They saw it in the sentimental mannerisms of Lenore Honiwell, whose sickish emotionalism slipped pat into the burlesque.
They rocked in their seats at the heroics of Tracy Gray Joyce, who could never again be taken seriously, since Luck had tagged him mercilessly as an unconscious comedian.
Oh, yes, there was zip to the picture! But there was no explanation of the title.

_The Soul of Littlefoot Law_ remained as great a mystery when the picture was finished as it had been at the start.

Littlefoot Law, by the way, was Pink.

That much the audience discovered, and no more; for as to his soul, he did not seem to own one.
Luck, still hunched down so that his back hair rubbed against his chair back, was laughing with his jaws wide apart and his fine teeth still gleaming in the half darkness, when Ted, general errand boy at the office, came straddling over intervening laps and laid a compelling hand on his shoulder.
"Say, Luck," he whispered excitedly, "the audience author's with Mart, and they both want t' see you.

And, say, I guess you're in Dutch, all right; the author's awful mad, and so is Mart.