily Harris's latest lover. They have lost interest in Stella Which because her pet bear bit a neighbour's child. Only time and the fan-mail will show what the fans will think about a guest of Imperia Starling's, and a distinguished guest at that, who has behaved as you have behaved this morning.
They'll never find out unless you tell! Ambrose protested.
I tell! Anger burned the cheeks of Herbert Ringrose. Fire flashed from his eyes. I tell! I'd cut out my tongue first. I'd cauterize my vocal organs. Hot ​irons couldn't drag the degrading fact out of me. They could put me on the rack, he went on, working himself up, they could submit me to the water torture and not one word would they get out of me. If, he added, I were the protagonist at an auto-da-fe I would silently burn at the stake rather than divulge this ridiculous catastrophe.
Nobody else has noticed, Ambrose almost whimpered.
Herbert Ringrose surveyed the environment. It was true. Pedestrians walked casually on the sidewalks. Traffic followed its usual course in the street.
Where are you going? Ringrose demanded in a somewhat less lugubrious tone.
To the Ambassador. Relieved by the freeing of the tension, Ambrose shot out the truth and then regretted it bitterly.
Not in that condition, Ringrose insisted. Come with me.
Like a naughty boy caught in a shameful act, Ambrose followed his tormentor into a nearby haberdasher's where he was brushed into better condition.
Now, announced Ringrose with withering irony, if you don't mind, I'll send you on in a taxi.
At this precise moment Ambrose's knees began to tremble. He felt suddenly sick. A huge tub of hy​drangeas tumbled from the balcony of a building opposite where he stood.
Good God, what was that? he demanded.
An earthquake, Mr. Deacon. Merely an earthquake, Ringrose repeated significantly.
Requisitioning a passing vehicle, he installed the distinguished dramatist therein. Then he leaned forward confidentially to announce: We'll go into this whole matter later.
This last remark created so deep an impression on that whirlpool which at present constituted Ambrose Deacon's consciousness that he found it possible to enjoy only confused glimpses of the lines of stately palms, the stalls where bright-hued flowers were vended, or the rows of stucco villas. Quite suddenly, as the impertinence of Ringrose's diatribe forced itself on his reason, he flushed with anger. What right had this ham director to talk to him, Ambrose Deacon, in this manner? Whose business other than his own was it if he chose to travel on milkwagons and to fling himself into space from their high seats? And yet he knew full well, if Ringrose should suddenly confront him in the taxi, he would be afraid to take him to task for his presumption.
As the chauffeur drove up before the perron of the ​Ambassador, Ambrose experienced a sense of relief, realizing as he did that the events of the next hour might settle his future, and secure for him the freedom of action he so much desired. He would surely be considered a sorry candidate for the construction of picture stories and by night it was conceivable he might be well on his way back to New Mexico and the soothing, if somewhat cynical, companionship of Jack Story.
Stepping out of the taxi, he reached for his pocketbook to pay the chauffeur when he was startled to hear the starter exclaim, And how are you today, you broth of a boy?
Pretty well, thank you, he responded shyly at this unexpected reminder that Dion Boucicault had once written plays, as he stared in amazement at the ruddy-cheeked Irishman of middle age who had greeted him.
It's a pleasure to see you again looking yourself and that's no lie I'm after telling you. An' for whom might you be calling today?
Miss Auburn Six, Ambrose replied, handing the man a dollar and wondering if he should make it five.
Thank you, sir. Sure and Miss Six lives in Siesta, the man explained. An' would you be knowing the way?
​Ambrose wondered if this meant that Miss Six were asleep. At any rate he didn't know the way and he shook his head to this effect.
I'll be after sending one of the boys with you to show you, the starter announced, and happy Miss Six will be to see a handsome gentleman like yourself.
Ambrose blushed as the bellboy led the way briskly under the vine-clad pergola, down the walk to the bungalow designated as Siesta. In answer to a tap on the screen-door a maid invited Ambrose to enter.
Mr. Deacon? she inquired, and to his assent replied, Miss Six will be ready in just a moment.
Ambrose, despite his trepidation, could not resist the winning charm of the room with its light French furniture and its toile de Jouy hangings. Bright sunlight poured through the windows and glittered on the polished surface of a copper bowl filled with yellow roses.
Presently a short, slender woman with masses of brown hair coiled about her head entered. Her expression was so completely friendly that Ambrose somehow felt at home with her at once.
She introduced herself: I am Auburn's mother.
Ambrose met her hand.
​Do you like California? she asked, after she had invited him to sit down.
I do not. I do not like California. There was emotion in his tone.
Mrs. Six smiled. I know, she replied. Too much sun, the monotonous sun. We all get tired of it, but, believe me, sometimes it rains and then you'll want the sun back. On the whole we're happy here. Auburn has her work, and my work is to take care of Auburn. We both have plenty to do. This bungalow is pleasant and I don't have to worry about housekeeping and servants as I would if Auburn built a villa at Santa Monica or Beverly. I think Auburn is the only important star in the place without a villa in Beverly, a Hispano Suiza, and a collection of police dogs. I've no doubt the others consider her eccentric.
At this juncture the star entered, radiant in a yellow-green frock and a flopping straw hat of the same shade which brought out the verdant lights in her pale hair.
Hello! she cried. I wondered if you'd come.
Good morning, Ambrose responded gravely. I promised, you know.
She laughed. Do you always keep your promises?
I try to.
Well, you'll probably get over that habit here, but ​I'm glad you kept your promise today. It's time we should leave. . . . She went to the telephone. . . . Hello, give me the starter. . . . Then, Is my car there, Hughie? This is Miss Six. Send it down the drive. Go along with you!
Hughie never forgets to say nice things, she said, as she replaced the receiver. Come along. We'll walk across the lawn. Good-bye, mother.
Good-bye, dear. . . . Mrs. Six embraced her daughter. . . . Good-bye, Mr. Deacon.
They strolled around to the drive back of the bungalow where they found Miss Six's car waiting.
Mr. Deacon, she was saying a moment later when they were seated in the moving automobile, you mustn't be afraid of Griesheimer. His manner is rather abrupt, probably because he's shy or has an inferiority complex. You see he never had an education—except in the cloak and suit business or something like that—but he means well. He's just trying to cover up his real feelings.
Miss Six, Ambrose replied with fervour, I think I'm afraid of everybody out here except you. I think I'm afraid of California itself.
Regarding him quizzically, she repeated: Don't be afraid of Ben Griesheimer.
I'm sure I shall be. I can't help it, but it doesn't ​matter in the least. You see I don't want to write a story for the films. I want to go home.
You're very modest, she assured him.
I must make you understand, he insisted. It isn't modesty at all. It's knowledge of myself. I really can't do it. I haven't the remotest idea how to write a screen scenario. I want to go to New Mexico.
So I heard you say last night. It seems to be a sort of refrain with you. You are not very flattering to me, Mr. Deacon, Auburn Six added, but she was smiling broadly.
But Miss Six, he stammered, I've already told you . . . At least I intended to . . . I don't mind you . . . that is I like you better, I feel more at home with you, than with anybody else out here. I wouldn't be here now if I didn't.
She laughed outright. Mr. Deacon, she said, you are delicious, simply delicious, and I have a feeling that you'll get on all right with Griesheimer.
The façade of the L.L.B. Studio at Culver City resembled a mediæval Italian fortress. Characteristically, however, the great blocks of stone of which it appeared to be constructed on closer inspection proved to be made of stucco. They entered the waiting-room and Auburn approached the brighteyed boy at the desk.
​We want to see Mr. Griesheimer, she explained. I have an appointment.
The boy telephoned the great man's secretary.
He'll see you in a minute, the boy announced. He asks will you please wait for him.
As they entered through a swinging gate Ambrose felt immediately that he had crossed a border into another world. Up and down the corridor in a variety of costumes passed a strange procession of actors in make-up. These mingled with boys with rolls of film in containers, secretaries with notebooks, and grey-haired men who resembled Wall Street brokers. One of the latter greeted Miss Six.
What are you waiting for, Auburn? Want to come in my office.
Thanks, Cliff, she replied, we'd be glad to. This is Mr. Deacon, Mr. Morrison.
Morrison led the way to his room, but before they had reached it a boy approached with a message that Mr. Griesheimer was ready to receive them.
Ambrose's heart was beating violently. Remember, he reassured himself, that it will soon be over and you will be free. It's like having a tooth pulled. The worst part is the anticipation.
The corridor seemed to be endless, but at last Auburn opened a door and they stood in the ​presence. The room was panelled in Circassian walnut, heavy red satin damask curtains shaded the light at the window, and a turkey red rug covered most of the parqueted floor. At his desk, his back toward the window, sat Ben Griesheimer, a man of perhaps sixty, with a great hooked nose and bead-like eyes which completed his resemblance to a sinister eagle. His multiple chins and his expansive belly somehow quarrelled with this first impression. On the glass-topped desk in front of him stood several framed photographs, one of Auburn Six, another of an imposing Jewish lady, probably Mrs. Griesheimer, Ambrose decided, and still another of a growing family of Jewish children grouped on a lawn with a family of Norwegian elkhounds.
In response to Auburn's introduction, the fat man extended a flabby hand on which sparkled a huge diamond set in a heavy band of gold, but he did not raise his eyes.
How are you, Mr. Deacon? he inquired brusquely. Then, Sit down, please.
They obeyed him and an awkward silence followed while he continued to examine papers, a silence broken by the man's impatient question, Well, well, what can I do for you?
Auburn saw fit to reply: You know Mr. Deacon ​is one of our most successful and celebrated playwrights. He is the author of The Stafford Will Case which has been running in New York for months. I think he ought to be writing for L.L.B. We need men like him.
Humph! Griesheimer ejaculated gruffly. Writing for the theatre and writing for the movies is two different propositions, to—tally different. Most playwrights fall down when they come out here. . . . He turned to Ambrose. Well, what you got in mind to write? he demanded.
I don't want to write anything, responded Ambrose, whose agony was piteous.
The great man regarded him with astonishment.
Then what do you want here? he insisted.
Miss Six brought me. She said . . .
I know what she said, Griesheimer interrupted. What do you say?
I don't think I can write stories for the films. I don't know anything about moving pictures. It seemed to Ambrose that his voice sounded unnecessarily shrill.
Have a cigar, Mr. Deacon, Griesheimer invited him abruptly, as he pushed forward an embossed metal box.
Ambrose was not accustomed to smoking cigars—​actually they made him ill—but he did not refuse this one.
You don't know . . . ? There was awe in the magnate's voice. In reply to a button he pushed on his desk, a secretary entered almost instantaneously. Griesheimer entrusted a heap of papers to him with the instruction, Tell Dick Ruby I'll see him in thirty minutes.
The secretary vanished noiselessly while Griesheimer leaned forward and said, Now, Mr. Deacon, will you please say that again.
Ambrose, extremely uncomfortable in a very comfortable huge leather arm-chair, nervously twisted the brim of his hat.
I said, he reiterated, that I don't think I can write stories for the films. I never saw any moving pictures, he went on wildly.
Never saw no pictures! I wonder if you're making the mistake so many of these young smart alecks make today of not taking pictures seriously. I wonder if you know, Mr. Deacon, that this is America's fourth largest industry and probably will be, probably will be, I say, the greatest of the world's arts. Why, we're working in raw material we don't know about ourselves yet, it's so vast, it's so great, it's so unprecedented. . . . Griesheimer, having delivered ​himself of these sentences as if they were part of an after-dinner speech, closed his bead-like eyes and rolled his tongue ecstatically around his cheek. He was beginning, Ambrose believed, to resemble a hippopotamus more than an eagle. Presently the great man inquired: How many copies of a book do you sell, Mr. Deacon?
I haven't published a book yet, Ambrose replied.
Well, and s'pose you did, how many would you sell? Griesheimer persisted.
My first book will be a book of short stories. It might sell two thousand copies. Probably not so many.
Two thousand copies! Griesheimer thundered scornfully. Did you hear that, Auburn? Two thousand copies. That means perhaps four thousand people—let's be generous—seven thousand people should read your masterpiece. Have you any idea, Mr. Deacon, how many people should witness a film spectacle by you?
I don't believe I have.
Between fifty and a hundred million, sir, between fifty and a hundred million, Griesheimer repeated in a tone that implied that even he regarded these figures with wonder, and yet you don't respect the films!
​You didn't understand me, Ambrose cried.
And yet you don't respect the films, Griesheimer insisted. I don't want to be rough, Mr. Deacon, but if you are trying to raise your price I warn you you are going about it in the wrong way.
I . . .
Just a minute, please. This firm . . . Griesheimer hesitated and then began again: This group of artists, Mr. Deacon, while organized on a business basis, conducts its affairs on the highest moral and artistic principles. I may tell you indeed, sir, that this spirit of morality is demanded of all our employees whatever their rank or station, from the highest paid star to the lowest extra boy. Why, the very ushers in our moving picture cathedrals, Mr. Deacon, ain't permitted to smoke. Morals, even outside business hours, is one of our great concerns. We don't stand for vice, sir!
Ambrose, not being able to anticipate a suitable peroration, trembled. Whither could all this be leading?
Our stars have mothers, Mr. Deacon. They're chaperoned proper at all times. On this lot, sir, we frown on illicit love. The great American public, we discovered, prefers the star who is pure to the star that's lived her life, so to speak.
​I . . .
Wait a minute, Mr. Deacon. Don't interrupt. What I am getting at is this: Our firm, our group of artists, pays authors the highest sums compatible with sound business principles. Perhaps—I won't say for sure—we should pay you just a little more than we pay some of the others. It is reported to me, Mr. Deacon . . . Griesheimer's tone now became insinuating . . . that you are at present the guest of Imperia Starling. I should hate to believe, Mr. Deacon, you are playing us against Invincible to see which'll offer you the highest price.
It's not true! Ambrose positively shrieked. I tell you I don't want to write for the films. I don't know anything about pictures. I . . .
The film magnate changed his tactics. Mr. Deacon, he demanded, how much do you want?
I don't want anything. I want to go to New Mexico.
How much has Schwarzstein offered you?
He hasn't offered me anything. I haven't seen Schwarzstein. I can't write stories for you. I don't know anything about moving pictures.
Griesheimer appeared to meditate. Presently he pushed a button and his secretary again made his appearance.
​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 ​little thing you want along with you. You can take a whole staff if you want to, your unit. It would be more convenient to have you work here, but if you must go to New Mexico it should be arranged.
But you don't understand, Ambrose protested. I don't know a thing about the Riviera or the Wild West or any other of those places where film stories are laid. I write stories of small town life.
The hippopotamus positively beamed. Just what we're looking for, stories of small town life! he exclaimed. That's the specialty of our star, Dick Ruby. I'll ask 'em to run a couple of Dick's features off for you in the projection room so you can have an idea of what he can do. Hell! he ejaculated, Dick's pretty near through a picture. He can go to New Mexico with you and let you study his personality.
But I'm visiting a friend at Santa Fe. I can't take along a troupe. . . . Ambrose was becoming mildly indignant.
Two hotels there, more'n enough to accommodate Dick and your unit both, was Griesheimer's laconic comment.
Ambrose knew that he had exhausted his capacity for argument. He had learned from his recent experiences that all his objections would somehow be overruled. In his present dilemma an expedient ​occurred to him. He would ask for time and when he was well out of this office he would escape from this cursed city where he had suffered as he had never suffered before.
Anyway, he explained, I'll have to consult my lawyer about this first.
You're not going to see Schwarzstein again?
I tell you I haven't seen him at all and I don't intend to see him, Ambrose declared, not without heat.
I warn you it won't do you no good with us. I wouldn't bargain. I wouldn't meet a raise from him. I offered you the highest figure a playwright's ever been offered by this firm . . . this group of artists. Here's the contract. . . . Griesheimer scratched out a few figures and substituted others. . . . You should try to get a better one in Hollywood. Come back with your name signed to it, Mr. Deacon, and you'll never regret it. You'll find us easy masters, the great man ended on a note of elephantine joviality.
At last Ambrose was free. As he walked on air down the corridor, Auburn Six remarked: I've certainly got to hand it to you. You may be a great playwright, but you're the greatest little business man who ever came out here!