CHAPTER SEVEN.
BENTLY BROWN DOES NOT APPRECIATE COMEDY Luck unhooked his hat from his knee, brought his laughing jaws together with that eloquent, downward tilt to the corners of his mouth, sat up straight, considered swiftly the possibilities of the next half hour, and paid tribute in one expressive word of four letters before he went crawling over half a dozen pairs of knees to do battle for his picture.
His picture, you understand.

For since he had made it irresistible comedy instead of very mediocre drama, he felt all the pride of creation in his work.

That was his picture that had set the Acme people laughing,--they who had come to carp and to talk knowingly of continuity and of technique and dramatic values, and to criticize everything from the sets to the photography.

It was his picture; he had made it what it was.

So he went as a champion rather than as a culprit to face the powers above him.
Martinson and Bently Brown were waiting for him near the door.