Of all the glamour-soaked men and women of Hollywood, I was deeply interested in talking to only one — Walt Disney. He owns his company, he take orders from nobody, and he has never tried to put out anything short of the best. And as far as I was concerned, he was and still is one of the film colony's most thoroughly sincere and honest men.
Therefore, exactly eighty minutes after I alighted from the train in Los Angeles I got into a taxi and told the driver to take me posthaste to the Disney studios. Unlike other studios, there were no men in cowboy suits, no members of the Foreign Legion, no British grenadiers stalking about.
"Yes, Mr. Disney will see you," said the girl at the switchboard, "but he's tied up for several hours. Would you like to spend the time looking around and seeing how the cartoons are made?" Would I? Can Donald Duck fight?
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