“How much”--he asked, outwardly firmer than he would have dared hope--“how much do you need?”
Zanin really started now, and stared at him.
“See here,” he said, “I've gone pretty far in with Silver stone.”
Peter laughed shortly. “Do you think _he_ would consider himself bound by anything you may have said! Silverstone!”
This was a point. He could see Zanin thinking it over.
“What do you think will happen the minute Sue really discovers the sort of hands she's in? Even if she would want to stick to you!”
“Well”--said Zanin, thinking fast--“it needn't be lavish, like these big battle films and such. But it will take money.”
“Three or four thousand. Maybe five or six. It means going south for the outdoor scenes. I want tropical foliage, so my people won't look frozen. And publicity isn't cheap, you know.”
Peter gulped; but plunged on. “I'll tell you what you do, Zanin. Get another man--a littler producer than Silverstone--and have him supply studio, operators, and all the plant necessary, on a partnership basis, you to put in some part of the cash needed.”
“Great!” said Zanin. “Fine! And where's the cash to come from?”
The front legs of Zanin's chair came to the floor with a bang.
“New stuff. I'm not rich, but I believe you've got a big thing here, and I stand willing to put up a few thousand on a private contract with you. This can be just between ourselves. All I ask is a reasonable control of the expenditure.”
Zanin thought--and thought. Peter could see the shifting lights in his cold clear eyes.
He moved over to the window and stared out into the area-way, where electric lamps and gas flames twinkled from a hundred other rear buildings. He came back to his chair and lit a cigarette.
“You're on!” he finally said. “If you want to know, I _am_ worried about Silverstone. And I'm certainly in no position to turn down such an offer as this.”
Which was the genesis of The Nature Film Producing Co., Inc., Jacob Zanin, Pres't. They talked late, these new partners.
It was nearly one o'clock in the morning when Peter limped into the rooms.
He found Hy pitting by the window in his pajamas, gazing rapturously at a lacy handerchief.
“Aha!” said Hy, “he comes! Never mind the hour, my boy! I take off my hat. You're better than I am--better than I! A _soupçon_ of speed, ol' dear!”'