You know you can; you always have." Luck swore, accustomed though he was to the makeshifts of the business.
The street cars had stopped running the night before, while he was still hammering that scenario out on the typewriter; the street cars had stopped running, and the steam heat had been turned off in the hotel where he lived, and he had finished with an old Mexican _serape_ draped about his person for warmth.

But his enthusiasm had not cooled, though his room grew chill.

He had gone to bed when the typing was done, and had dreamed scene after scene vividly while he slept.

Still glowing with the pride of creation, he had read the script while his breakfast coffee had cooled, and he had been the first man in the office, so eager was he to share his secret and see Martinson's eyes gleam with impatience to have the story filmed.
Knowing this, you will know also why he swore.

Martinson thrust out his under lip at the oath, and tossed the script neatly into the clear space on the desk.