Clayton smiled politely.
After the dance she drew him over to a sofa on which two men were sitting. "Abe," she said to one of the men, "here's a find for you. This is Mr. Potkin, Mr. Clayton, Abe Potkin, you know; and this is Mr. Pliant, Dan Puant, the famous scenarist."
"We've been watching Mr. Clayton," replied Potkin.
"You'd better grab him," advised the girl; "you'll never find a better Tarzan."
"He isn't exactly the type, but he might answer; I've been noticing him," said Potkin. "What do you think, Dan?"
"He's not my idea of Tarzan, but he might do."
"Of course his face doesn't look like Tarzan; but he's big, and that's what I want," replied Potkin.
"He hasn't a name; nobody ever heard of him, and you said you wanted a big name," argued Puant.
"We'll use that platinum blond, Era Dessent, opposite him; she's got a lot of sex appeal and a big name."
"I got an idea!" exclaimed Puant. "I'll write the story around Dessent and some good looking juvenile, bring in another fem with 'It' and a heavy with a big name; and we can use Clayton in long shots with apes for atmosphere."
"That's a swell idea, Dan; get in a lot of sex stuff and a triangle and a ballroom or cabaret scene—a big one with a jazz orchestra. What we want is something different."
"That ought to fix it so that we can use this fellow," said Puant, "for it won't make much difference who takes the part of Tarzan."
"How about it, Mr. Clayton?" inquired Potkin with an ingratiating smile.
At this juncture Reece and Brouke romped in from the kitchen, each with a bottle. The host was following, expostulating.
"Have a drink, everybody!" cried Brouke, "The party's goin' stale."
They passed about the room filling up glasses with neat bourbon or gin; sometimes they mixed them. They paused occasionally to take a drink themselves. Finally they disappeared into the hallway looking for other empty glasses.
"Well," demanded Potkin, after the interruption had passed, "how about it?"
Clayton eyed him questioningly. "How about what?"
"I'm going to make a jungle picture," explained Potkin. "I got a contract for a Tarzan picture, and I want a Tarzan. I'll make a test of you tomorrow morning."
"You think I might fill the r61e of Tarzan of the Apes?" inquired Clayton, as a faint smile touched his lips.
"You ain't just what I want, but you might do. You see, Mr. Puant, here, can write a swell Tarzan story even if we ain't got no Tarzan at all. And, say! it will make you. You ought almost to pay me for such a chance. But I tell you what I do; I like you, Mr. Clayton; I give you fifty dollars a week, and look at all the publicity you get that it don't cost you nothing. You be over at the studio in the morning; and I make a test of you, eh?"
Clayton stood up. "I'll think it over," he said and started across the room.
A good-looking young woman came running in from the reception hall. Brooke was pursuing her. "Leave me alone, you cad!" she cried.
The greying host was close behind Brouke. "Leave my wife alone," he shouted, "and get out of here!"
Brouke gave the man a push that sent him staggering back against a chair, over which he fell in a heap next to the wall; then he seized the woman, lifted her in his arms, and ran out into the hall.
Clayton looked on in amazement. He turned and saw the girl, Maya, at his elbow. "Your friend is getting a little rough," she said.
"He is not my friend," replied Clayton. "I just met him this evening. He invited me to come to this party that is being given by a friend of his."
The girl laughed. "Friend of his!" she mimicked. "Joe never saw any of you guys before. You—" she looked at him closely—"you don't mean to say you didn't know you were crashing a party in a stranger's house!"
Clayton looked bewildered. "They were not friends of these people?" he demanded. "Why didn't they order us out? Why didn't they call the police?"
"And have the police find a kitchen full of booze? Quit your kidding, Big Boy."
A woman's scream was wafted down from the upper floor. The host was staggering to his feet. "My God, my wife!" he cried.
Clayton sprang into the hall and leaped up the stairs. He heard cries coming from behind a closed door; it was locked; he put his shoulder to it, and it flew open with a crash.
Inside the room a woman was struggling in the clutches of the drunken Brouke. Clayton seized the man by the scruff of the neck and tore him away. Brouke voiced a scream of pain and rage; then he turned upon Clayton, but he was helpless in the giant grip of those mighty muscles.
A police siren wailed in the distance. That seemed to sober Brouke. "Drop me, you damn fool," he cried; "here come the police!"
Clayton carried the struggling man to the head of the stairs and pitched him down; then he turned back to the room where the woman lay on the floor where she had fallen. He raised her to her feet.
"Are you hurt?" he asked.
"No, just frightened. He was trying to make me tell him where I kept my jewels."
The police siren sounded again, much closer now. "You better get out. Joe's awful sore. He'll have all three of you arrested."
Clayton glanced toward an open window, near which the branches of a great oak shone in the light from the street lamps in front of the house. He placed a foot upon the sill and leaped into the darkness. The woman screamed.
In the morning Clayton found Reece waiting for him in the lobby of the hotel. "Great little party, eh, what?" demanded the young man.
"I thought you would be in jail," said Clayton.
"Not a chance. Billy Brouke has a courtesy card from one of the big shots. Say, I see you're going to work for Abe Pot-kin, doing Tarzan."
"Who told you that?"
"It's in Louella Parsons' column in the Examiner."
"I'm not."
"You're wise. But I'll tell you a good bet, if you are thinking of getting into the movies. Prominent Pictures is casting a new Tarzan picture, and—"
A bell boy approached them. "Telephone call for you, Mr. Clayton," he said.
Clayton stepped to the booth and picked up the receiver.
"This is Clayton," he said.
"This is the casting office of Prominent Pictures. Can you come right over for an interview?"
"I'll think about it," replied Clayton, and hung up.
"That was Prominent Pictures calling me," he said as he rejoined Reece. "They want me to come over for an interview."
"You'd better go; if you get in with Prominent, you're made."
"It might be interesting."
"Think you could do Tarzan?"
"I might."
"Dangerous part. I wouldn't want any of it in mine."
"I think I'll go over." He turned toward the street.
"Say, old man," said Reece, "could you let me have ten until Saturday?"
The casting director sized Clayton up. "You look all right to me; I'll take you up to Mr. Goldeen; he's production manager. Had any experience?"
"As Tarzan?"
The casting director laughed. "I mean in pictures."
"No."
"Well, you might be all right at that. You don't have to be a Barrymore to play Tarzan. Come on, we'll go up to Mr. Goldeen's office."
They had to wait a few minutes in the outer office, and then a secretary ushered them in.
"Hello, Ben!" the casting director greeted Goldeen. "I think I've got just the man for you. This is Mr. Clayton, Mr. Goldeen."
"For what?"
"For Tarzan."
"Oh, m-m-m."
Goldeen's eyes surveyed Clayton critically for an instant; then the production manager made a gesture with his palm as though waving them away. He shook his head. "Not the type," he snapped. "Not the type, at all."
As Clayton followed the casting director from the room the shadow of a smile touched his lips.