Stars: The Comedian as Hero

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They earn in the thousands, too; his writers' payroll runs to about $500,-' 000 a year. Of his seven current gagmen, one, Norman Sullivan, has been with Hope for 30 years. Sullivan and the others work in teams. For this week's Viet Nam trip, the writers huddled for four' days and then brought their work to the boss. At the first read-through, Hope wrote an X beside the jokes that sounded most viable. Then he read again, placing a second X beside the better lines. On a third run-through, he circled the best of the lot. Of the thousand he started with, he will use only about 25 or 30 per show.

The remainder could fuel a whole career for a lesser comic, but Hope never sells his jokes or throws them away.

They are filed, by subject matter, in a vault in his home, but he never forgets them. His writers marvel that Hope can flip through dozens of gags as the occasion arises, and let loose like a slot machine gone ape.

NAFT, Fellas. His writers are always expected to be on hand for work. Bob once telephoned a gagman who was on his honeymoon. "I trust," said Hope slyly, "that I'm not interrupting any thing." The writers have their own word for Hope's emergency calls: NAFT—meaning Need A Few Things, fellas. Last month, when Hope was in London playing the Royal Variety show he put in a NAFT call to Writer Mort Lachman in Hollywood. "How about a few gags about me and four other guys sharing a dressing room?" Within an hour, the boys phoned back with five quickies ("The committee gave me a dressing room with four guys and Tanya the Elephant. After 15 minutes, the elephant got up and opened the window.")

On a military tour with his writers, Hope noticed that his airplane was go ing to land on grass. "Quick," he said, "gimme a coupla grass-runway jokes!" As soon as he landed, he quipped: "I want to thank the fellas who mowed the runway." Still, none of his friends doubt that Bob can write his own. Once when he arrived at a golf course in England, where he was to play a charity match, he discovered that his caddy would be an elderly Scotsman. Hope asked the old man about his experience. The Scotsman explained that he had been there for 45 years and knew every roll of the green. Then Hope asked: "How are you at finding balls?" "Very good," replied the caddy. "Then find one," said Hope, "and we'll start."

Pretty Sneaky. Next to performing, golf rules Hope's life. On his eight-acre estate in an otherwise middle-class neighborhood, the prized outdoor possession is not the swimming pool but a well-trimmed one-hole golf course. Soon Hope will build a large house in Palm Springs, Calif., that will cost close to a million dollars; there he will have

a chip-and-putt pad. He is a member

of 18 country clubs. If he cannot find

time to play 18 holes every day, he at

least manages to hit a bucket of balls

it a driving range. At times, he often

drifts over to his putting green at night in his pajamas.

He may toss off a few fast gags on the golf course, but his opponents take him seriously. He shoots steadily in the 70s and low 80s; his handicap has gone up from four to nine. Says Pal Bing Crosby: "I'd rather have him as a partner than as an opponent." That's because