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He has become rich. He owns a huge house in Beverly Hills, near the Hollywood studios where he worked in the early Western movies, Honest Hutch, Jes' Call Me Jim, Doubling for Romeo, Fruits of Faith. He has a reputation of being one of the most closefisted members of the joyous soviet of Broadway; only his best friends know of the money he gives away anonymously to sick chorus girls, and rum-dums, and broken actors. Once he heard that members of the baseball team of a stick town he was playing were ashamed to go on the diamond because they had no uniforms; he used a week's salary to get them the best suits, bats, gloves that could be bought. A week later he played polo with the Prince of Wales. ". . .Yes, I'm one of these movie fellers but I'm not a regular one. I've been married twenty years and I still have the same wife I started out with."
Occasionally his son Jim, who is also in the movies gets letters— human, curiously simple letters— from the man whose barbed epistles are being launched at Mr. Coolidge. If these letters are ever published one will be able to tell more about this man, the Cherokee woman's son, whose voice whines like a lake wind in Illinois, the man who now travels over Europe, Ambassador of the U. S.