Black Mask (Vol. 22, No. 2 — Mary 1939)

“It’s about time you got here,” the fellow snapped. “We were just getting ready to go out and find another sap.”

Quade showed his teeth in a cold smile. “Bring on your dog!”

Several men were gathered around a microphone and a layout of crazy objects. The young fellow snatched up several sheets of music.

“I’ll explain what we’re doing,” he said crisply. “Desmond Dogg’s a St. Bernard. In this particular scene he’s pulling the old rescue scene. Christopher Cat—”

“Christopher?” Quade asked.

“Yes, Christopher. And don’t interrupt. Christopher Cat’s lost in the snowstorm. Desmond Dogg has this keg of rum tied about his neck and is leaving the hospice to rescue Christopher. The wind’s howling — that’s Felix — and it’s snowing like hell. Desmond — that’s you — is running down the mountain.”

“With the keg of rum around my neck?” Quade asked.

“Yes, and don’t interrupt again. You’re galloping through the snow. You bark, woof-woof, and then you sing: ‘Here I come with a keg of rum.’ All right, Felix — wind!”

A skinny fellow with a big Adam’s apple stepped up to the microphone and whistled softly. Amplified, the sound was very much like the howling of a blizzard.

“O.K.,” said the young director. “Now, you, Oscar — Desmond’s feet crunching the snow.”

Another man brought a bowl of baking soda up to the microphone, stuck an iron pestle into it and twisted it. The result was a sound like feet crunching on snow.

“Swell,” said the director. “Now, we’ll get together on it. Felix, wind! Oscar, snow! And, you, whatever your name is, you bark, ‘Woof-woof,’ and sing — in a dog’s voice!”

The wind howled and the snow crunched under Desmond Dogg’s feet and Quade barked and sang in a tone that might have sounded like a dog’s if a dog could sing.

When they finished the director held out his hand to Quade. “My name’s Needham. You did that better than Pete Rice. He just couldn’t get that dog quality into his voice.”

“I’m a success!” Quade murmured.

“Sure, why not? I’ll talk to Tommy Slocum and have him give you a contract. Now then, Miss Phillips! Come over here and do your meowing!”

Miss Phillips, imitating Christopher Cat, was good enough to stampede a convention of rats, Quade thought.

They rehearsed the scene a half-dozen times, then recorded it. Needham, the director, put them through two more scenes, then called a halt. “That’ll be all until this afternoon. I want to see the film run off again.” He turned to Quade, “Like to come to the sweat box?”

It sounded interesting, so Quade went along. The room they went to was a miniature theater; a couple of dozen chairs in the rear, a projection room and a screen.

“You know how these cartoon pictures are made, don’t you?” Needham asked Quade.

“Lot of drawings photographed, eh?”

“Ten to fourteen thousand for a single reel which lasts about eight minutes on the screen.” He held up a stack of celluloid rectangles.

“The animators make the original drawings on large pasteboard strips. There are forty to sixty scenes, or frames, to a picture. The animators draw these, put in the animals. The graduation of the movements is drawn on these celluloid panels. The photographer puts a ‘cel’ on the frame, photographs it, then puts down the next. The whole thing is speeded up, makes your movement.”

“And ten to fourteen thousand complete drawings are made?”

“Only of the animals in their movements. Girls do that, from the animators’ originals. Some girls do the tracing, others the filling in and the graduation of the movement. It’s expensive business. Some of our technicolor films cost as much as a complete seven-reel film put out by other studios.”

“Well,” said Quade, “some people prefer Desmond Dogg to Clark Gable.” Needham grunted, called toward the projection room. “O.K., Clarence!”

The little theater went dark and a moment later the projector threw a beam of white upon the screen.

The various screen credits followed:

Tommy Slocum Productions

Presents: Desmond Dogg’s Dilemma

Based upon the famous character created by Tommy Slocum

Producer: Tommy Slocum

Director: Hector Needham

Original Story by Stanley Maynard

Photography: M. V. Hilton

Desmond Dogg appeared upon the screen — a St. Bernard, against a background of mountain and snow and a hospice almost toppling off a cliff.

Quade said, “I just remembered I’ve got to make a phone call,” and got up, groped his way in the darkness to the door, went outside.

He made his way to Miss Hendricks’ office. Charlie Boston jumped up from a chair. “Where you been all morning, Ollie?”

“Barking,” Quade retorted and pushed open the door of Slocum’s office.

The little producer looked up, scowled. “I didn’t think you’d have the nerve to come around.”

“Why not? You hired me to be Desmond Dogg’s voice. Hec Needham just told me I was better than Pete Rice. He wants you to sign me up on a contract.”

Tommy Slocum snorted. “Quade, no man ever talked to me like you have, or did the things you’ve done to me.”

“Why. I haven’t done anything to you.”