It was Christmas vacation. Horty and I were returning to our hotel room after the theater. The clerk handed us a letter reading: Dear Dad. Ill be at Uncle John’s office. Call me there. They wouldn’t let me in. Found a “W” in my hat. IVe been through the mill but my middle name, Watson, found me out. Lovingly, your son, Orson. Bewilderment from Hortense. “Now what in the world is that mad boy talking about-?-?-!” To me, no mystery. Orson’s penchant for dramatics, on or off stage, is pervasive. He had wanted to get in our room. Maybe to use the typewriter I’m prone to travel with. Said he was our son. Was asked for identification. When O-W was discovered in his hat, he could have amended his claim to that of foster son and proved it by a phone call to my office. But that would have been too easy. And spoiled all the fun.
Skipper Hill tells a story about how Orson Welles was perpetually 8 years old