You know the screen stars, of course; but maybe you do not know
those larger celestial bodies, the dark and silent and invisible
stars from which the shining ones derive their energies. So, permit
me to introduce you to T-S, the trade abbreviation for a name which
nobody can remember, which even his secretaries have to keep typed
on a slip of paper just above their machine--Tszchniczklefritszch.
He came a few years ago from Ruthenia, or Rumelia, or Roumania--one
of those countries where the consonants are so greatly in excess of
the vowels. If you are as rich as he, you call him Abey, which is
easy; otherwise, you call him Mr. T-S, which he accepts as a part of
his Americanization.

He is shorter than you or I, and has found that he can't grow
upward, but can grow without limit in all lateral directions. There
is always a little more of him than his clothing can hold, and it
spreads out in rolls about his collar. He has a yellowish face,
which turns red easily. He has small, shiny eyes, he speaks
atrocious English, he is as devoid of culture as a hairy Ainu, and
he smells money and goes after it like a hog into a swill-trough.

"Hello, everybody! Madame, vere's de old voman?

"She ees being dressed--"

"Vell, speed her up! I got no time. I got--Jesus Christ!"

"Yes, exactly," said Mary Magna.

The great man of the pictures stood rooted to the spot. "Vot's dis?