MERTON OF THE MOVIES

By Harry Leon Wilson

To George Ade

CONTENTS

 I. DIRTY WORK AT THE BORDER II. THAT NIGHT--THE APARTMENTS OF CLIFFORD ARMYTAGE III. WESTERN STUFF IV. THE WATCHER AT THE GATE V. A BREACH IN THE CITY WALLS VI. UNDER THE GLASS TOPS VII. "NOTHING TO-DAY, DEAR!" VIII. CLIFFORD ARMYTAGE, THE OUTLAW IX. MORE WAYS THAN ONE X. OF SHATTERED ILLUSIONS XI. THE MONTAGUE GIRL INTERVENES XII. ALIAS HAROLD PARMALEE XIII. GENIUS COMES INTO ITS OWN XIV. OUT THERE WHERE MEN ARE MEN XV. A NEW TRAIL XVI. OF SARAH NEVADA MONTAGUE XVII. MISS MONTAGUE USES HER OWN FACE XVIII. "FIVE REELS--500 LAUGHS" XIX. THE TRAGIC COMEDIAN XX. ONWARD AND UPWARD

CHAPTER I. DIRTY WORK AT THE BORDER

At the very beginning of the tale there comes a moment of puzzledhesitation. One way of approach is set beside another for choice, anda third contrived for better choice. Still the puzzle persists, allbecause the one precisely right way might seem--shall we say intense, high keyed, clamorous? Yet if one way is the only right way, why pause?Courage! Slightly dazed, though certain, let us be on, into the shrillthick of it. So, then--

Out there in the great open spaces where men are men, a clash ofprimitive hearts and the coming of young love into its own! Well hadit been for Estelle St. Clair if she had not wandered from the Fordyceranch. A moment's delay in the arrival of Buck Benson, a second of fearin that brave heart, and hers would have been a fate worse than death. 

Had she not been warned of Snake le Vasquez, the outlaw--his base threatto win her by fair means or foul? Had not Buck Benson himself, thatstrong, silent man of the open, begged her to beware of the half-breed?Perhaps she had resented the hint of mastery in Benson's cool, quiettones as he said, "Miss St. Clair, ma'am, I beg you not to endanger yourwelfare by permitting the advances of this viper. He bodes no good tosuch as you. "

Perhaps--who knows?--Estelle St. Clair had even thought to trifle withthe feelings of Snake le Vasquez, then to scorn him for his presumption. Although the beautiful New York society girl had remained unsullied inthe midst of a city's profligacy, she still liked "to play with fire, "as she laughingly said, and at the quiet words of Benson--Two-Gun Bensonhis comrades of the border called him--she had drawn herself to her fullheight, facing him in all her blond young beauty, and pouted adorably asshe replied, "Thank you! But I can look out for myself. "

Yet she had wandered on her pony farther than she meant to, and wasnot without trepidation at the sudden appearance of the picturesquehalfbreed, his teeth flashing in an evil smile as he swept off his broadsombrero to her. Above her suddenly beating heart she sought to chatgayly, while the quick eyes of the outlaw took in the details of thesmart riding costume that revealed every line of her lithe young figure. But suddenly she chilled under his hot glance that now spoke all tooplainly. 

"I must return to my friends, " she faltered. "They will be anxious. "But the fellow laughed with a sinister leer. "No--ah, no, the lovelysenorita will come with me, " he replied; but there was the temper ofsteel in his words. For Snake le Vasquez, on the border, where humanlife was lightly held, was known as the Slimy Viper. Of all the evilmen in that inferno, Snake was the foulest. Steeped in vice, he fearedneither God nor man, and respected no woman. And now, Estelle St. Clair, drawing-room pet, pampered darling of New York society, which she ruledwith an iron hand from her father's Fifth Avenue mansion, regrettedbitterly that she had not given heed to honest Buck Benson. Her prayers, threats, entreaties, were in vain. Despite her struggles, the blows hersmall fists rained upon the scoundrel's taunting face, she was borneacross the border, on over the mesa, toward the lair of the outlaw. 

"Have you no mercy?" she cried again and again. "Can you not see that Iloathe and despise you, foul fiend that you are? Ah. God in heaven, isthere no help at hand?" The outlaw remained deaf to these words thatshould have melted a heart of stone. At last over the burning plainwas seen the ruined hovel to which the scoundrel was dragging hisfair burden. It was but the work of a moment to dismount and bear herhalf-fainting form within the den. There he faced her, repellent withevil intentions. 

"Ha, senorita, you are a beautiful wildcat, yes? But Snake le Vasquezwill tame you! Ha, ha!" laughed he carelessly. 

With a swift movement the beautiful girl sought to withdraw the smallsilver-mounted revolver without which she never left the ranch. ButSnake le Vasquez, with a muttered oath, was too quick for her. He seizedthe toy and contemptuously hurled it across his vile den. 

"Have a care, my proud beauty!" he snarled, and the next moment she waswrithing in his grasp. 

Little availed her puny strength. Helpless as an infant was the fair NewYork society girl as Snake le Vasquez, foulest of the viper breed, beganto force his attention upon her. The creature's hot kisses seared herdefenseless cheek. "Listen!" he hissed. "You are mine, mine at last. Here you shall remain a prisoner until you have consented to be mywife. " All seemed, indeed, lost. 

"Am I too late, Miss St. Clair?"

Snake le Vasquez started at the quiet, grim voice. 

"Sapristi!" he snarled. "You!"

"Me!" replied Buck Benson, for it was, indeed, no other. 

"Thank God, at last!" murmured Estelle St. Clair, freeing herself fromthe foul arms that had enfolded her slim young beauty and staggeringback from him who would so basely have forced her into a distastefulmarriage. In an instant she had recovered the St. Clair poise, hadbecome every inch the New York society leader, as she replied, "Not toolate, Mr. Benson! Just in time, rather. Ha, ha! This--this gentleman hasbecome annoying. You are just in time to mete out the punishment he sojustly deserves, for which I shall pray that heaven reward you. "

She pointed an accusing finger at the craven wretch who had shrunk fromher and now cowered at the far side of the wretched den. At that momentshe was strangely thrilled. What was his power, this strong, silent manof the open with his deep reverence for pure American womanhood? True, her culture demanded a gentleman, but her heart demanded a man. Her eyessoftened and fell before his cool, keen gaze, and a blush mantled herfair cheek. Could he but have known it, she stood then in meek surrenderbefore this soft-voiced master. A tremor swept the honest rugged face ofBuck Benson as heart thus called to heart. But his keen eyes flitted toSnake le Vasquez. 

"Now, curse you, viper that you are, you shall fight me, by heaven! inAmerican fashion, man to man, for, foul though you be, I hesitate to puta bullet through your craven heart. "

The beautiful girl shivered with new apprehension, the eyes of Snake leVasquez glittered with new hope. He faced his steely eyed opponent foran instant only, then with a snarl like that of an angry beast sprangupon him. Benson met the cowardly attack with the flash of a powerfulfist, and the outlaw fell to the floor with a hoarse cry of rage andpain. But he was quickly upon his feet again, muttering curses, andagain he attacked his grim-faced antagonist. Quick blows rained upon hisdefenseless face, for the strong, silent man was now fairly aroused. Hefought like a demon, perhaps divining that here strong men battled fora good woman's love. The outlaw was proving to be no match for hisopponent. Arising from the ground where a mighty blow had sent him, hemade a lightning-like effort to recover the knife which Benson had takenfrom him. 

"Have a care!" cried the girl in quick alarm. "That fiend in human formwould murder you!"

But Buck Benson's cool eye had seen the treachery in ample time. Witha muttered "Curse you, fiend that you are!" he seized the form of theoutlaw in a powerful grasp, raised him high aloft as if he had been buta child, and was about to dash him to the ground when a new voicefrom the doorway froze him to immobility. Statute-like he stood there, holding aloft the now still form of Snake le Vasquez. 

The voice from the doorway betrayed deep amazement and the profoundestirritation:

"Merton Gill, what in the sacred name of Time are you meanin' to dowith that dummy? For the good land's sake! Have you gone plumb crazy, orwhat? Put that thing down!"

The newcomer was a portly man of middle age dressed in ill-fittingblack. His gray hair grew low upon his brow and he wore a parted beard. 

The conqueror of Snake le Vasquez was still frozen, though he hadinstantly ceased to be Buck Benson, the strong, silent, two-gun man ofthe open spaces. The irritated voice came again:

"Put that dummy down, you idiot! What you think you're doin', anyway?And say, what you got that other one in here for, when it ought to beout front of the store showin' that new line of gingham house frocks?Put that down and handle it careful! Mebbe you think I got them thingsdown from Chicago just for you to play horse with. Not so! Not so atall! They're to help show off goods, and that's what I want 'em doin'right now. And for Time's sake, what's that revolver lyin' on the floorfor? Is it loaded? Say, are you really out of your senses, or ain't you?What's got into you lately? Will you tell me that? Skyhootin' aroundin here, leavin' the front of the store unpertected for an hour or two, like your time was your own. And don't tell me you only been foolin' inhere for three minutes, either, because when I come back from lunch justnow there was Mis' Leffingwell up at the notions counter wanting somehooks and eyes, and she tells me she's waited there a good thuttyminutes if she's waited one. Nice goin's on, I must say, for a boydrawin' down the money you be! Now you git busy! Take that one with thegingham frock out and stand her in front where she belongs, and then putone them new raincoats on the other and stand him out where he belongs, and then look after a few customers. I declare, sometimes I git cleanout of patience with you! Now, for gosh's sake, stir your stumps!"

"Oh, all right--yes, sir, " replied Merton Gill, though but halfrespectfully. The "Oh, all right" had been tainted with a trace ofsullenness. He was tired of this continual nagging and fussing oversmall matters; some day he would tell the old grouch so. 

And now, gone the vivid tale of the great out-of-doors, the wide plainsof the West, the clash of primitive-hearted men for a good woman's love. Gone, perhaps, the greatest heart picture of a generation, the pictureat which you laugh with a lump in your throat and smile with a tear inyour eye, the story of plausible punches, a big, vital theme masterfullyhandled--thrills, action, beauty, excitement--carried to a sensationalfinish by the genius of that sterling star of the shadowed world, Clifford Armytage--once known as Merton Gill in the little hamlet ofSimsbury, Illinois, where for a time, ere yet he was called to screentriumphs, he served as a humble clerk in the so-called emporium of AmosG. Gashwiler--Everything For The Home. Our Prices Always Right. 

Merton Gill--so for a little time he must still be known--moodily seizedthe late Estelle St. Clair under his arm and withdrew from the dingyback storeroom. Down between the counters of the emporium he went withhis fair burden and left her outside its portals, staring from her verydefinitely lashed eyes across the slumbering street at the Simsbury postoffice. She was tastefully arrayed in one of those new checked ginghamhouse frocks so heatedly mentioned a moment since by her lawful owner, and across her chest Merton Gill now imposed, with no tenderness ofmanner, the appealing legend, "Our Latest for Milady; only $6. 98. "He returned for Snake le Vasquez. That outlaw's face, even out of thepicture, was evil. He had been picked for the part because of thisface--plump, pinkly tinted cheeks, lustrous, curling hair of somerepellent composition, eyes with a hard glitter, each lash distinct inblue-black lines, and a small, tip-curled black mustache that lent thewhole an offensive smirk. Garbed now in a raincoat, he, too, was posedbefore the emporium front, labelled "Rainproof or You Get Back YourMoney. " So frankly evil was his mien that Merton Gill, pausing to regardhim, suffered a brief relapse into artistry. 

"You fiend!" he muttered, and contemptuously smote the cynical face withan open hand. 

Snake le Vasquez remained indifferent to the affront, smirkinginsufferably across the slumbering street at the wooden Indianproffering cigars before the establishment of Selby Brothers, Confectionery and Tobaccos. 

Within the emporium the proprietor now purveyed hooks and eyes to animpatient Mrs. Leffingwell. Merton Gill, behind the opposite counter, waited upon a little girl sent for two and a quarter yards of stuff tomatch the sample crumpled in her damp hand. Over the suave amenities ofthis merchandising Amos Gashwiler glared suspiciously across the storeat his employee. Their relations were still strained. Merton also glaredat Amos, but discreetly, at moments when the other's back was turned orwhen he was blandly wishing to know of Mrs. Leffingwell if there wouldbe something else to-day. Other customers entered. Trade was on. 

Both Merton and Amos wore airs of cheerful briskness that deceived thepublic. No one could have thought that Amos was fearing his undoubtedlycrazed clerk might become uncontrollable at any moment, or that theclerk was mentally parting from Amos forever in a scene of tensedramatic value in which his few dignified but scathing words would burnthemselves unforgettably into the old man's brain. Merton, to himself, had often told Amos these things. Some day he'd say them right out, leaving his victim not only in the utmost confusion but in black despairof ever finding another clerk one half as efficient as Merton Gill. 

The afternoon wore to closing time in a flurry of trade, during which, as Merton continued to behave sanely, the apprehension of his employerin a measure subsided. The last customer had departed from the emporium. The dummies were brought inside. The dust curtains were hung alongthe shelves of dry goods. There remained for Merton only the task ofdelivering a few groceries. He gathered these and took them out to thewagon in front. Then he changed from his store coat to his street coatand donned a rakish plush hat. 

Amos was also changing from his store coat to his street coat anddonning his frayed straw hat. 

"See if you can't keep from actin' crazy while you make themdeliveries, " said Amos, not uncordially, as he lighted a choice cigarfrom the box which he kept hidden under a counter. 

Merton wished to reply: "See here, Mr. Gashwiler, I've stood this abuselong enough! The time has come to say a few words to you--" But aloud hemerely responded, "Yes, sir!"

The circumstance that he also had a cigar from the same box, hidden notso well as Amos thought, may have subdued his resentment. He would lightthe cigar after the first turn in the road had carried him beyond theeagle eye of its owner. 

The delivery wagon outside was drawn by an elderly horse devoid ofambition or ideals. His head was sunk in dejection. He was gray at thetemples, and slouched in the shafts in a loafing attitude, oneforefoot negligently crossed in front of the other. He aroused himselfreluctantly and with apparent difficulty when Merton Gill seized thereins and called in commanding tones, "Get on there, you old skate!" Theequipage moved off under the gaze of Amos, who was locking the doors ofhis establishment. 

Turning the first corner into a dusty side street, Merton dropped thereins and lighted the filched cigar. Other Gashwiler property was sacredto him. From all the emporium's choice stock he would have abstractednot so much as a pin; but the Gashwiler cigars, said to be "The World'sBest 10c Smoke, " with the picture of a dissipated clubman in eveningdress on the box cover, were different, in that they were pointedlyhidden from Merton. He cared little for cigars, but this was achallenge; the old boy couldn't get away with anything like that. Ifhe didn't want his cigars touched let him leave the box out in the openlike a man. Merton drew upon the lighted trophy, moistened and pastedback the wrapper that had broken when the end was bitten off, and tookfrom the bottom of the delivery wagon the remains of a buggy whip thathad been worn to half its length. With this he now tickled the bonyridges of the horse. Blows meant nothing to Dexter, but he could stillbe tickled into brief spurts of activity. He trotted with swayinghead, sending up an effective dust screen between the wagon and a stillpossibly observing Gashwiler. 

His deliveries made, Merton again tickled the horse to a franticpace which continued until they neared the alley on which fronted theGashwiler barn; there the speed was moderated to a mild amble, forGashwiler believed his horse should be driven with tenderness, and hisequally watchful wife believed it would run away if given the chance. 

Merton drove into the barnyard, unhitched the horse, watered it at thehalf of a barrel before the iron pump, and led it into the barn, wherehe removed the harness. The old horse sighed noisily and shook himselfwith relief as the bridle was removed and a halter slipped over hisvenerable brow. 

Ascertaining that the barnyard was vacant, Merton immediately becameattentive to his charge. Throughout the late drive his attitude had beenone of mild but contemptuous abuse. More than once he had uttered thewords "old skate" in tones of earnest conviction, and with the worn endof the whip he had cruelly tickled the still absurdly sensitive sides. Had beating availed he would with no compunction have beaten thedrooping wreck. But now, all at once, he was curiously tender. He pattedthe shoulder softly, put both arms around the bony neck, and pressed hisface against the face of Dexter. A moment he stood thus, then spoke in atear-choked voice:

"Good-by, old pal--the best, the truest pal a man ever had. You and mehas seen some tough times, old pard; but you've allus brought me throughwithout a scratch; allus brought me through. " There was a sob in thespeaker's voice, but he manfully recovered a clear tone of pathos. "Andnow, old pal, they're a-takin' ye from me--yes, we got to part, you an'me. I'm never goin' to set eyes on ye agin. But we got to be brave, oldpal; we got to keep a stiff upper lip--no cryin' now; no bustin' down. "

The speaker unclasped his arms and stood with head bowed, his faceworking curiously, striving to hold back the sobs. 

For Merton Gill was once more Clifford Armytage, popular idol of thescreen, in his great role of Buck Benson bidding the accustomed farewellto his four-footed pal that had brought him safely through countlessdangers. How are we to know that in another couple of hundred feet ofthe reel Buck will escape the officers of the law who have him for thathold-up of the Wallahoola stage--of which he was innocent--leap froma second-story window of the sheriff's office onto the back of his oldpal, and be carried safely over the border where the hellhounds can'ttouch him until his innocence is proved by Estelle St. Clair, the NewYork society girl, whose culture demanded a gentleman but whose heartdemanded a man. How are we to know this? We only know that Buck Bensonalways has to kiss his horse good-by at this spot in the drama. 

Merton Gill is impressively Buck Benson. His sobs are choking him. Andthough Gashwiler's delivery horse is not a pinto, and could hardly getover the border ahead of a sheriff's posse, the scene is affecting. 

"Good-by, again, old pal, and God bless ye!" sobs Merton. 

CHAPTER II. THAT NIGHT--THE APARTMENTS OF CLIFFORD ARMYTAGE

Merton Gill mealed at the Gashwiler home. He ate his supper in moodysilence, holding himself above the small gossip of the day that engagedAmos and his wife. What to him meant the announcement that Amos expecteda new line of white goods on the morrow, or Mrs. Gashwiler's versionof a regrettable incident occurring at that afternoon's meeting ofthe Entre Nous Five Hundred Club, in which the score had been juggledadversely to Mrs. Gashwiler, resulting in the loss of the first prize, a handsome fern dish, and concerning which Mrs. Gashwiler had thoughtit best to speak her mind? What importance could he attach to thedisclosure of Metta Judson, the Gashwiler hired girl, who chatted freelyduring her appearances with food, that Doc Cummins had said old GrandmaFoutz couldn't last out another day; that the Peter Swansons weresending clear to Chicago for Tilda's trousseau; and that Jeff Murdockhad arrested one of the Giddings boys, but she couldn't learn if it wasFerd or Gus, for being drunk as a fool and busting up a bazaar out atthe Oak Grove schoolhouse, and the fighting was something terrible. 

Scarcely did he listen to these petty recitals. He ate in silence, andwhen he had finished the simple meal he begged to be excused. He beggedthis in a lofty, detached, somewhat weary manner, as a man of theworld, excessively bored at the dull chatter but still the fastidiousgentleman, might have begged it, breaking into one of the manyrepetitions by his hostess of just what she had said to Mrs. JudgeEllis. He was again Clifford Armytage, enacting a polished society manamong yokels. He was so impressive, after rising, in his bow to Mrs. Gashwiler that Amos regarded him with a kindling suspicion. 

"Say!" he called, as Merton in the hallway plucked his rakish plush hatfrom the mirrored rack. "You remember, now, no more o' that skylarkin'with them dummies! Them things cost money. "

Merton paused. He wished to laugh sarcastically, a laugh of witheringscorn. He wished to reply in polished tones, "Skylarkin'! You poor, dullclod, what do you know of my ambitions, my ideals? You, with your pettylife devoted to gaining a few paltry dollars!" But he did not saythis, or even register the emotion that would justly accompany such asubtitle. He merely rejoined, "All right, sir, I'm not going to touchthem, " and went quickly out. "Darned old grouch!" he muttered as he wentdown the concrete walk to the Gashwiler front gate. 

Here he turned to regard the two-story brick house and the squareof lawn with a concrete deer on one side of the walk, balanced by aconcrete deer on the other. Before the gate was the cast-iron effigyof a small Negro in fantastic uniform, holding an iron ring aloft. TheGashwiler carriage horse had been tethered to this in the days beforethe Gashwiler touring car had been acquired. 

"Dwelling of a country storekeeper!" muttered Merton. "That's all youare!"

This was intended to be scornful. Merton meant that on the screen itwould be recognized as this and nothing more. It could not be takenfor the mansion of a rich banker, or the country home of a Wall Streetmagnate. He felt that he had been keen in his dispraise, especially asold Gashwiler would never get the sting of it. Clod!

Three blocks brought him to the heart of the town, still throbbingfaintly. He stood, irresolute, before the Giddings House. Chairs infront of this hostelry were now vacant of loafers, and a clatter ofdishes came through the open windows of the dining room, wheresupper was on. Farther down the street Selby Brothers, Cigars andConfectionery, would be open; lights shone from the windows of theFashion Pool Parlour across the way; the City Drug Store could still beentered; and the post office would stay open until after the mail fromNo. 4 was distributed. With these exceptions the shops along this martof trade were tightly closed, including the Gashwiler Emporium, at theblind front of which Merton now glanced with the utmost distaste. 

Such citizens as were yet abroad would be over at the depot to watch No. 4 go through. Merton debated joining these sight-seers. Simsbury was toosmall to be noticed by many trains. It sprawled along the track as if ithad been an afterthought of the railroad. Trains like No. 4 were aptto dash relentlessly by it without slackening speed, the mail bag beingflung to the depot platform. But sometimes there would be a passengerfor Simsbury, and the proud train would slow down and halt reluctantly, with a grinding of brakes, while the passenger alighted. Then a goodview of the train could be had; a line of beautiful sleepers terminatingin an observation car, its rear platform guarded by a brass-toppedrailing behind which the privileged lolled at ease; and up ahead awonderful dining car, where dinner was being served; flitting white-cladwaiters, the glitter of silver and crystal and damask, and favouredbeings feasting at their lordly ease, perhaps denying even a carelessglance at the pitiful hamlet outside, or at most looking out impatientat the halt, or merely staring with incurious eyes while awaiting theirchoice foods. 

Not one of these enviable persons ever betrayed any interest in Simsburyor its little group of citizens who daily gathered on the platform to dothem honour. Merton Gill used to fancy that these people might shrewdlydetect him to be out of place there--might perhaps take him to be analien city man awaiting a similar proud train going the other way, standing, as he would, aloof from the obvious villagers, and having amanner, a carriage, an attire, such as further set him apart. Still, hecould never be sure about this. Perhaps no one ever did single him outas a being patently of the greater world. Perhaps they considered thathe was rightly of Simsbury and would continue to be a part of it all thedays of his life; or perhaps they wouldn't notice him at all. They hadbeen passing Simsburys all day, and all Simsburys and all their peoplesmust look very much alike to them. Very well--a day would come. Therewould be at Simsbury a momentous stop of No. 4 and another passengerwould be in that dining car, disjoined forever from Simsbury, and hewith them would stare out the polished windows at the gaping throng, andhe would continue to stare with incurious eyes at still other Simsburysalong the right of way, while the proud train bore him off to triumphsnever dreamed of by natural-born villagers. 

He decided now not to tantalize himself with a glance at this splendidmeans of escape from all that was sordid. He was still not a littledepressed by the late unpleasantness with Gashwiler, who had thought hima crazy fool, with his revolver, his fiercely muttered words, and hisholding aloft of a valuable dummy as if to threaten it with destruction. Well, some day the old grouch would eat his words; some day he would berelating to amazed listeners that he had known Merton Gill intimately atthe very beginning of his astounding career. That was bound to come. Butto-night Merton had no heart for the swift spectacle of No. 4. Nor even, should it halt, did he feel up to watching those indifferent, incuriouspassengers who little recked that a future screen idol in nattyplush hat and belted coat amusedly surveyed them. To-night he must bealone--but a day would come. Resistless Time would strike his hour!

Still he must wait for the mail before beginning his nightly study. Certain of his magazines would come to-night. He sauntered down thedeserted street, pausing before the establishment of Selby Brothers. From the door of this emerged one Elmer Huff, clerk at the City DrugStore. Elmer had purchased a package of cigarettes and now offered oneto Merton. 

"'Lo, Mert! Have a little pill?"

"No, thanks, " replied Merton firmly. 

He had lately given up smoking--save those clandestine indulgences atthe expense of Gashwiler--because he was saving money against his greatday. 

Elmer lighted one of his own little pills and made a further suggestion. 

"Say, how about settin' in a little game with the gang to-night afterthe store closes--ten-cent limit?"

"No, thanks, " replied Merton, again firmly. 

He had no great liking for poker at any limit, and he would not subjecthis savings to a senseless hazard. Of course he might win, but you nevercould tell. 

"Do you good, " urged Elmer. "Quit at twelve sharp, with one round ofroodles. "

"No, I guess not, " said Merton. 

"We had some game last night, I'll tell the world! One hand we had fourjacks out against four aces, and right after that I held four kingsagainst an ace full. Say, one time there I was about two-eighty to thegood, but I didn't have enough sense to quit. Hear about Gus Giddings?They got him over in the coop for breaking in on a social out at the OakGrove schoolhouse last night. Say, he had a peach on when he left here, I'll tell the world! But he didn't get far. Them Grove lads certainlymade a believer out of him. You ought to see that left eye of his!"

Merton listened loftily to this village talk, gossip of a rural sportwho got a peach on and started something--And the poker game in the backroom of the City Drug Store! What diversions were these for one who hada future? Let these clods live out their dull lives in their own way. But not Merton Gill, who held aloof from their low sports, studiedfaithfully the lessons in his film-acting course, and patiently bidedhis time. 

He presently sauntered to the post office, where the mail was beingdistributed. Here he found the sight-seers who had returned from thetreat of No. 4's flight, and many of the less enterprising citizens whohad merely come down for their mail. Gashwiler was among these, smokingone of his choice cigars. He was not allowed to smoke in the house. Merton, knowing this prohibition, strictly enforced by Mrs. Gashwiler, threw his employer a glance of honest pity. Briefly he permittedhimself a vision of his own future home--a palatial bungalow in distantHollywood, with expensive cigars in elaborate humidors and costlygold-tipped cigarettes in silver things on low tables. One might smokefreely there in every room. 

Under more of the Elmer Huff sort of gossip, and the rhythmic clump ofthe cancelling stamp back of the drawers and boxes, he allowed himself afurther glimpse of this luxurious interior. He sat on a low couch, amongsoft cushions, a magnificent bearskin rug beneath his feet. He smokedone of the costly cigarettes and chatted with a young lady interviewerfrom Photo Land. 

"You ask of my wife, " he was saying. "But she is more than a wife--sheis my best pal, and, I may add, she is also my severest critic. "

He broke off here, for an obsequious Japanese butler entered with atray of cooling drinks. The tray would be gleaming silver, but hewas uncertain about the drinks; something with long straws in them, probably. But as to anything alcoholic, now--While he was trying todetermine this the general-delivery window was opened and the interviewhad to wail. But, anyway, you could smoke where you wished in thathouse, and Gashwiler couldn't smoke any closer to his house than thefront porch. Even trying it there he would be nagged, and fussily askedwhy he didn't go out to the barn. He was a poor fish, Gashwiler; acountry storekeeper without a future. A clod!

Merton, after waiting in line, obtained his mail, consisting of threemagazines--Photo Land, Silver Screenings, and Camera. As he stepped awayhe saw that Miss Tessie Kearns stood three places back in the line. Hewaited at the door for her. Miss Kearns was the one soul in Simsbury whounderstood him. He had confided to her all his vast ambitions; she hadsympathized with them, and her never-failing encouragement had donenot a little to stiffen his resolution at odd times when the haven ofHollywood seemed all too distant. A certain community of ambitions hadbeen the foundation of this sympathy between the two, for Tessie Kearnsmeant to become a scenario writer of eminence, and, like Merton, shewas now both studying and practising a difficult art. She conducted themillinery and dressmaking establishment next to the Gashwiler Emporium, but found time, as did Merton, for the worthwhile things outside hernarrow life. 

She was a slight, spare little figure, sedate and mouselike, of middleage and, to the village, of a quiet, sober way of thought. But, knownonly to Merton, her real life was one of terrific adventure, involvingcrime of the most atrocious sort, and contact not only with the greatand good, but with loathsome denizens of the underworld who would commitany deed for hire. Some of her scenarios would have profoundlyshocked the good people of Simsbury, and she often suffered tremors ofapprehension at the thought that one of them might be enacted at theBijou Palace right there on Fourth Street, with her name brazenlyannounced as author. Suppose it were Passion's Perils! She would surelyhave to leave town after that! She would be too ashamed to stay. Stillshe would be proud, also, for by that time they would be calling herto Hollywood itself. Of course nothing so distressing--or so grand--hadhappened yet, for none of her dramas had been accepted; but she wascoming on. It might happen any time. 

She joined Merton, a long envelope in her hand and a brave little smileon her pinched face. 

"Which one is it?" he asked, referring to the envelope. 

"It's Passion's Perils. " she answered with a jaunty affectation ofamusement. "The Touchstone-Blatz people sent it back. The slip says itsbeing returned does not imply any lack of merit. "

"I should think it wouldn't!" said Merton warmly. 

He knew Passion's Perils. A company might have no immediate need for it, but its rejection could not possibly imply a lack of merit, because themerit was there. No one could dispute that. 

They walked on to the Bijou Palace. Its front was dark, for only twicea week, on Tuesdays and Saturdays, could Simsbury muster a pictureaudience; but they could read the bills for the following night. Theentrance was flanked on either side by billboards, and they stoppedbefore the first. Merton Gill's heart quickened its beats, for therewas billed none other than Beulah Baxter in the ninth installment of hertremendous serial, The Hazards of Hortense. 

It was going to be good! It almost seemed that this time the scoundrelswould surely get Hortense. She was speeding across a vast open quarry ina bucket attached to a cable, and one of the scoundrels with an axwas viciously hacking at the cable's farther anchorage. It would be amiracle if he did not succeed in his hellish design to dash Hortense tothe cruel rocks below. Merton, of course, had not a moment's doubt thatthe miracle would intervene; he had seen other serials. So he made nocomment upon the gravity of the situation, but went at once to the heartof his ecstasy. 

"The most beautiful woman on the screen, " he murmured. 

"Well, I don't know. "

Miss Kearns appeared about to advance the claims of rival beauties, butdesisted when she saw that Merton was firm. 

"None of the rest can touch her, " he maintained. "And look at her nerve!Would your others have as much nerve as that?"

"Maybe she has someone to double in those places, " suggested thescreen-wise Tessie Kearns. 

"Not Beulah Baxter. Didn't I see her personal appearance that time Iwent to Peoria last spring on purpose to see it? Didn't she talk aboutthe risks she look and how the directors were always begging her to usea double and how her artistic convictions wouldn't let her do any suchthing? You can bet the little girl is right there in every scene!"

They passed to the other billboard. This would be the comedy. Apainfully cross-eyed man in misfitting clothes was doing somethingsupposed to be funny--pushing a lawn mower over the carpet of a palatialhome. 

"How disgusting!" exclaimed Miss Kearns. 

"Ain't it?" said Merton. "How they can have one of those terrible thingson the same bill with Miss Baxter--I can't understand it. "

"Those censors ought to suppress this sort of buffoonery instead ofscenes of dignified passion like they did in Scarlet Sin, " declaredTessie. "Did you read about that?"

"They sure ought, " agreed Merton. "These comedies make me tired. I neversee one if I can help it. "

Walking on, they discussed the wretched public taste and the wretchedactors that pandered to it. The slap-stick comedy, they held, degradeda fine and beautiful art. Merton was especially severe. He always feltuncomfortable at one of these regrettable exhibitions when people abouthim who knew no better laughed heartily. He had never seen anything tolaugh at, and said as much. 

They crossed the street and paused at the door of Miss Kearns' shop, behind which were her living rooms. She would to-night go over Passion'sPerils once more and send it to another company. 

"I wonder, " she said to Merton, "if they keep sending it back becausethe sets are too expensive. Of course there's the one where thedissipated English nobleman, Count Blessingham, lures Valerie intoWestminster Abbey for his own evil purposes on the night of the oldearl's murder--that's expensive--but they get a chance to use it againwhen Valerie is led to the altar by young Lord Stonecliff, the rightfulheir. And of course Stonecliff Manor, where Valerie is first seen asgoverness, would be expensive; but they use that in a lot of scenes, too. Still, maybe I might change the locations around to somethingthey've got built. "

"I wouldn't change a line, " said Merton. "Don't give in to 'em. Make 'emtake it as it is. They might ruin your picture with cheap stuff. "

"Well, " the authoress debated, "maybe I'll leave it. I'd especiallyhate to give up Westminster Abbey. Of course the scene where she isstruggling with Count Blessingham might easily be made offensive--it's astrong scene--but it all comes right. You remember she wrenches herselfloose from his grasp and rushes to throw herself before the altar, whichsuddenly lights up, and the scoundrel is afraid to pursue her there, because he had a thorough religious training when a boy at Oxford, andhe feels it would be sacrilegious to seize her again while the lightfrom the altar shines upon her that way, and so she's saved for thetime being. It seems kind of a shame not to use Westminster Abbey for areally big scene like that, don't you think?"

"I should say so!" agreed Merton warmly. "They build plenty of sets asbig as that. Keep it in!"

"Well, I'll take your advice. And I shan't give up trying with my otherones. And I'm writing to another set of people--see here. " She tookfrom her handbag a clipped advertisement which she read to Merton in thefading light, holding it close to her keen little eyes. "Listen! 'Fivethousand photoplay ideas needed. Working girl paid ten thousand dollarsfor ideas she had thought worthless. Yours may be worth more. Experienceunnecessary. Information free. Producers' League 562, Piqua, Ohio. 'Doesn't that sound encouraging? And it isn't as if I didn't have someexperience. I've been writing scenarios for two years now. "

"We both got to be patient, " he pointed out. "We can't succeed all atonce, just remember that. "

"Oh, I'm patient, and I'm determined; and I know you are, too, Merton. But the way my things keep coming back--well, I guess we'd both getdiscouraged if it wasn't for our sense of humour. "

"I bet we would, " agreed Merton. "And good-night!"

He went on to the Gashwiler Emporium and let himself into the darkstore. At the moment he was bewailing that the next installment of TheHazards of Hortense would be shown on a Saturday night, for on thosenights the store kept open until nine and he could see it but once. On aTuesday night he would have watched it twice, in spite of the so-calledcomedy unjustly sharing the bill with it. 

Lighting a match, he made his way through the silent store, through thestock room that had so lately been the foul lair of Snake le Vasquez, and into his own personal domain, a square partitioned off from thestockroom in which were his cot, the table at which he studied the artof screen acting, and his other little belongings. He often called thishis den. He lighted a lamp on the table and drew the chair up to it. 

On the boards of the partition in front of him were pasted manypresentments of his favourite screen actress, Beulah Baxter, as sheunderwent the nerve-racking Hazards of Hortense. The intrepid girlwas seen leaping from the seat of her high-powered car to the cab of apassing locomotive, her chagrined pursuers in the distant background. She sprang from a high cliff into the chill waters of a storm-tossedsea. Bound to the back of a spirited horse, she was raced down the steepslope of a rocky ravine in the Far West. Alone in a foul den of theunderworld she held at bay a dozen villainous Asiatics. Down the fireescape of a great New York hotel she made a perilous way. From theshrouds of a tossing ship she was about to plunge to a watery releasefrom the persecutor who was almost upon her. Upon the roof of the FifthAvenue mansion of her scoundrelly guardian in the great city of NewYork she was gaining the friendly projection of a cornice from which shecould leap and again escape death--even a fate worse than death, for thegirl was pursued from all sorts of base motives. This time, friendlessand alone in profligate New York, she would leap from the cornice tothe branches of the great eucalyptus tree that grew hard by. Unnervingperformances like these were a constant inspiration to Merton Gill. He knew that he was not yet fit to act in such scenes--to appearopportunely in the last reel of each installment and save Hortense forthe next one. But he was confident a day would come. 

On the same wall he faced also a series of photographs of himself. These were stills to be one day shown to a director who would thereuponperceive his screen merits. There was Merton in the natty belted coat, with his hair slicked back in the approved mode and a smile upon hisface; a happy, careless college youth. There was Merton in tennisflannels, his hair nicely disarranged, jauntily holding a borrowedracquet. Here he was in a trench coat and the cap of a lieutenant, grimof face, the jaw set, holding a revolver upon someone unpictured; therein a wide-collared sport shirt lolling negligently upon a bench after ahard game of polo or something. Again he appeared in evening dress, twostraightened fingers resting against his left temple. Underneath thiswas written in a running, angular, distinguished hand, "Very trulyyours, Clifford Armytage. " This, and prints of it similarly inscribed, would one day go to unknown admirers who besought him for likenesses ofhimself. 

But Merton lost no time in scanning these pictorial triumphs. He wasturning the pages of the magazines he had brought, his first hastysearch being for new photographs of his heroine. He was quicklyrewarded. Silver Screenings proffered some fresh views of Beulah Baxter, not in dangerous moments, but revealing certain quieter aspects of herwondrous life. In her kitchen, apron clad, she stirred something. In herlofty music room she was seated at her piano. In her charming libraryshe was shown "Among Her Books. " More charmingly she was portrayed withher beautiful arms about the shoulders of her dear old mother. And theseaccompanied an interview with the actress. 

The writer, one Esther Schwarz, professed the liveliest trepidationat first meeting the screen idol, but was swiftly reassured by theunaffected cordiality of her reception. She found that success had notspoiled Miss Baxter. A sincere artist, she yet absolutely lacked theusual temperament and mannerisms. She seemed more determined than everto give the public something better and finer. Her splendid dignity, reserve, humanness, high ideals, and patient study of her art had butmellowed, not hardened, a gracious personality. Merton Gill receivedthese assurances without surprise. He knew Beulah Baxter would prove tobe these delightful things. He read on for the more exciting bits. 

"I'm so interested in my work, " prettily observed Miss Baxter to theinterviewer; "suppose we talk only of that. Leave out all the rest--myBeverly Hills home, my cars, my jewels, my Paris gowns, my dogs, myservants, my recreations. It is work alone that counts, don't you think?We must learn that success, all that is beautiful and fine, requireswork, infinite work and struggle. The beautiful comes only throughsuffering and sacrifice. And of course dramatic work broadens a girl'sviewpoint, helps her to get the real, the worthwhile things out of life, enriching her nature with the emotional experience of her roles. It isthrough such pressure that we grow, and we must grow, must we not? Onemust strive for the ideal, for the art which will be but the pictorialexpression of that, and for the emotion which must be touched by theilluminating vision of a well-developed imagination if the vital messageof the him is to be felt. 

"But of course I have my leisure moments from the grinding stress. ThenI turn to my books--I'm wild about history. And how I love the greatfree out-of-doors! I should prefer to be on a simple farm, were I aboy. The public would not have me a boy, you say"--she shruggedprettily--"oh, of course, my beauty, as they are pleased to call it. After all, why should one not speak of that? Beauty is just a stockin trade, you know. Why not acknowledge it frankly? But do come tomy delightful kitchen, where I spend many a spare moment, and see thelovely custard I have made for dear mamma's luncheon. "

Merton Gill was entranced by this exposition of the quieter side ofhis idol's life. Of course he had known she could not always be makingnarrow escapes, and it seemed that she was almost more delightful inthis staid domestic life. Here, away from her professional perils, shewas, it seemed, "a slim little girl with sad eyes and a wistful mouth. "

The picture moved him strongly. More than ever he was persuaded thathis day would come. Even might come the day when it would be his lotto lighten the sorrow of those eyes and appease the wistfulness of thattender mouth. He was less sure about this. He had been unable to learnif Beulah Baxter was still unwed. Silver Screenings, in reply tohis question, had answered, "Perhaps. " Camera, in its answers tocorrespondents, had said, "Not now. " Then he had written to Photo Land:"Is Beulah Baxter unmarried?" The answer had come, "Twice. " He had beenable to make little of these replies, enigmatic, ambiguous, at best. Buthe felt that some day he would at least be chosen to act with this slimlittle girl with the sad eyes and wistful mouth. He, it might be, wouldrescue her from the branches of the great eucalyptus tree growing hardby the Fifth Avenue mansion of the scoundrelly guardian. This, if heremembered well her message about hard work. 

He recalled now the wondrous occasion on which he had travelled thenearly hundred miles to Peoria to see his idol in the flesh. Herpersonal appearance had been advertised. It was on a Saturday night, butMerton had silenced old Gashwiler with the tale of a dying aunt in thedistant city. Even so, the old grouch had been none too considerate. He had seemed to believe that Merton's aunt should have died nearer toSimsbury, or at least have chosen a dull Monday. 

But Merton had held with dignity to the point; a dying aunt wasn't tobe hustled about as to either time or place. She died when her timecame--even on a Saturday night--and where she happened to be, thoughit were a hundred miles from some point more convenient to an utterstranger. He had gone and thrillingly had beheld for five minuteshis idol in the flesh, the slim little girl of the sorrowful eyes andwistful mouth, as she told the vast audience--it seemed to Merton thatshe spoke solely to him--by what narrow chance she had been saved fromdisappointing it. She had missed the train, but had at once leapedinto her high-powered roadster and made the journey at an average ofsixty-five miles an hour, braving death a dozen times. For her publicwas dear to her, and she would not have it disappointed, and there shewas before them in her trim driving suit, still breathless from the wildride. 

Then she told them--Merton especially--how her directors had again andagain besought her not to persist in risking her life in her dangerousexploits, but to allow a double to take her place at the more criticalmoments. But she had never been able to bring herself to this deception, for deception, in a way, it would be. The directors had entreated invain. She would keep faith with her public, though full well she knewthat at any time one of her dare-devil acts might prove fatal. 

Her public was very dear to her. She was delighted to meet it here, faceto face, heart to heart. She clasped her own slender hands over her ownheart as she said this, and there was a pathetic little catch in hervoice as she waved farewell kisses to the throng. Many a heart besidesMerton's beat more quickly at knowing that she must rush out to thehigh-powered roadster and be off at eighty miles an hour to St. Louis, where another vast audience would the next day be breathlessly awaitingher personal appearance. 

Merton had felt abundantly repaid for his journey. There had beeninspiration in this contact. Little he minded the acid greeting, onhis return, of a mere Gashwiler, spawning in his low mind a monstroussuspicion that the dying aunt had never lived. 

Now he read in his magazines other intimate interviews by other talentedyoung women who had braved the presence of other screen idols of bothsexes. The interviewers approached them with trepidation, and invariablyfound that success had not spoiled them. Fine artists though they were, applauded and richly rewarded, yet they remained simple, unaffected, and cordial to these daring reporters. They spoke with quiet dignity oftheir work, their earnest efforts to give the public something betterand finer. They wished the countless readers of the interviews tocomprehend that their triumphs had come only with infinite work andstruggle, that the beautiful comes only through suffering and sacrifice. At lighter moments they spoke gayly of their palatial homes, theirdomestic pets, their wives or husbands and their charming children. Theyall loved the great out-of-doors, but their chief solace from toil wasin this unruffled domesticity where they could forget the worries of anexacting profession and lead a simple home life. All the husbands andwives were more than that--they were good pals; and of course they readand studied a great deal. Many of them were wild about books. 

He was especially interested in the interview printed by Camera withthat world favourite, Harold Parmalee. For this was the screen artistwhom Merton most envied, and whom he conceived himself most to resemblein feature. The lady interviewer, Miss Augusta Blivens, had gonetrembling into the presence of Harold Parmalee, to be instantly put ather ease by the young artist's simple, unaffected manner. He chatted ofhis early struggles when he was only too glad to accept the few paltryhundreds of dollars a week that were offered him in minor parts; ofhis quick rise to eminence; of his unceasing effort to give the publicsomething better and finer; of his love for the great out-of-doors; andof his daily flight to the little nest that sheltered his pal wife andthe kiddies. Here he could be truly himself, a man's man, loving thesimple things of life. Here, in his library, surrounded by his books, or in the music room playing over some little Chopin prelude, or on thelawn romping with the giant police dog, he could forget the public thatwould not let him rest. Nor had he been spoiled in the least, said theinterviewer, by the adulation poured out upon him by admiring women andgirls in volume sufficient to turn the head of a less sane young man. 

"There are many beautiful women in the world. " pursued the writer, "andI dare say there is not one who meets Harold Parmalee who does notlove him in one way or another. He has mental brilliancy for theintellectuals, good looks for the empty-headed, a strong vital appeal, a magnetism almost overwhelming to the susceptible, and an easy andsupremely appealing courtesy for every woman he encounters. "

Merton drew a long breath after reading these earnest words. Wouldan interviewer some day be writing as much about him? He studied thepictures of Harold Parmalee that abundantly spotted the article. Thefull face, the profile, the symmetrical shoulders, the jaunty bearing, the easy, masterful smile. From each of these he would raise his eyesto his own pictured face on the wall above him. Undoubtedly he was notunlike Harold Parmalee. He noted little similarities. He had the nose, perhaps a bit more jutting than Harold's, and the chin, even moreprominent. 

Possibly a director would have told him that his Harold Parmalee beautywas just a trifle overdone; that his face went just a bit past the lineof pleasing resemblance and into something else. But at this moment theaspirant was reassured. His eyes were pale, under pale brows, yet theyshowed well in the prints. And he was slightly built, perhaps even thin, but a diet rich in fats would remedy that. And even if he were quite alittle less comely than Parmalee, he would still be impressive. Afterall, a great deal depended upon the acting, and he was learning to act. 

Months ago, the resolution big in his heart, he had answered theadvertisement in Silver Screenings, urging him to "Learn Movie Acting, a fascinating profession that pays big. Would you like to know, " itdemanded, "if you are adapted to this work? If so, send ten cents forour Ten-Hour Talent-Prover, or Key to Movie-Acting Aptitude, and findwhether you are suited to take it up. "

Merton had earnestly wished to know this, and had sent ten cents tothe Film Incorporation Bureau, Station N, Stebbinsville, Arkansas. TheTalent-Prover, or Key to Movie-Acting Aptitude, had come; he had mailedhis answers to the questions and waited an anguished ten days, fearingthat he would prove to lack the required aptitude for this great art. But at last the cheering news had come. He had every aptitude in fullmeasure, and all that remained was to subscribe to the correspondencecourse. 

He had felt weak in the moment of his relief from this torturinganxiety. Suppose they had told him that he wouldn't do? And he hadstudied the lessons with unswerving determination. Night and day he hadheld to his ideal. He knew that when you did this your hour was bound tocome. 

He yawned now, thinking, instead of the anger expressions he should havebeen practising, of the sordid things he must do to-morrow. He must beup at five, sprinkle the floor, sweep it, take down the dust curtainsfrom the shelves of dry goods, clean and fill the lamps, then stationoutside the dummies in their raiment. All day he would serve customers, snatching a hasty lunch of crackers and cheese behind the grocerycounter. And at night, instead of twice watching The Hazards ofHortense, he must still unreasonably serve late customers until thesecond unwinding of those delectable reels. 

He suddenly sickened of it all. Was he not sufficiently versed in theart he had chosen to practise? And old Gashwiler every day gettingharder to bear! His resolve stiffened. He would not wait muchlonger--only until the savings hidden out under the grocery counter hadgrown a bit. He made ready for bed, taking, after he had undressed, some dumb-bell exercises that would make his shoulders a trifle ire likeHarold Parmalee's. This rite concluded, he knelt by his narrow cot andprayed briefly. 

"Oh, God, make me a good movie actor! Make me one of the best! ForJesus'sake, amen!"

CHAPTER III. WESTERN STUFF

Saturday proved all that his black forebodings had pictured it--a dayof sordid, harassing toil; toil, moreover, for which Gashwiler, thebeneficiary, showed but the scantest appreciation. Indeed, the dayopened with a disagreement between the forward-looking clerk andhis hide-bound reactionary. Gashwiler had reached the store at hisaccustomed hour of 8:30 to find Merton embellishing the bulletin boardin front with legends setting forth especial bargains of the day to behad within. 

Chalk in hand, he had neatly written, "See our new importation oftaffetas, $2. 59 the yard. " Below this he was in the act of putting down, "Try our choice Honey-dew spinach, 20 cts. The can. " "Try our PreferredChipped Beef, 58 cts. The pound. "

He was especially liking that use of "the. " It sounded modern. Yet alongcame Gashwiler, as if seeking an early excuse to nag, and criticizedthis. 

"Why don't you say 'a yard, ' 'a can, ' 'a pound'?" he demanded harshly. "What's the sense of that there 'the' stuff? Looks to me like justputting on a few airs. You keep to plain language and our patrons'lllike it a lot better. " Viciously Merton Gill rubbed out the modern "the"and substituted the desired "a. "

"Very well, " he assented, "if you'd rather stick to the old-fashionedway; but I can tell you that's the way city stores do it. I thought youmight want to be up to date, but I see I made a great mistake. "

"Humph!" said Gashwiler, unbitten by this irony. "I guess the old way'sgood enough, long's our prices are always right. Don't forget to put onthat canned salmon. I had that in stock for nearly a year now--andsay it's twenty cents 'a' can, not 'the' can. Also say it's a grandreduction from thirty-five cents. "

That was always the way. You never could please the old grouch. And sobegan the labour that lasted until nine that night. Merton must countout eggs and weigh butter that was brought in. He must do up sugar andgrind coffee and measure dress goods and match silks; he must with thesuavest gentility ask if there would not be something else to-day; andhe must see that babies hazardously left on counters did not roll off. 

He lived in a vortex of mental confusion, performing his tasksmechanically. When drawing a gallon of kerosene or refolding the showndress goods, or at any task not requiring him to be genially talkative, he would be saying to Miss Augusta Blivens in far-off Hollywood, "Yes, my wife is more than a wife. She is my best pal, and, I may also add, myseverest critic. "

There was but one break in the dreary monotony, and that was when LowellHardy, Simsbury's highly artistic photographer, came in to leave anorder for groceries. Lowell wore a soft hat with rakish brim, andaffected low collars and flowing cravats, the artistic effect of thesebeing heightened in his studio work by a purple velvet jacket. Even inGashwiler's he stood out as an artist. Merton received his order, andnoting that Gashwiler was beyond earshot bespoke his services for thefollowing afternoon. 

"Say, Lowell, be on the lot at two sharp to-morrow, will you? I want toshoot some Western stuff--some stills. "

Merton thrilled as he used these highly technical phrases. He had notread his magazines for nothing. 

Lowell Hardy considered, then consented. He believed that he, too, mightsome day be called to Hollywood after they had seen the sort of work hecould turn out. He always finished his art studies of Merton with greatcare, and took pains to have the artist's signature entirely legible. "All right, Mert, I'll be there. I got some new patent paper I'll tryout on these. "

"On the lot at two sharp to shoot Western stuff, " repeated Merton withrelish. 

"Right--o!" assented Lowell, and returned to more prosaic studio art. 

The day wore itself to a glad end. The last exigent customer had gone, the curtains were up, the lights were out, and at five minutes past ninethe released slave, meeting Tessie Kearns at her front door, escortedher with a high heart to the second show at the Bijou Palace. Theydebated staying out until after the wretched comedy had been run, butlater agreed that they should see this, as Tessie keenly wished toknow why people laughed at such things. The antics of the painfullycross-eyed man distressed them both, though the mental inferiors by whomthey were surrounded laughed noisily. Merton wondered how any producercould bring himself to debase so great an art, and Tessie wonderedif she hadn't, in a way, been aiming over the public's head with herscenarios. After all, you had to give the public what it wanted. Shebegan to devise comedy elements for her next drama. 

But The Hazards of Hortense came mercifully to soothe their annoyance. The slim little girl with a wistful smile underwent a rich variety ofhazards, each threatening a terrible death. Through them all she cameunscathed, leaving behind her a trail of infuriated scoundrels whom shehad thwarted. She escaped from an underworld den in a Chicago slum justin the nick of time, cleverly concealing herself in the branches of thegreat eucalyptus tree that grew hard by, while her maddened pursuersscattered in their search for the prize. Again she was captured, thistime to be conveyed by aeroplane, a helpless prisoner and subject to themost fiendish insults by Black Steve, to the frozen North. But in thefar Alaskan wilds she eluded the fiends and drove swiftly over thefrozen wastes with their only dog team. Having left her pursuers farbehind, she decided to rest for the night in a deserted cabin along theway. Here a blizzard drove snow through the chinks between the logs, anda pack of fierce wolves besieged her. She tried to bar the door, but thebar was gone. At that moment she heard a call. Could it be Black Steveagain? No, thank heaven! The door was pushed open and there stood RalphMurdock, her fiance. There was a quick embrace and words of cheer fromRalph. They must go on. 

But no, the wind cut like a knife, and the wolves still prowled. Thefilm here showed a running insert of cruel wolves exposing all theirfangs. Ralph had lost his rifle. He went now to put his arm through theiron loops in place of the missing bar. The wolves sought to push openthe door, but Ralph's arm foiled them. 

Then the outside of the cabin was shown, with Black Steve and his threeugly companions furtively approaching. The wolves had gone, but humanwolves, ten thousand times more cruel, had come in their place. Back inthe cabin Ralph and Hortense discovered that the wolves had gone. It hadan ugly look. Why should the wolves go? Ralph opened the door and theyboth peered out. There in the shadow of a eucalyptus tree stood BlackSteve and his dastardly crew. They were about to storm the cabin. Allwas undoubtedly lost. 

Not until the following week would the world learn how Hortense and hermanly fiance had escaped this trap. Again had Beulah Baxter striven andsuffered to give the public something better and finer. 

"A wonder girl, " declared Merton when they were again in the open. "That's what I call her--a wonder girl. And she owes it all to hard, unceasing struggle and work and pains and being careful. You ought toread that new interview with her in this month's Silver Screenings. "

"Yes, yes, she's wonderful, " assented Tessie as they strolled to thedoor of her shop. "But I've been thinking about comedy. You know mynew one I'm writing--of course it's a big, vital theme, all about aheartless wife with her mind wholly on society and bridge clubsand dancing and that sort of dissipation, and her husband is HubertGlendenning, a studious young lawyer who doesn't like to go out eveningsbut would rather play with the kiddies a bit after their mother has goneto a party, or read over some legal documents in the library, which isvery beautifully furnished; and her old school friend, Corona Bartlett, comes to stay at the house, a very voluptuous type, high coloured, with black hair and lots of turquoise jewellery, and she's a bad womanthrough and through, and been divorced and everything by a man whoseheart she broke, and she's become a mere adventuress with a secretvice--she takes perfume in her tea, like I saw that one did--and all herevil instincts are aroused at once by Hubert, who doesn't really caredeeply for her, as she has only a surface appeal of mere sensuousbeauty; but he sees that his wife is neglecting him and having anaffair with an Italian count--I found such a good name for him, CountRavioli--and staying out with him until all hours; so in a moment ofweakness he gives himself to Corona Bartlett, and then sees that he mustbreak up his home and get a divorce and marry Corona to make an honestwoman of her; but of course his wife is brought to her senses, so shesees that she has been in the wrong and has a big scene with Corona inwhich she scorns her and Corona slinks away, and she forgives Hubert hisone false step because it was her fault. It's full of big situations, but what I'm wondering--I'm wondering if I couldn't risk some comedyin it by having the faithful old butler a cross-eyed man. Nothingso outrageous as that creature we just saw, but still noticeablycross-eyed. Do you think it would lighten some of the grimmer scenes, perhaps, and wouldn't it be good pathos to have the butler aware ofhis infirmity and knowing the greatest surgeons in the world can't helphim?"

"Well, " Merton considered, "if I were you I shouldn't chance it. Itwould be mere acrobatic humour. And why do you want any one to be funnywhen you have a big gripping thing of love and hate like that? I don'tbelieve I'd have him cross-eyed. I'd have him elderly and simple anddignified. And you don't want your audience to laugh, do you, when heholds up both hands to show how shocked he is at the way things aregoing on in that house?"

"Well, maybe I won't then. It was just a thought. I believe you have theright instinct in those matters, Merton. I'll leave him as he is. "

"Good-night, then, " said Merton. "I got to be on the lot to-morrow. Mycamera man's coming at two. Shooting some Western stuff. "

"Oh, my! Really?"

Tessie gazed after him admiringly. He let himself into the dark store, so lately the scene of his torment, and on the way to his little roomstopped to reach under the grocery counter for those hidden savings. To-night he would add to them the fifteen dollars lavished upon himby Gashwiler at the close of a week's toil. The money was in a tobaccopouch. He lighted the lamp on his table, placed the three new billsbeside it and drew out the hoard. He would count it to confirm hismemory of the grand total. 

The bills were frayed, lacking the fresh green of new ones; wearylooking, with an air of being glad to rest at last after much passingfrom hand to hand as symbols of wealth. Their exalted present ownertenderly smoothed cut several that had become crumpled, secured them ina neat pile, adding the three recently acquired five-dollar bills, and proceeded to count, moistening the ends of a thumb and finger indefiance of the best sanitary teaching. It was no time to think ofmalignant bacteria. 

By his remembered count he should now be possessed of two hundred andtwelve dollars. And there was the two-dollar bill, a limp, gray thing, abraded almost beyond identification. He placed this down first, knowingthat the remaining bills should amount to two hundred and ten dollars. Slowly he counted, to finish with a look of blank, hesitating wonder. Hemade another count, hastily, but taking greater care. The wonder grew. Again he counted, slowly this time, so that there could be no doubt. Andnow he knew! He possessed thirty-three dollars more than he had thought. Knowing this was right, he counted again for the luxury of it. Twohundred and forty-five obvious dollars!

How had he lost count? He tried to recall. He could remember takingout the money he had paid Lowell Hardy for the last batch of CliffordArmytage stills--for Lowell, although making professional rates toMerton, still believed the artist to be worth his hire--and he couldremember taking some more out to send to the mail-order house in Chicagofor the cowboy things; but it was plain that he had twice, at least, crowded a week's salary into the pouch and forgotten it. 

It was a pleasurable experience; it was like finding thirty-threedollars. And he was by that much nearer to his goal; that much soonerwould he be released from bondage; thirty-three dollars sooner couldhe look Gashwiler in the eye and say what he thought of him and hisemporium. In his nightly prayer he did not neglect to render thanks forthis. 

He dressed the next morning with a new elation. He must be more carefulabout keeping tab on his money, but also it was wonderful to find morethan you expected. He left the storeroom that reeked of kerosene andpassed into the emporium to replace his treasure in its hiding place. The big room was dusky behind the drawn front curtains, but all thesmells were there--the smell of ground coffee and spices at the grocerycounter, farther on, the smothering smell of prints and woolens and newleather. 

The dummies, waiting down by the door to be put outside, regarded eachother in blank solemnity. A few big flies droned lazily about theirstill forms. Merton eyed the dusty floor, the gleaming counters, thecurtains that shielded the shelves, with a new disdain. Sooner than hehad thought he would bid them a last farewell. And to-day, at least, hewas free of them--free to be on the lot at two, to shoot Western stuff. Let to-morrow, with its old round of degrading tasks, take care ofitself. 

At 10:30 he was in church. He was not as attentive to the sermon as heshould have been, for it now occurred to him that he had no stills ofhimself in the garb of a clergyman. This was worth considering, becausehe was not going to be one of those one-part actors. He would have awide range of roles. He would be able to play anything. He wondered howthe Rev. Otto Carmichael would take the request for a brief loan of oneof his pulpit suits. Perhaps he was not so old as he looked; perhapshe might remember that he, too, had once been young and fired with highideals. It would be worth trying. And the things could be returned aftera brief studio session with Lowell Hardy. He saw himself cast in such apart, the handsome young clergyman, exponent of a muscular Christianity. He comes to the toughest cattle town in all the great Southwest, determined to make honest men and good women of its sinning derelicts. He wins the hearts of these rugged but misguided souls. Though at firstthey treat him rough, they learn to respect him, and they call him thefighting parson. Eventually he wins the hand in marriage of the youngestof the dance-hall denizens, a sweet young girl who despite her evilsurroundings has remained as pure and good as she is beautiful. 

Anyway, if he had those clothes for an hour or two while the artist madea few studies of him he would have something else to show directors insearch of fresh talent. 

After church he ate a lonely meal served by Metta Judson at theGashwiler residence. The Gashwilers were on their accustomed Sabbathvisit to the distant farm of Mrs. Gashwiler's father. But as he ate hebecame conscious that the Gashwiler influence was not wholly withdrawn. From above the mantel he was sternly regarded by a tinted enlargement ofhis employer's face entitled Photographic Study by Lowell Hardy. Lowellnever took photographs merely. He made photographic studies, and thespecimen at hand was one of his most daring efforts. Merton glared at itin free hostility--a clod, with ideals as false as the artist's pink onhis leathery cheeks! He hurried his meal, glad to be relieved from theinimical scrutiny. 

He was glad to be free from this and from the determined recital byMetta Judson of small-town happenings. What cared he that Gus Giddingshad been fined ten dollars and costs by Squire Belcher for his lowescapade, or that Gus's father had sworn to lick him within an inch ofhis life if he ever ketched him touching stimmilints again?

He went to the barn, climbed to the hayloft, and undid the bundlecontaining his Buck Benson outfit. This was fresh from the mail-orderhouse in Chicago. He took out almost reverently a pair of high-heeledboots with purple tops, a pair of spurs, a gay shirt, a gayerneckerchief, a broad-brimmed hat, a leather holster, and--mostimpressive of all--a pair of goatskin chaps dyed a violent maroon. Allthese he excitedly donned, the spurs last. Then he clambered down theladder from the loft, somewhat impeded by the spurs, and went intothe kitchen. Metta Judson, washing dishes, gave a little cry of alarm. Nothing like this had ever before invaded the Gashwiler home by frontdoor or back. 

"Why, Mert' Gill, whatever you dressed up like that for? My stars, youlook like a cowboy or something! Well, I must say!"

"Say, Metta, do me a favour. I want to see how these things look in aglass. It's a cowboy outfit for when I play regular Buck Benson parts, and everything's got to be just so or the audience writes to themagazines about it and makes fun of you. "

"Go ahead, " said Metta. "You can git a fine look at yourself in the tallglass in the old lady's bedroom. "

Forthwith he went, profaning a sanctuary, to survey himself in a glassthat had never reflected anything but the discreet arraying of hisemployer's lady. He looked long and earnestly. The effect was quite allhe had hoped. He lowered the front of the broad-brimmed hat the leastbit, tightened his belt another notch and moved the holster to a betterline. He looked again. From feet to head he was perfect. 

Then, slightly crouching, he drew his revolver from the holster and heldit forward from the hip, wrist and forearm rigidly straight. 

"Throw up your hands!"

He uttered the grim words in a low tone, but one facing him would nothave been deceived by low tones. Steely-eyed, grim of face, relentlessin all his bearing, the most desperate adversary would have quailed. Probably even Gashwiler himself would have quailed. When Buck Bensonlooked and spoke thus he meant it. 

He held it a long, breathless moment before relaxing. Then he tiptoedsoftly from the hallowed confines of a good woman's boudoir andclattered down the back stairs to the kitchen. He was thinking: "Icertainly got to get me another gun if I'm ever going to do Two-GunBenson parts, and I got to get the draw down better. I ain't quickenough yet. "

"Well, did you like your rig?" inquired Metta genially. 

"Oh, it'll do for the stills we're shooting to-day, " replied the actor. "Of course I ought to have a rattlesnake-skin band on my hat, and thethings look too new yet. And say, Metta, where's the clothesline? I wantto practise roping a little before my camera man gets here. "

"My stars! You're certainly goin' to be a real one, ain't you?"

She brought him the clothesline, in use only on Mondays. He re-coiled itcarefully and made a running noose in one end. 

At two Lowell Hardy found his subject casting the rope at an inattentiveDexter. The old horse stood in the yard, head down, one foot crossednonchalantly before the other. A slight tremor, a nervous flickering ofhis skin, was all that ensued when the rope grazed him. When it merelyfell in his general neighbourhood, as it oftener did, Dexter did noteven glance up. 

"Good stuff!" applauded the artist. "Now just stand that way, holdingthe noose out. I want to make a study of that. "

He rapidly mounted his camera on a tripod and put in a plate. The studywas made. Followed several studies of the fighting face of Two-GunBenson, grim and rigid, about to shoot from the hip. But these wereminor bits. More important would be Buck Benson and his old pal, Pinto. From the barn Merton dragged the saddle, blanket, and bridle he hadborrowed from the Giddings House livery stable. He had never saddled ahorse before, but he had not studied in vain. He seized Dexter by a wispof his surviving mane and simultaneously planted a hearty kick in thebeast's side, with a command, "Get around there, you old skate!" Dextersighed miserably and got around as ordered. He was both pained andastonished. He knew that this was Sunday. Never had he been forced towork on this day. But he meekly suffered the protrusion of a bit betweenhis yellow teeth, and shuddered but slightly when a blanket and thena heavy saddle were flung across his back. True, he looked up in somedismay when the girth was tightened. Not once in all his years had hebeen saddled. He was used to having things loose around his waist. 

The girth went still tighter. Dexter glanced about with genuine concern. Someone was intending to harm him. He curved his swanlike neck andsnapped savagely at the shoulder of his aggressor, who kicked him againin the aide and yelled, "Whoa, there, dang you!"

Dexter subsided. He saw it was no use. Whatever queer thing they meantto do to him would be done despite all his resistance. Still his alarmhad caused him to hold up his head now. He was looking much more like ahorse. 

"There!" said Merton Gill, and as a finishing touch he lashed the coiledclothesline to the front of the saddle. "Now, here! Get me this way. This is one of the best things I do--that is, so far. " Fondly he twinedhis arms about the long, thin neck of Dexter, who tossed his head andknocked off the cowboy hat. "Never mind that--it's out, " said Merton. "Can't use it in this scene. " He laid his cheek to the cheek of his pet. "Well, old pal, they're takin' yuh from me, but we got to keep a stiffupper lip. You an' me has been through some purty lively times together, but we got to face the music at last--there, Lowell, did you get that?"

The artist had made his study. He made three others of the sameaffecting scene at different angles. Dexter was overwhelmed withendearments. Doubtless he was puzzled--to be kicked in the ribs at onemoment, the next to be fondled. But Lowell Hardy was enthusiastic. Hesaid he would have some corking studies. He made another of Buck Bensonpreparing to mount good old Pinto; though, as a matter of fact, Buck, itappeared, was not even half prepared to mount. 

"Go on, jump on him now, " suggested the artist. "I'll get a few morethat way. "

"Well, I don't know, " Merton hesitated. He was twenty-two years old, andhe had never yet been aboard a horse. Perhaps he shouldn't try to go toofar in one lesson. "You see, the old boy's pretty tired from his week'swork. Maybe I better not mount him. Say, I'll tell you, take me rollinga cigarette, just standing by him. I darned near forgot the cigarettes. "

From the barn he brought a sack of tobacco and some brown papers. He hadno intention of smoking, but this kind of cigarette was too completelyidentified with Buck Benson to be left out. Lolling against the side ofDexter, he poured tobacco from the sack into one of the papers. "Get methis way, " he directed, "just pouring it out. "

He had not yet learned to roll a cigarette, but Gus Giddings, theSimsbury outlaw, had promised to teach him. Anyway, it was enough nowto be looking keenly out from under his hat while he poured tobacco intothe creased paper against the background of good old Pinto. An art studyof this pose was completed. But Lowell Hardy craved more action, morevariety. 

"Go on. Get up on him, " he urged. "I want to make a study of that. "

"Well"--again Merton faltered--"the old skate's tired out from a hardweek, and I'm not feeling any too lively myself. "

"Shucks! It won't kill him if you get on his back for a minute, willit? And you'll want one on him to show, won't you? Hurry up, while thelight's right. "

Yes, he would need a mounted study to show. Many times he had enacteda scene in which a director had looked over the art studies of CliffordArmytage and handed them back with the remark, "But you seem to playonly society parts, Mr. Armytage. All very interesting, and I've nodoubt we can place you very soon; but just at present we're needing alead for a Western, a man who can look the part and ride. "

Thereupon he handed these Buck Benson stills to the man, whose facewould instantly relax into an expression of pleased surprise. 

"The very thing, " he would say. And among those stills, certainly, should be one of Clifford Armytage actually on the back of his horse. He'd chance it. 

"All right; just a minute. "

He clutched the bridle reins of Dexter under his drooping chin, andovercoming a feeble resistance dragged him alongside the wateringtrough. Dexter at first thought he was wished to drink, but a kick tookthat nonsense out of him. With extreme care Merton stood upon theedge of the trough and thrust a leg blindly over the saddle. Withsome determined clambering he was at last seated. His feet were in thestirrups. There was a strange light in his eyes. There was a strangelight in Dexter's eyes. To each of them the experience was not onlywithout precedent but rather unpleasant. 

"Ride him out in the middle here, away from that well, " directed thecamera man. 

"You--you better lead him out, " suggested the rider. "I can feel himtremble already. He--he might break down under me. "

Metta Judson, from the back porch, here came into the piece with linesthat the author had assuredly not written for her. 

"Giddap, there, you Dexter Gashwiler, " called Metta loudly and with thebest intentions. 

"You keep still, " commanded the rider severely, not turning his head. What a long way it seemed to the ground! He had never dreamed thathorses were so lofty. "Better lead him, " he repeated to his camera man. 

Lowell Hardy grasped the bridle reins, and after many vain effortspersuaded Dexter to stumble away from the well. His rider grasped thehorn of his saddle. 

"Look out, don't let him buck, " he called. 

But Dexter had again become motionless, except for a recurrent tremblingunder this monstrous infliction. 

"Now, there, " began the artist. "Hold that. You're looking off over theWestern hills. Atta boy! Wait till I get a side view. "

"Move your camera, " said the rider. "Seems to me he doesn't want to turnaround. "

But again the artist turned Dexter half around. That wasn't so bad. Merton began to feel the thrill of it. He even lounged in the saddlepresently, one leg over the pommel, and seemed about to roll anothercigarette while another art study was made. He continued to lounge therewhile the artist packed his camera. What had he been afraid of? He couldsit a horse as well as the next man; probably a few little tricks aboutit he hadn't learned yet, but he'd get these, too. 

"I bet they'll come out fine, " he called to the departing artist. "Leavethat to me. I dare say I'll be able to do something good with them. Solong. "

"So long, " returned Merton, and was left alone on the back of a horsehigher than people would think until they got on him. Indeed he wasbeginning to like it. If you just had a little nerve you needn't beafraid of anything. Very carefully he clambered from the saddle. His oldpal shook himself with relief and stood once more with bowed head andcrossed forelegs. 

His late burden observed him approvingly. There was good old Pinto aftera hard day's run over the mesa. He had borne his beloved owner far aheadof the sheriff's posse, and was now securing a moment's much-neededrest. Merton undid the riata and for half an hour practised casting itat his immobile pet. Once the noose settled unerringly over the head ofDexter, who still remained immobile. 

Then there was the lightning draw to be practised. Again and again thetrusty weapon of Buck Benson flashed from its holster to the damage ofa slower adversary. He was getting that draw down pretty good. From thehip with straight wrist and forearm Buck was ready to shoot in no timeat all. Throughout that villain-infested terrain along the border he wasknown for his quick draw. The most desperate of them would never molesthim except they could shoot him from behind. With his back to a wall, they slunk from the encounter. 

Elated from this practice and from the memory of that one successfulrope cast, Merton became daring in the extreme. He considered nothingless than remounting his old pal and riding, in the cool of earlyevening, up and down the alley upon which the barnyard gave. He coiledthe rope and again lashed it to the left front of the saddle. Then hecurved an affectionate arm over the arched neck of Pinto, who sigheddeeply. 

"Well, old pal, you and me has still got some mighty long miles to gitover between now and sunup to-morrow. I reckon we got to put a rightsmart of distance between us and that pesky sheriff's posse, but I knowyuh ain't lost heart, old pal. "

Dexter here tossed his head, being cloyed with these embraces, andTwo-Gun Benson caught a look in the desperate eyes of his pet which hedid not wholly like. Perhaps it would be better not to ride him anymore to-day. Perhaps it would be better not to ride him again until nextSunday. After all, wasn't Dexter practically a wild horse, caughtup from the range and broken to saddle only that afternoon? No useoverdoing it. At this moment the beast's back looked higher than ever. 

It was the cutting remark of a thoughtless, empty-headed girl thatconfirmed Merton in his rash resolve. Metta Judson, again on the backsteps, surveyed the scene with kindling eyes. 

"I bet you daresn't get on him again, " said Metta. 

These were strong words; not words to be flung lightly at Two-GunBenson. 

"You know a lot about it, don't you?" parried Merton Gill. 

"Afraid of that old skate!" murmured Metta, counterfeiting theinflections of pity. 

Her target shot her a glance of equal pity for her lack of understandingand empty-headed banter. He stalked to the barnyard gate and opened it. The way to his haven over the border was no longer barred. He returnedto Dexter, firmly grasped the bridle reins under his weak chin andcajoled him again to the watering trough. Metta Judson was about tobe overwhelmed with confusion. From the edge of the trough he againclambered into the saddle, the new boots groping a way to the stirrups. The reins in his left hand, he swept off his ideal hat with a carelessgesture--he wished he had had an art study made of this, but you can'tthink of everything at one time. He turned loftily to Metta as one whohad not even heard her tasteless taunts. 

"Well, so long! I won't be out late. " Metta was now convinced that shehad in her heart done this hero a wrong. 

"You better be here before the folks get back!" she warned. 

Merton knew this as well as she did, but the folks wouldn't be back fora couple of hours yet, and all he meant to venture was a ride at soberpace the length of the alley. 

"Oh, I'll take care of that!" he said. "A few miles' stiff gallop'll beall I want. " He jerked Dexter's head up, snapped the reins on his neck, and addressed him in genial, comradely but authoritative tones. 

"Git up there, old hoss!"

Dexter lowered his head again and remained as if posing conscientiouslyfor the statue of a tired horse. 

"Giddap, there, you old skate!" again ordered the rider. 

The comradely unction was gone from his voice and the bony neck receiveda smarter wallop with the reins. Dexter stood unmoved. He seemed to befearing that the worst was now coming, and that he might as well faceit on that spot as elsewhere. He remained deaf to threats and entreatiesalike. No hoof moved from its resting place. 

"Giddap, there, you old Dexter Gashwiler!" ordered Metta, and was notrebuked. But neither would Dexter yield to a woman's whim. 

"I'll tell you!" said Merton, now contemptuous of his mount. "Get thebuggy whip and tickle his ribs. "

Metta sped on his errand, her eyes shining with the lust for torture. With the frayed end of the whip from the delivery wagon she lightlyscored the exposed ribs of Dexter, tormenting him with devilish cunning. Dexter's hide shuttled back and forth. He whinnied protestingly, but didnot stir even one hoof. 

"That's the idea, " said Merton, feeling scornfully secure on the back ofthis spiritless animal. "Keep it up! I can feel him coming to life. "

Metta kept it up. Her woman's ingenuity contrived new little tricks withthe instrument of torture. She would doubtless have had a responsiblepost with the Spanish Inquisition. Face set, absorbed in her evil work, she tickled the ribs crosswise and tickled between them, up and down, always with the artist's light touch. 

Dexter's frame grew tense, his head came up. Once more he looked likea horse. He had been brave to face destruction, but he found himselfunable to face being tickled to death. If only they had chosen someother method for his execution he would have perished gamely, but thiswas exquisitely poignant--beyond endurance. He tossed his head andstepped into a trot toward the open gate. 

Metta yelled in triumph. The rider tossed his own head in rhythm toDexter's trot. His whole body tossed in the saddle; it was a fearsomepace; the sensations were like nothing he had ever dreamed of. And hewas so high above the good firm ground! Dexter continued his joltingprogress to the applause of Metta. The rider tried to command Metta tokeep still, and merely bit his tongue. 

Stirred to life by the tickling, Dexter now became more acutely awareof that strange, restless burden on his back, and was inspired to freehimself from it. He increased his pace as he came to the gate, andmanaged a backward kick with both heels. This lost the rider hisstirrups and left him less securely seated than he wished to be. Hedropped the reins and grasped the saddle's pommel with both hands. 

He strangely seemed to consider the pommel the steering wheel of a motorcar. He seemed to be twisting it with the notion of guiding Dexter. Allmight have been well, but on losing his stirrups the rider had firmlyclasped his legs about the waist of the animal. Again and again hetightened them, and now Dexter not only looked every inch a horse butvery painfully to his rider felt like one, for the spurs were goring himto a most seditious behavior. The mere pace was slackened only that hemight alarmingly kick and shake himself in a manner as terrifying to therider as it was unseemly in one of Dexter's years. 

But the thing was inevitable, because once in his remote, hot youthDexter, cavorting innocently in an orchard, had kicked over a hive ofbusy bees which had been attending strictly to their own affairs untilthat moment. After that they had attended to Dexter with a thoroughnessthat had seared itself to this day across his memory. He now sincerelybelieved that he had overturned another hive of bees, and that not butby the most strenuous exertion could he escape from their harrying. Theywere stinging him venomously along his sides, biting deeper with everyjump. At last he would bear his rider safely over the border. 

The rider clasped his mount ever more tightly. The deep dust of thealley road mounted high over the spirited scene, and through it came notonly the hearty delight of Metta Judson in peals of womanly laughter, but the shrill cries of the three Ransom children whom Merton had notbefore noticed. These were Calvin Ransom, aged eight; Elsie Ransom, agedsix; and little Woodrow Ransom, aged four. Their mother had lain downwith a headache, having first ordered them to take their picture booksand sit quietly in the parlour as good children should on a Sabbathafternoon. So they had noisily pretended to obtain the picture books andthen quietly tiptoed out into the backyard, which was not so stuffy asthe parlour. 

Detecting the meritorious doings in the Gashwiler barnyard, they perchedin a row on the alley fence and had been excited spectators from themoment that Merton had mounted his horse. 

In shrill but friendly voices they had piped, "Oh, Merton Gill's acowboy, Merton Gill's a cowboy! Oh, looka the cowboy on the big horse!"

For of course they were motion-picture experts and would know a cowboywhen they saw one. Wide-eyed, they followed the perilous antics ofDexter as he issued from the alley gate, and they screamed with childishdelight when the spurs had recalled to his memory that far-off dreadfulday with the busy bees. They now balanced precariously on the alleyfence, the better to trace Merton's flight through the dust cloud. "Merton's in a runaway, Merton's in a runaway, Merton's in a runaway!"they shrieked, but with none of the sympathy that would have becomethem. They appeared to rejoice in Merton's plight. "Merton's in arunaway, " they joyously chanted. 

Suddenly they ceased, frozen with a new and splendid wonder, for theirdescriptive phrase was now inexact. Merton was no longer in a runaway. But only for a moment did they hesitate before taking up the new chant. 

"Looky, looky. He's throwed Merton right off into the dirt. He's throwedMerton right off into the dirt. Oh, looky Merton Gill right down therein the dirt!"

Again they had become exact. Merton was right down there in the dirt, and a frantic, flashing-heeled Dexter was vanishing up the alley at thehead of a cloud of dust. The friendly Ransom tots leaped from the fenceto the alley, forgetting on her bed of pain the mother who supposed themto be engrossed with picture books in the library. With one accordthey ran toward the prostrate horseman, Calvin ahead and Elsie a closesecond, holding the hand of little Woodrow. 

They were presently able to observe that the fleeing Dexter had narrowlyescaped running down a motor car inopportunely turning at that momentinto the alley. The gallant animal swerved in time, leaving the car'sdriver and his wife aghast at their slight margin of safety. Dextervanished to the right up shaded Spruce Street on a Sabbath evening asthe first call to evening worship pealed from a neighbouring churchtower. 

His late rider had erected himself and was beating dust from the newchaps and the front of the new shirt. He picked up the ideal hat anddusted that. Underneath all the flurry of this adventure he was stillthe artist. He had been set afoot in the desert by a treacherous horse;he must find a water hole or perish with thirst. He replaced the hat, and it was then he observed the motor car bearing down the alley uponhim. 

"My good gosh!" he muttered. 

The Gashwilers had returned a full two hours before their accustomedtime. The car halted beside him and his employer leaned out a warmlyhostile face. 

"What's this mean?" he demanded. 

The time was not one to tell Gashwiler what he thought of him. Not onlywas there a lady present, but he felt himself at a disadvantage. Thelady saved him from an instant necessity for words. 

"That was our new clothesline; I recognized it at once. " The womanseemed to pride herself on this paltry feat. 

"What's this mean?" again demanded Gashwiler. He was now a man of oneidea. 

Again was Merton Gill saved from the need of instant speech, though notin a way he would have chosen to be saved. The three Ransom children ranup, breathless, shouting. 

"Oh, Merton, here's your pistol. I found it right in the road there. ""We found your pistol right in the dirt there. I saw it first. " "Youdid not; I saw it first. Merton, will you let me shoot it off, Merton? Ifound your pistol, didn't I, Merton? Didn't I find it right in the roadthere?" The friendly tots did little step dances while they were thusvocal. 

"Be quiet, children, " commanded Merton, finding a voice. But they werenot to be quelled by mere tones. 

"He throwed Merton right off into the dirt, didn't he, Merton? Merton, didn't he throw you right off into the dirt, Merton? Did he hurt you, Merton?" "Merton, will you let me shoot it off just once--just once, and I'll never ask again?" "He didn't either find it first, Merton. " "Hethrowed you off right into the dirt--didn't he throw you right off intothe dirt, Merton?"

With a harsher show of authority, or perhaps merely because he wasbearded--so unreasoning are the inhibitions of the young--Gashwilerstilled the tumult. The dancing died. "What's this mean?" he repeated. 

"We nearly had an accident, " said the lady. 

"What's this mean?"

An answer of sorts could no longer be delayed. 

"Well, I thought I'd give Dexter a little exercise, so I saddled him upand was going to ride him around the block, when--when these kids hereyelled and scared him so he ran away. "

"Oh, what a story!" shouted the tots in unison. "What a bad story!You'll go to the bad place, " intoned little Elsie. 

"I swear, I don't know what's gettin' into you, " declared Gashwiler. "Don't that horse get exercise enough during the week? Don't he like hisday of rest? How'd you like me to saddle you up and ride you round theblock? I guess you'd like that pretty well, wouldn't you?" Gashwilerfancied himself in this bit of sarcasm, brutal though it was. Hetoyed with it. "Next Sunday I'll saddle you up and ride you round theblock--see how you like that, young man. "

"It was our clothesline, " said the lady. "I could tell it right off. "

With a womanish tenacity she had fastened to a minor inconsequence ofthe outrage. Gashwiler became practical. 

"Well, I must say, it's a pretty how-de-do, That horse'll make straightback for the farm; we won't have any delivery horse to-morrow. Sue, youget out; I'll go down the road a piece and see if I can head him off. "

"He turned the other way, " said Merton. 

"Well, he's bound to head around for the farm. I'll go up the road andyou hurry out the way he went. Mebbe you can catch him before he getsout of town. "

Mrs. Gashwiler descended from the car. 

"You better have that clothesline back by seven o'clock to-morrowmorning, " she warned the offender. 

"Yes, ma'am, I will. "

This was not spoken in a Buck Benson manner. 

"And say"--Gashwiler paused in turning the car--"what you doing in thatoutlandish rig, anyhow? Must think you're one o' them Wild West cowboysor something. Huh!" This last carried a sneer that stung. 

"Well, I guess I can pick out my own clothes if I want to. "

"Fine things to call clothes, I must say. Well, go see if you can pickout that horse if you're such a good picker-out. "

Again Gashwiler was pleased with himself. He could play venomously withwords. 

"Yes, sir, " said Merton, and plodded on up the alley, followed at arespectful distance by the Ransom kiddies, who at once resumed theirvocal exercises. 

"He throwed you off right into the dirt, didn't he, Merton? Mer-tun, didn't he throw you off right into the dirt?"

If it were inevitable he wished that they would come closer. He wouldeven have taken little Woodrow by the hand. But they kept far enoughback of him to require that their voices should be raised. Incessantlythe pitiless rain fell upon him--"Mer-tun, he throwed you off right intothe dirt, didn't he, Merton?"

He turned out of the alley up Spruce Street. The Ransom childrenlawlessly followed, forgetting their good home, their poor, sick motherand the rules she had laid down for their Sabbath recreation. At everymoment the shrill cry reached his burning ears, "Mer-tun, didn't hethrow you off?" The kiddies appeared to believe that Merton had notheard them, but they were patient. Presently he would hear and reassurethem that he had, indeed, been thrown off right into the dirt. 

Now he began to meet or pass early churchgoers who would gaze at him inwonder or in frank criticism. He left the sidewalk and sought the centreof the road, pretending that out there he could better search for avaluable lost horse. The Ransom children were at first in two mindsabout following him, but they soon found it more interesting to stay onthe sidewalk. They could pause to acquaint the churchgoers with a matterof common interest. "He throwed Merton off right into the dirt. "

If the people they addressed appeared to be doubting this, or to findit not specific enough, they would call ahead to Merton to confirm theirsimple tale. With rapt, shining faces, they spread the glad news, thoughhurrying always to keep pace with the figure in the road. 

Spruce Street was vacant of Dexter, but up Elm Street, slowly croppingthe wayside herbage as he went, was undoubtedly Merton's good old pal. He quickened his pace. Dexter seemed to divine his coming and brokeinto a kittenish gallop until he reached the Methodist Church. Here, appearing to believe that he had again eluded pursuit, he stopped tograze on a carefully tended square of grass before the sacred edifice. He was at once shooed by two scandalized old ladies, but paid them noattention. They might perhaps even have tickled him, for this was thebest grass he had found since leaving home. Other churchgoers paused inconsternation, looking expectantly at the approaching Merton Gill. Thethree happy children who came up with him left no one in doubt of thelate happening. 

Merton was still the artist. He saw himself approach Dexter, vaultinto the saddle, put spurs to the beast, and swiftly disappear down thestreet. People would be saying that he should not be let to ride so fastthrough a city street. He was worse than Gus Giddings. But he saw thisonly with his artist's eye. In sordid fact he went up to Dexter, seizedthe trailing bridle reins and jerked savagely upon them. Back over thetrail he led his good old pal. And for other later churchgoersthere were the shrill voices of friendly children to tell what hadhappened--to appeal confidently to Merton, vaguely ahead in thetwilight, to confirm their interesting story. 

Dexter, the anarchist, was put to bed without his goodnight kiss. Goodold Pinto had done his pal dirt. Never again would he be given a part inBuck Benson's company. Across the alley came the voices of tired, happychildren, in the appeal for an encore. "Mer-tun, please let him do it toyou again. " "Mer-tun, please let him do it to you again. "

And to the back porch came Mrs. Gashwiler to say it was a good thinghe'd got that clothesline back, and came her husband wishing to be toldwhat outlandish notion Merton Gill would next get into the thing hecalled his head. It was the beginning of the end. 

Followed a week of strained relations with the Gashwiler household, including Dexter, and another week of relations hardly more cordial. But thirty dollars was added to the hoard which was now counted almostnightly. And the cruder wits of the village had made rather a joke ofMerton's adventure. Some were tasteless enough to rally him coarselyupon the crowded street or at the post office while he awaited hismagazines. 

And now there were two hundred and seventy-five dollars to put himforever beyond their jibes. He carefully rehearsed a scathing speech forGashwiler. He would tell him what he thought of him. That merchant wouldlearn from it some things that would do him good if he believed them, but probably he wouldn't believe them. He would also see that he haddone his faithful employee grave injustices. And he would be left, insome humiliation, having found, as Merton Gill took himself forever outof retail trade, that two could play on words as well as one. It wasa good warm speech, and its author knew every word of it from mumbledrehearsal during the two weeks, at times when Gashwiler merely thoughthe was being queer again. 

At last came the day when he decided to recite it in full to the manfor whom it had been composed. He confronted him, accordingly, at a dullmoment on the third Monday morning, burning with his message. 

He looked Gashwiler firmly in the eye and said in halting tones, "Mr. Gashwiler, now, I've been thinking I'd like to go West for a while--toCalifornia, if you could arrange to let me off, please. " And Mr. Gashwiler had replied, "Well, now, that is a surprise. When was youwishing to go, Merton?"

"Why, I would be much obliged if you'd let me get off to-night on No. 4, Mr. Gashwiler, and I know you can get Spencer Grant to take my place, because I asked him yester-day. "

"Very well, Merton. Send Spencer Grant in to see me, and you can get offto-night. I hope you'll have a good time. "

"Of course, I don't know how long I'll be gone. I may locate out there. But then again--"

"That's all right, Merton. Any time you come back you can have your sameold job. You've been a good man, and they ain't so plenty these days. "

"Thank you, Mr. Gashwiler. "

No. 4 was made to stop at Simsbury for a young man who was presentlycommanding a meal in the palatial diner, and who had, before this mealwas eaten, looked out with compassion upon two Simsbury-like hamletsthat the train rushed by, a blur of small-towners standing on theirdepot platforms to envy the inmates of that splendid structure. 

At last it was Western Stuff and no fooling. 

CHAPTER IV. THE WATCHER AT THE GATE

The street leading to the Holden motion-picture studio, considered byitself, lacks beauty. Flanking it for most of the way from the boulevardto the studio gate are vacant lots labelled with their prices andappeals to the passer to buy them. Still their prices are high enoughto mark the thoroughfare as one out of the common, and it is furtherdistinguished by two rows of lofty eucalyptus trees. These have a realfeathery beauty, and are perhaps a factor in the seemingly exorbitantprices demanded for the choice bungalow and home sites they shade. Savefor a casual pioneer bungalow or two, there are no buildings to attractthe notice until one reaches a high fence that marks the beginning ofthe Holden lot. Back of this fence is secreted a microcosmos, a world inlittle, where one may encounter strange races of people in their nativedress and behold, by walking a block, cities actually apart by leagueupon league of the earth's surface and separated by centuries of time. 

To penetrate this city of many cities, and this actual present of theremote past, one must be of a certain inner elect. Hardly may one enterby assuming the disguise of a native, as daring explorers have sometimesovercome the difficulty of entering other strange cities. Its gate, reached after passing along an impressive expanse of the reticent fence, is watched by a guardian. He is a stoatish man of middle age, not neatlydressed, and of forbidding aspect. His face is ruthless, with a veryknowing cynicism. He is there, it would seem, chiefly to keep people outof the delightful city, though from time to time he will bow an assentor wave it with the hand clutching his evening newspaper to one of thefavoured lawful inmates, who will then carelessly saunter or drive anexpensive motor car through the difficult portal. 

Standing across the street, one may peer through this portal intoan avenue of the forbidden city. There is an exciting glimpse ofgreensward, flowering shrubbery, roses, vines, and a vista of the endsof enormous structures painted yellow. And this avenue is sprightly withthe passing of enviable persons who are rightly there, some in aliengarb, some in the duller uniform of the humble artisan, some in thepressed and garnished trappings of rich overlords. 

It is really best to stand across the street for this clandestine viewof heart-shaking delights. If you stand close to the gate to peer pastthe bulky shape of the warder he is likely to turn and give you a coldlook. Further, he is averse to light conversation, being always moroselyabsorbed--yet with an eye ever alert for intrusive outlanders--in hisevening paper. He never reads a morning paper, but has some means ofobtaining at an early hour each morning a pink or green evening paperthat shrieks with crimson headlines. Such has been his readingthrough all time, and this may have been an element in shaping his nowinveterate hostility toward those who would engage him in meaninglesstalk. Even in accepting the gift of an excellent cigar he betrays onlya bored condescension. There is no relenting of countenance, no genialrelaxing of an ingrained suspicion toward all who approach him, nocordiality, in short, such as would lead you to believe that he mightbe glad to look over a bunch of stills taken by the most artisticphotographer in all Simsbury, Illinois. So you let him severely aloneafter a bit, and go to stand across the street, your neatly wrapped artstudies under your arm, and leaning against the trunk of a eucalyptustree, you stare brazenly past him into the city of wonders. 

It is thus we first observe that rising young screen actor, CliffordArmytage, beginning the tenth day of his determined effort to becomemuch more closely identified with screen activities than hitherto. Tendays of waiting outside the guarded gate had been his, but no other tendays of his life had seemed so eventful or passed so swiftly. For atlast he stood before his goal, had actually fastened his eyes upon somuch of it as might be seen through its gate. Never had he achieved somuch downright actuality. 

Back in Simsbury on a Sunday morning he had often strolled over tothe depot at early train time for a sight of the two metal containershousing the films shown at the Bijou Palace the day before. They wouldbe on the platform, pasted over with express labels. He would stand bythem, even touch them, examine the padlocks, turn them over, heft them;actually hold within his grasp the film wraith of Beulah Baxter in aterrific installment of The Hazards of Hortense. Those metal containersimprisoned so much of beauty, of daring, of young love striving againstadverse currents--held the triumphant fruiting of Miss Baxter's toil andstruggle and sacrifice to give the public something better and finer. Often he had caressed the crude metal with a reverent hand, as if hiswonder woman herself stood there to receive his homage. 

That was actuality, in a way. But here it was in full measure, withoutmental subterfuge or vain imaginings. Had he not beheld from thispost--he was pretty sure he had--Miss Baxter herself, swathed in costlyfurs, drive a robin's-egg-blue roadster through the gate without evena nod to the warder? Indeed, that one glimpse of reality had been worthhis ten days of waiting--worth all his watching of the gate and itskeeper until he knew every dent in the keeper's derby hat, every bristlein his unkempt mustache, every wrinkle of his inferior raiment, andevery pocket from which throughout the day he would vainly draw matchesto relight an apparently fireproof cigar. Surely waiting thus rewardedcould not be called barren. When he grew tired of standing he couldcross the street and rest on a low bench that encircled one of theeucalyptus trees. Here were other waiters without the pale, usually menof strongly marked features, with a tendency to extremes in stature orhair or beards or noses, and not conspicuously neat in attire. These, he discovered, were extras awaiting employment, many of them Mexicans orstrange-appearing mongrels, with a sprinkling of Negroes. Often he couldhave recruited there a band of outlaws for desperate deeds over theborder. He did not fraternize with these waifs, feeling that his wasanother plane. 

He had spent three days thus about the studio gate when he learned ofthe existence of another entrance. This was a door almost opposite thebench. He ventured through it and discovered a bare room with a woodenseat running about its sides. In a partition opposite the entrance wasa small window and over it the words "Casting Director. " One of the twoother doors led to the interior, and through this he observed pass manyof the chosen. Another door led to the office of the casting director, glimpses of which could be obtained through the little window. 

The waiting room itself was not only bare as to floor and walls, butwas bleak and inhospitable in its general effect. The wooden seat wasuncomfortable, and those who sat upon it along the dull-toned wallsappeared depressed and unhopeful, especially after they had braved atalk through the little window with someone who seemed always tobe saying, "No, nothing to-day. Yes, perhaps next week. I have youraddress. " When the aspirants were women, as they mostly were, thesomeone back of the window would add "dear" to the speech: "No, nothingto-day, dear. "

There seemed never to be anything to-day, and Clifford Armytage spentvery little of his waiting time in this room. It made him uncomfortableto be stared at by other applicants, whether they stared casually, incuriously, or whether they seemed to appraise him disparagingly, as iftelling him frankly that for him there would never be anything to-day. 

Then he saw that he, too, must undergo that encounter at the littlewindow. Too apparently he was not getting anywhere by loitering aboutoutside. It was exciting, but the producers would hardly look there fornew talent. 

He chose a moment for this encounter when the waiting room was vacant, not caring to be stared at when he took this first step in forming aconnection that was to be notable in screen annals. He approached thewindow, bent his head, and encountered the gaze of a small, comely womanwith warm brown eyes, neat reddish hair, and a quick manner. The gazewas shrewd; it seemed to read all that was needed to be known of thisnew candidate. 

"Yes?" said the woman. 

She looked tired and very businesslike, but her manner was not unkind. The novice was at once reassured. He was presently explaining to herthat he wished to act in the pictures at this particular studio. No, he had not had much experience; that is, you could hardly call itexperience in actual acting, but he had finished a course of study andhad a diploma from the General Film Production Company of Stebbinsville, Arkansas, certifying him to be a competent screen actor. And of coursehe would not at first expect a big part. He would be glad to takea small part to begin with--almost any small part until he couldfamiliarize himself with studio conditions. And here was a bunch ofstills that would give any one an idea of the range of parts he wasprepared to play, society parts in a full-dress suit, or soldier partsin a trench coat and lieutenant's cap, or juveniles in the natty suitwith the belted coat, and in the storm-king model belted overcoat. And of course Western stuff--these would give an idea of what he coulddo--cowboy outfit and all that sort of thing, chaps and spurs andguns and so forth. And he was prepared to work hard and struggle andsacrifice in order to give the public something better and finer, andwould it be possible to secure some small part at once? Was a goodall-round actor by any chance at that moment needed in the company ofMiss Beulah Baxter, because he would especially like such a part, and hewould be ready to start to work at any time--to-morrow, or even to-day. 

The tired little woman beyond the opening listened patiently to this, interrupting several times to say over an insistent telephone, "No, nothing to-day, dear. " She looked at the stills with evident interestand curiously studied the face of the speaker as she listened. Shesmiled wearily when he was through and spoke briskly. 

"Now, I'll tell you, son; all that is very nice, but you haven't had alick of real experience yet, have you?--and things are pretty quiet onthe lot just now. To-day there are only two companies shooting. So youcouldn't get anything to-day or to-morrow or probably for a good manydays after that, and it won't be much when you get it. You may get on asan extra after a while when some of the other companies start shooting, but I can't promise anything, you understand. What you do now--leave meyour name and address and telephone number. "

"Yes, ma'am, " said the applicant, and supplied these data. 

"Clifford Armytage!" exclaimed the woman. "I'll say that's some warmname!"

"Well, you see"--he paused, but resolved to confide freely in thisfriendly seeming person--"you see, I picked that out for a good nameto act under. It sounds good, doesn't it? And my own right name isonly Merton Gill, so I thought I'd better have something that sounded alittle more--well, you know. "

"Sure!" said the woman. "All right, have any name you want; but I thinkI'll call you Merton when you come again. You needn't act with me, youknow. Now, let's see--name, age, height, good general wardrobe, houseaddress, telephone number--oh, yes, tell me where I can find you duringthe day. "

"Right out here, " he replied firmly. "I'm going to stick to this studioand not go near any of the others. If I'm not in this room I'll be justoutside there, on that bench around the tree, or just across the streetwhere you can see through the gate and watch the people go through. "

"Say!" Again the woman searched his face and broke into her friendlysmile. "Say, you're a real nut, aren't you? How'd you ever get thisway?"

And again he was talking, telling now of his past and his struggles toeducate himself as a screen actor--one of the best. He spoke of Simsburyand Gashwiler and of Lowell Hardy who took his stills, and of TessieKearns, whose sympathy and advice had done so much to encourage him. Thewoman was joyously attentive. Now she did more than smile. She laughedat intervals throughout the narrative, though her laughter seemedentirely sympathetic and in no way daunted the speaker. 

"Well, Merton, you're a funny one--I'll say that. You're so kind ofignorant and appealing. And you say this Bughalter or Gigwater orwhatever his name is will take you back into the store any time? Well, that's a good thing to remember, because the picture game is a hardgame. I wouldn't discourage a nice clean boy like you for the world, but there are a lot of people in pictures right now that would prefer asteady job like that one you left. "

"It's Gashwiler--that name. "

"Oh, all right, just so you don't forget it and forget the address. "

The new applicant warmly reassured her. 

"I wouldn't be likely to forget that, after living there all thoseyears. "

When he left the window the woman was again saying into the telephone, "No, dear, nothing to-day. I'm sorry. "

It was that night he wrote to Tessie Kearns:

Dear Friend Tessie:

Well, Tessie, here I am safe and sound in Hollywood after a long rideon the cars that went through many strange and interesting cities anddifferent parts of the country, and I guess by this time you must havethought I was forgetting my old friends back in Simsbury; but not so, Ican assure you, for I will never forget our long talks together and howyou cheered me up often when the sacrifice and struggle seemed more thanany man could bear. But now I feel repaid for all that sacrifice andstruggle, for I am here where the pictures are made, and soon I will beacting different parts in them, though things are quiet on the lot nowwith only two companies shooting to-day; but more companies will beshooting in a few days more and then will come the great opportunity forme as soon as I get known, and my different capabilities, and what I cando and everything. 

I had a long talk to-day with the lady out in front that hires theactors, and she was very friendly, but said it might be quite some time, because only two companies on the lot were shooting to-day, and she saidif Gashwiler had promised to keep my old job for me to be sure and notforget his address, and it was laughable that she should say such athing, because I would not be liable to forget his address when I livedthere so long. She must have thought I was very forgetful, to forgetthat address. 

There is some great scenery around this place, including many of theRocky Mtns. Etc. That make it look beautiful, and the city of LosAngeles is bigger than Peoria. I am quite some distance out of thecentre of town, and I have a nice furnished room about a mile from theHolden studios, where I will be hired after a few more companies get toshooting on the lot. There is an electric iron in the kitchen where onecan press their clothes. And my furnished room is in the house of a LosAngeles society woman and her husband who came here from Iowa. Theirlittle house with flowers in front of it is called a bungalow. Thehusband, Mr. Patterson, had a farm in Iowa, six miles out from CedarFalls, and he cares little for society; but the wife goes into societyall the time, as there is hardly a day just now that some society doesnot have its picnic, and one day it will be the Kansas Society picnicand the next day it will be the Michigan Society having a picnic, orsome other state, and of course the Iowa Society that has the biggestpicnic of all, and Mr. Patterson says his wife can go to all thesesociety functions if she wants, but he does not care much for society, and he is thinking of buying a half interest in a good soft-drink placejust to pass the time away, as he says after the busy life he has led heneeds something to keep him busy, but his wife thinks only of society. 

I take my meals out at different places, especially at drug stores. Iguess you would be surprised to see these drug stores where you can goin and sit at the soda counter and order your coffee and sandwiches andcustard pie and eat them right there in the drug store, but there areother places, too, like cafeterias, where you put your dishes on a trayand carry it to your own table. It is all quite different from Simsbury, and I have seen oranges growing on the trees, and there are palm trees, and it does not snow here; but the grass is green and the flowers bloomright through the winter, which makes it very attractive with the RockyMtns. Standing up in the distance, etc. 

Well, Tessie, you must excuse this long letter from your old friend, andwrite me if any company has accepted Passion's Perils and I might havea chance to act in that some day, and I will let you know when my firstpicture is released and the title of it so you can watch out for it whenit comes to the Bijou Palace. I often think of the old town, and wouldlike to have a chat with you and my other old friends, but I am nothomesick, only sometimes I would like to be back there, as there are notmany people to chat with here and one would almost be lonesome sometimesif they could not be at the studio. But I must remember that work andstruggle and sacrifice are necessary to give the public something betterand finer and become a good screen actor. So no more at present, fromyour old friend, and address Clifford Armytage at above number, as I amgoing by my stage name, though the lady at the Holden lot said she likedmy old name better and called me that, and it sounded pretty good, as Ihave not got used to the stage name yet. 

He felt better after this chat with his old friend, and the followingmorning he pressed a suit in the Patterson kitchen and resumed his vigiloutside the gate. But now from time to time, at least twice a day, hecould break the monotony of this by a call at the little window. 

Sometimes the woman beyond it would be engrossed with the telephone andwould merely look at him to shake her head. At others, the telephonebeing still, she would engage him in friendly talk. She seemed to likehim as an occasional caller, but she remained smilingly skeptical abouthis immediate success in the pictures. Again and again she urged him notto forget the address of Giggenholder or Gooshswamp or whoever it mightbe that was holding a good job for him. He never failed to remind herthat the name was Gashwiler, and that he could not possibly forget theaddress because he had lived at Simsbury a long time. This always seemedto brighten the woman's day. It puzzled him to note that for some reasonhis earnest assurance pleased her. 

As the days of waiting passed he began to distinguish individuals amongthe people who went through the little outer room or sat patientlyaround its walls on the hard bench, waiting like himself for morecompanies to start shooting. Among the important-looking men thatpassed through would be actors that were now reaping the reward of theirstruggle and sacrifice; actors whom he thrilled to recognize as oldscreen friends. These would saunter in with an air of fine leisure, and their manner of careless but elegant dress would be keenly noted byMerton. Then there were directors. These were often less scrupulouslyattired and seemed always to be solving knotty problems. They passedhurriedly on, brows drawn in perplexity. They were very busy persons. Those on the bench regarded them with deep respect and stiffened toattention as they passed, but they were never observed by these greatones. 

The waiting ones were of all ages; mostly women, with but a sprinklingof men. Many of the women were young or youngish, and of rare beauty, so Merton Gill thought. Others were elderly or old, and a few would beaccompanied by children, often so young that they must be held on laps. They, too, waited with round eyes and in perfect decorum for a chanceto act. Sometimes the little window would be pushed open and a womanbeckoned from the bench. Some of them greeted the casting director as anold friend and were still gay when told that there was nothing to-day. Others seemed to dread being told this, and would wait on without daringan inquiry. Sometimes there would be a little flurry of actual business. Four society women would be needed for a bridge table at 8:30 the nextmorning on Stage Number Five. The casting director seemed to know thewardrobe of each of the waiters, and would select the four quickly. The gowns must be smart--it was at the country house of a rich NewYorker--and jewels and furs were not to be forgotten. There might be twodays' work. The four fortunate ladies would depart with cheerful smiles. The remaining waiters settled on the bench, hoping against hope foranother call. 

Among the waiting-room hopefuls Merton had come to know by sight theMontague family. This consisted of a handsome elderly gentleman ofmost impressive manner, his wife, a portly woman of middle age, alsopossessing an impressive manner, and a daughter. Mr. Montague alwaysremoved his hat in the waiting room, uncovering an abundant clusterof iron-gray curls above a noble brow. About him there seemed ever tolinger a faint spicy aroma of strong drink, and he would talk freely tothose sharing the bench with him. His voice was full and rich in tone, and his speech, deliberate and precise, more than hinted that hehad once been an ornament of the speaking stage. His wife, also, wasfriendly of manner, and spoke in a deep contralto somewhat roughened bywear but still notable. 

The daughter Merton did not like. She was not unattractive inappearance, though her features were far off the screen-heroine model, her nose being too short, her mouth too large, her cheekbones tooprominent, and her chin too square. Indeed, she resembled too closelyher father, who, as a man, could carry such things more becomingly. She was a slangy chit, much too free and easy in her ways, Mertonconsidered, and revealing a self-confidence that amounted almost toimpudence. Further, her cheeks were brown, her brief nose freckled, and she did not take the pains with her face that most of the beautifulyoung women who waited there had so obviously taken. She was aharum-scarum baggage with no proper respect for any one, he decided, especially after the day she had so rudely accosted one of the passingdirectors. He was a more than usually absorbed director, and with drawnbrows would have gone unseeing through the waiting room when the girlhailed him. 

"Oh, Mr. Henshaw, one moment please!"

He glanced up in some annoyance, pausing with his hand to the door thatled on to his proper realm. 

"Oh, it's you, Miss Montague! Well, what is it? I'm very, very busy. "

"Well, it's something I wanted to ask you. " She quickly crossed the roomto stand by him, tenderly flecking a bit of dust from his coat sleeve asshe began, "Say, listen, Mr. Henshaw: Do you think beauty is a curse toa poor girl?"

Mr. Henshaw scowled down into the eyes so confidingly lifted to his. 

"That's something you won't ever have to worry about, " he snapped, andwas gone, his brows again drawn in perplexity over his work. 

"You're not angry with poor little me, are you, Mr. Henshaw?"

The girl called this after him and listened, but no reply came from backof the partition. 

Mrs. Montague, from the bench, rebuked her daughter. 

"Say, what do you think that kidding stuff will get you? Don't you wantto work for him any more?"

The girl turned pleading eyes upon her mother. 

"I think he might have answered a simple question, " said she. 

This was all distasteful to Merton Gill. The girl might, indeed, havedeserved an answer to her simple question, but why need she ask it of sobusy a man? He felt that Mr. Henshaw's rebuke was well merited, for herown beauty was surely not excessive. 

Her father, from the bench, likewise admonished her. 

"You are sadly prone to a spirit of banter, " he declared, "though Iadmit that the so-called art of the motion picture is not to be regardedtoo seriously. It was not like that in my day. Then an actor had to bean artist; there was no position for the little he-doll whippersnapperwho draws the big money to-day and is ignorant of even the rudiments ofthe actor's profession. "

He allowed his glance to rest perceptibly upon Merton Gill, who feltuncomfortable. 

"We were with Looey James five years, " confided Mrs. Montague to herneighbours. "A hall show, of course--hadn't heard of movies then--doingVirginius and Julius Caesar and such classics, and then starting outwith The Two Orphans for a short season. We were a knock-out, I'llsay that. I'll never forget the night we opened the new opera house atAkron. They had to put the orchestra under the stage. "

"And the so-called art of the moving picture robs us of our little meedof applause, " broke in her husband. "I shall never forget a remark ofthe late Lawrence Barrett to me after a performance of Richelieu inwhich he had fairly outdone himself. 'Montague, my lad, ' said he 'we maywork for the money, but we play for the applause. ' But now our finestbits must go in silence, or perhaps be interrupted by a so-calleddirector who arrogates to himself the right to instill into us therudiments of a profession in which we had grounded ourselves ere yethe was out of leading strings. Too often, naturally, the results arediscouraging. "

The unabashed girl was meantime having sprightly talk with the castingdirector, whom she had hailed through the window as Countess. Merton, somewhat startled, wondered if the little woman could indeed be of thenobility. 

"Hello, Countess! Say, listen, can you give the camera a little peek atme to-day, or at pa or ma? 'No, nothing to-day, dear. '" She had imitatedthe little woman's voice in her accustomed reply. "Well, I didn't thinkthere would be. I just thought I'd ask. You ain't mad, are you? I couldhave gone on in a harem tank scene over at the Bigart place, but theywanted me to dress the same as a fish, and a young girl's got to drawthe line somewhere. Besides, I don't like that Hugo over there so much. He hates to part with anything like money, and he'll gyp you if he can. Say, I'll bet he couldn't play an honest game of solitaire. How'd youlike my hair this way? Like it, eh? That's good. And me having theonly freckles left in all Hollywood. Ain't I the little prairie flower, growing wilder every hour?

"Say, on the level, pa needs work. These days when he's idle he mostlysticks home and tries out new ways to make prime old Kentucky sour mashin eight hours. If he don't quit he is going to find himself seeing somemoving pictures that no one else can. And he's all worried up abouthis hair going off on top, and trying new hair restorers. You know hislatest? Well, he goes over to the Selig place one day and watches horsemeat fed to the lions and says to himself that horses have plenty ofhair, and it must be the fat under the skin that makes it grow, so hebegs for a hunk of horse from just under the mane and he's rubbingthat on. You can't tell what he'll bring home next. The old boy stillbelieves you can raise hair from the dead. Do you want some new stillsof me? I got a new one yesterday that shows my other expression. Well, so long, Countess. "

The creature turned to her parents. 

"Let's be on our way, old dears. This place is dead, but the Countesssays they'll soon be shooting some tenement-house stuff up at theConsolidated. Maybe there'll be something in it for someone. We might aswell have a look-in. "

Merton felt relieved when the Montague family went out, the girl inthe lead. He approved of the fine old father, but the daughter lackeddignity in speech and manner. You couldn't tell what she might say next. 

The Montagues were often there, sometimes in full, sometimes representedby but one of their number. Once Mrs. Montague was told to be on StageSix the next morning at 8:30 to attend a swell reception. 

"Wear the gray georgette, dearie, " said the casting director, "and yourbig pearls and the lorgnon. "

"Not forgetting the gold cigarette case and the chinchilla neck piece, "said Mrs. Montague. "The spare parts will all be there, Countess, andthanks for the word. "

The elder Montague on the occasion of his calls often found time toregale those present with anecdotes of Lawrence Barrett. 

"A fine artist in his day, sir; none finer ever appeared in a hallshow. "

And always about his once superb frock coat clung the scent of forbiddenbeverages. On one such day he appeared with an untidy sprouting ofbeard, accompanied by the talkative daughter. 

"Pa's landed a part, " she explained through the little window. "It'sone of those we-uns mountaineer plays with revenooers and feuds; one ofthose plays where the city chap don't treat our Nell right--you know. And they won't stand for the crepe hair, so pop has got to raise a brushand he's mad. But it ought to give him a month or so, and after thathe may be able to peddle the brush again; you can never tell in thisbusiness, can you, Countess?"

"It's most annoying, " the old gentleman explained to the benchoccupants. "In the true art of the speaking stage an artificial beardwas considered above reproach. Nowadays one must descend to merephysical means if one is to be thought worthy. "

CHAPTER V. A BREACH IN THE CITY WALLS

During these weeks of waiting outside the gate the little woman beyondthe window had continued to be friendly but not encouraging to theaspirant for screen honours late of Simsbury, Illinois. For three weekshad he waited faithfully, always within call, struggling and sacrificingto give the public something better and finer, and not once had he somuch as crossed the line that led to his goal. 

Then on a Monday morning he found the waiting-room empty and his friendbeyond the window suffering the pangs of headache. "It gets me somethingfierce right through here, " she confided to him, placing her finger-tipsto her temples. 

"Ever use Eezo Pain Wafers?" he demanded in quick sympathy. She lookedat him hopefully. 

"Never heard of 'em. "

"Let me get you some. "

"You dear thing, fly to it!"

He was gone while she reached for her purse, hurrying along theeucalyptus-lined street of choice home sites to the nearest drug store. He was fearing someone else might bring the little woman another remedy;even that her headache might go before he returned with his. But hefound her still suffering. 

"Here they are. " He was breathless. "You take a couple now and a couplemore in half an hour if the ache hasn't stopped. " "Bless your heart!Come around inside. " He was through the door and in the dimly lit littleoffice behind that secretive partition. "And here's something else, " hecontinued. "It's a menthol pencil and you take this cap off--see?--andrub your forehead with it. It'll be a help. " She swallowed two of themagic wafers with the aid of water from the cooler, and applied thementhol. 

"You're a dear, " she said, patting his sleeve. "I feel better already. Sometimes these things come on me and stay all day. " She was stillapplying the menthol to throbbing temples. "Say, don't you get tiredhanging around outside there? How'd you like to go in and look aroundthe lot? Would you like that?"

Would he! "Thanks!" He managed it without choking, "If I wouldn't be inthe way. "

"You won't. Go on--amuse yourself. " The telephone rang. Still applyingthe menthol she held the receiver to her ear. "No, nothing to-day, dear. Say, Marie, did you ever take Eezo Pain Wafers for a headache? Keep'em in mind--they're great. Yes, I'll let you know if anything breaks. Goo'-by, dear. "

Merton Gill hurried through a narrow corridor past offices wheretypewriters clicked and burst from gloom into the dazzling light of theHolden lot. He paused on the steps to reassure himself that the greatadventure was genuine. There was the full stretch of greensward of whichonly an edge had shown as he looked through the gate. There were thevast yellow-brick, glass-topped structures of which he had seen but theends. And there was the street up which he had looked for so many weeks, flanked by rows of offices and dressing rooms, and lively with thepassing of many people. He drew a long breath and became calculating. Hemust see everything and see it methodically. He even went now alongthe asphalt walk to the corner of the office building from which he hadissued for the privilege of looking back at the gate through which hehad so often yearningly stared from across the street. 

Now he was securely inside looking out. The watchman sat at the gate, bent low over his paper. There was, it seemed, more than one way to getby him. People might have headaches almost any time. He wondered if hisfriend the casting director were subject to them. He must carry a box ofthe Eezo wafers. 

He strolled down the street between the rows of offices and the immensecovered stages. Actors in costume entered two of these and through theiropen doors he could see into their shadowy interiors. He would venturethere later. Just now he wished to see the outside of things. Hecontrived a pace not too swift but business-like enough to convey theimpression that he was rightfully walking this forbidden street. Heseemed to be going some place where it was of the utmost importance thathe should be, and yet to have started so early that there was no needfor haste. 

He sounded the far end of that long street visible from outside thegate, discovering its excitements to wane gently into mere blacksmithand carpenter shops. He retraced his steps, this time ignoring the longrow of offices for the opposite line of stages. From one dark interiorcame the slow, dulled strains of an orchestra and from another shotsrang out. He met or passed strangely attired people, bandits, priests, choir boys, gentlemen in evening dress with blue-black eyebrows andcareful hair. And he observed many beautiful young women, variouslyattired, hurrying to or from the stages. One lovely thing was in bridaldress of dazzling white, a veil of lace floating from her blonde head, her long train held up by a coloured maid. She chatted amiably, as shecrossed the street, with an evil-looking Mexican in a silver-cordedhat--a veritable Snake de Vasquez. 

But the stages could wait. He must see more streets. Again reaching theoffice that had been his secret gateway to these delights, he turned tothe right, still with the air of having business at a certain spot towhich there was really no need for him to hurry. There were fewer peoplethis way, and presently, as if by magic carpet, he had left all thatsunlight and glitter and cheerful noise and stood alone in the shadowy, narrow street of a frontier town. There was no bustle here, only anintense stillness. The street was deserted, the shop doors closed. Therewas a ghostlike, chilling effect that left him uneasy. He called uponhimself to remember that he was not actually in a remote and desolatefrontier town from which the inhabitants had fled; that back of himbut a few steps was abounding life, that outside was the prosaic worldpassing and repassing a gate hard to enter. He whistled the fragmentof a tune and went farther along this street of uncanny silence andvacancy, noting, as he went, the signs on the shop windows. There wasthe Busy Bee Restaurant, Jim's Place, the Hotel Renown, the Last DollarDance Hall, Hank's Pool Room. Upon one window was painted the terseannouncement, "Joe--Buy or Sell. " The Happy Days Bar adjoined theGeneral Store. 

He moved rapidly through this street. It was no place to linger. At thelower end it gave insanely upon a row of three-story brownstone houseswhich any picture patron would recognize as being wholly of New York. There were the imposing steps, the double-doored entrances, the broadwindows, the massive lines of the whole. And beyond this he came to amany-coloured little street out of Bagdad, overhung with gay balconies, vivacious with spindled towers and minarets, and small reticent windows, out of which veiled ladies would glance. And all was still with thestillness of utter desertion. 

Then he explored farther and felt curiously disappointed at findingthat these structures were to real houses what a dicky is to a sincere, genuine shirt. They were pretentiously false. 

One had but to step behind them to discover them as poor shells. 

Their backs were jutting beams carried but little beyond the fronts andtheir stout-appearing walls were revealed to be fragile contrivances ofbutton-lath and thin plaster. The ghost quality departed from them withthis discovery. 

He left these cities of silence and came upon an open space and people. They were grouped before a railway station, a small red structure besidea line of railway track. At one end in black letters, on a narrow whiteboard, was the name Boomerville. 

The people were plainly Western: a dozen cowboys, a sprinkling of bluffranchers and their families. An absorbed young man in cap and khaki andputtees came from a distant group surrounding a camera and readjustedthe line of these people. He placed them to his liking. A wagon drawnby two horses was driven up and a rancher helped a woman and girl toalight. The girl was at once sought out by the cowboys. They shook handswarmly under megaphoned directions from a man back by the camera. Therancher and his wife mingled with the group. The girl was drawn asideby one of the cowboys. He had a nobler presence than the others; he washandsome and his accoutrements seemed more expensive. They looked intoeach other's eyes a long time, apparently pledging an eternal fidelity. One gathered that there would have been an embrace but for the cowboy'swatchful companions. They must say good-by with a mere handshake, though this was a slow, trembling, long-drawn clasp while they steadilyregarded each other, and a second camera was brought to record it at adistance of six feet. Merton Gill thrilled with the knowledge that hewas beholding his first close-up. His long study of the photo-dramaenabled him to divine that the rancher's daughter was going to VassarCollege to be educated, but that, although returning a year later apoised woman of the world, she would still long for the handsome cowboywho would marry her and run the Bar-X ranch. The scene was done. Thecamera would next be turned upon a real train at some real station, while the girl, with a final look at her lover, entered a real car, which the camera would show moving off to Vassar College. Thus conveyingto millions of delighted spectators the impression that a real train hadsteamed out of the station, which was merely an imitation of one, on theHolden lot. The watcher passed on. He could hear the cheerful drone of asawmill where logs were being cut. He followed the sound and came to itssource. The saw was at the end of an oblong pool in which logs floated. Workmen were poling these toward the saw. On a raised platform at oneside was a camera and a man who gave directions through a megaphone; aneighbouring platform held a second camera. A beautiful young girl in aprint dress and her thick hair in a braid came bringing Ms dinner in atin pail to the handsomest of the actors. He laid down his pike-pole andtook both the girl's hands in his as he received the pail. One of theother workmen, a hulking brute with an evil face, scowled darkly at thisencounter and a moment later had insulted the beautiful young girl. But the first actor felled him with a blow. He came up from this, crouchingly, and the fight was on. Merton was excited by this fight, even though he was in no doubt as to which actor would win it. Theyfought hard, and for a time it appeared that the handsome actor mustlose, for the bully who had insulted the girl was a man of greatstrength, but the science of the other told. It was the first fightMerton had ever witnessed. He thought these men must really be hatingeach other, so bitter were their expressions. The battle grew fiercer. It was splendid. Then, at the shrill note of a whistle, the pantingcombatants fell apart. 

"Rotten!" said an annoyed voice through the megaphone. "Can't you boysgive me a little action? Jazz it, jazz it! Think it's a love scene? Goto it, now--plenty of jazz--understand what I mean?" He turned to thecamera man beside him. "Ed, you turn ten--we got to get some speed someway. Jack"--to the other camera man--"you stay on twelve. All ready! Getsome life into it, now, and Lafe"--this to the handsome actor--"don'tkeep trying to hold your front to the machine. We'll get you all right. Ready, now. Camera!"

Again the fight was on. It went to a bitter finish in which thevanquished bully was sent with a powerful blow backward into the water, while the beautiful young girl ran to the victor and nestled in theprotection of his strong arms. 

Merton Gill passed on. This was the real thing. He would have a lot totell Tessie Kearns in his next letter. Beyond the sawmill he came toan immense wooden structure like a cradle on huge rockers supported byscaffolding. From the ground he could make nothing of it, but a ladderled to the top. An hour on the Holden lot had made him bold. He mountedthe ladder and stood on the deck of what he saw was a sea-going yacht. Three important-looking men were surveying the deckhouse forward. Theyglanced at the newcomer but with a cheering absence of curiosity oreven of interest. He sauntered past them with a polite but not-too-keeninterest. The yacht would be an expensive one. The deck fittings wereelaborate. A glance into the captain's cabin revealed it to be fullyfurnished, with a chart and a sextant on the mahogany desk. 

"Where's the bedding for this stateroom?" asked one of the men. 

"I got a prop-rustler after it, " one of the others informed him. 

They strolled aft and paused by an iron standard ingeniously swung fromthe deck. 

"That's Burke's idea, " said one of the men. "I hadn't thought about asteady support for the camera; of course if we stood it on deck it wouldrock when the ship rocked and we'd get no motion. So Burke figures thisout. The camera is on here and swings by that weight so it's alwaysstraight and the rocking registers. Pretty neat, what?"

"That was nothing to think of" said one of the other men, in apparentdisparagement. "I thought of it myself the minute I saw it. " The othertwo grinned at this, though Merton Gill, standing by, saw nothing tolaugh at. He thought the speaker was pretty cheeky; for of course anyone could think of this device after seeing it. He paused for a finalsurvey of his surroundings from this elevation. He could see the realfalseness of the sawmill he had just left, he could also look into theexposed rear of the railway station, and could observe beyond itthe exposed skeleton of that New York street. He was surrounded bymockeries. 

He clambered down the ladder and sauntered back to the street ofoffices. He was by this time confident that no one was going to ask himwhat right he had in there. Now, too, he became conscious of hungerand at the same moment caught the sign "Cafeteria" over a neat buildinghitherto unnoticed. People were entering this, many of them in costume. He went idly toward the door, glanced up, looked at his watch, andbecame, to any one curious about him, a man who had that moment decidedhe might as well have a little food. He opened the screen door of thecafeteria, half expecting it to prove one of those structures equippedonly with a front. But the cafeteria was practicable. The floor wascrowded with little square polished tables at which many people wereeating. A railing along the side of the room made a passage to the backwhere food was served from a counter to the proffered tray. He fell intoline. No one had asked him how he dared try to eat with real actorsand actresses and apparently no one was going to. Toward the end of thepassage was a table holding trays and napkins the latter wrapped aboutan equipment of cutlery. He took his tray and received at the counterthe foods he designated. He went through this ordeal with difficultybecause it was not easy to keep from staring about at other patrons. Constantly he was detecting some remembered face. But at last, with hisladen tray he reached a vacant table near the centre of the room andtook his seat. He absently arranged the food before him. He could stareat leisure now. All about him were the strongly marked faces of the filmpeople, heavy with makeup, interspersed with hungry civilians, who mightbe producers, directors, camera men, or mere artisans, for the democracyof the cafeteria seemed ideal. 

At the table ahead of his he recognized the man who had been annoyed oneday by the silly question of the Montague girl. They had said he wasa very important director. He still looked important and intenselyserious. He was a short, very plump man, with pale cheeks under darkbrows, and troubled looking gray hair. He was very seriously explainingsomething to the man who sat with him and whom he addressed as Governor, a merry-looking person with a stubby gray mustache and little hair, whoseemed not too attentive to the director. 

"You see, Governor, it's this way: the party is lost on thedesert--understand what I mean--and Kempton Ward and the girl stumbleinto this deserted tomb just at nightfall. Now here's where the big kickcomes--"

Merton Gill ceased to listen for there now halted at his table, bearinga laden tray, none other than the Montague girl, she of the slangytalk and the regrettably free manner. She put down her tray and seatedherself before it. She had not asked permission of the table's otheroccupant, indeed she had not even glanced at him, for cafeteriaetiquette is not rigorous. He saw that she was heavily made up and inthe costume of a gypsy, he thought, a short vivid skirt, a gay waist, heavy gold hoops in her ears, and dark hair massed about her small head. He remembered that this would not be her own hair. She fell at once toher food. The men at the next table glanced at her, the director withoutcordiality; but the other man smiled upon her cheerfully. 

"Hello, Flips! How's the girl?"

"Everything's jake with me, Governor. How's things over at your shop?"

"So, so. I see you're working. "

"Only for two days. I'm just atmosphere in this piece. I got some realstuff coming along pretty soon for Baxter. Got to climb down ten storiesof a hotel elevator cable, and ride a brake-beam and be pushed off acliff and thrown to the lions, and a few other little things. "

"That's good, Flips. Come in and see me some time. Have a little chat. Ma working?"

"Yeah--got a character bit with Charlotte King in Her Other Husband. ""Glad to hear it. How's Pa Montague?"

"Pa's in bed. They've signed him for Camillia of the Cumberlands, providing he raises a brush, and just now it ain't long enough forwhiskers and too long for anything else, so he's putterin' around withhis new still. "

"Well, drop over sometime, Flips, I'm keeping you in mind. "

"Thanks, Governor. Say--" Merton glanced up in time to see her winkbroadly at the man, and look toward his companion who still seriouslymade notes on the back of an envelope. The man's face melted to a grinwhich he quickly erased. The girl began again:

"Mr. Henshaw--could you give me just a moment, Mr. Henshaw?" The seriousdirector looked up in quite frank annoyance. 

"Yes, yes, what is it, Miss Montague?"

"Well, listen, Mr. Henshaw, I got a great idea for a story, and I wasthinking who to take it to and I thought of this one and I thoughtof that one, and I asked my friends, and they all say take it to Mr. Henshaw, because if a story has any merit he's the one director onthe lot that can detect it and get every bit of value out of it, so Ithought--but of course if you're busy just now--"

The director thawed ever so slightly. "Of course, my girl, I'm busy--butthen I'm always busy. They run me to death here. Still, it was very kindof your friends, and of course--"

"Thank you, Mr. Henshaw. " She clasped her hands to her breast and gazedraptly into the face of her coy listener. 

"Of course I'll have to have help on the details, but it starts offkind of like this. You see I'm a Hawaiian princess--" She paused, gazingaloft. 

"Yes, yes, Miss Montague--an Hawaiian princess. Go on, go on!"

"Oh, excuse me; I was thinking how I'd dress her for the last spool inthe big fire scene. Well, anyway, I'm this Hawaiian princess, and myfather, old King Mauna Loa, dies and leaves me twenty-one thousandvolcanoes and a billiard cue--"

Mr. Henshaw blinked rapidly at this. For a moment he was dazed. "Abilliard cue, did you say?" he demanded blankly. 

"Yes. And every morning I have to go out and ram it down the volcanoesto see are they all right--and--"

"Tush, tush!" interrupted Mr. Henshaw scowling upon the playwright andfell again to his envelope, pretending thereafter to ignore her. 

The girl seemed to be unaware that she had lost his attention. "And yousee the villain is very wealthy; he owns the largest ukelele factory inthe islands, and he tries to get me in his power, but he's foiled by myfiance, a young native by the name of Herman Schwarz, who has inventeda folding ukelele, so the villain gets his hired Hawaiian orchestra toshove Herman down one of the volcanoes and me down another, but I havethe key around my neck, which Father put there when I was a babe andmade me swear always to wear it, even in the bath-tub, so I let myselfout and unlock the other one and let Herman out and the orchestradiscovers us and chases us over the cliff, and then along comes my oldnurse who is now running a cigar store in San Pedro and she--" Here sheaffected to discover that Mr. Henshaw no longer listened. 

"Why, Mr. Henshaw's gone!" she exclaimed dramatically. "Boy, boy, pageMr. Henshaw. " Mr. Henshaw remained oblivious. 

"Oh, well, of course I might have expected you wouldn't have time tolisten to my poor little plot. Of course I know it's crude, but it didseem to me that something might be made out of it. " She resumed herfood. Mr. Henshaw's companion here winked at her and was seen to beshaking with emotion. Merton Gill could not believe it to be laughter, for he had seen nothing to laugh at. A busy man had been bothered by asilly girl who thought she had the plot for a photodrama, and even he, Merton Gill, could have told her that her plot was impossibly wild andinconsequent. If she were going into that branch of the art she ought totake lessons, the way Tessie Kearns did. She now looked so mournful thathe was almost moved to tell her this, but her eyes caught his atthat moment and in them was a light so curious, so alive with hiddenmeanings, so eloquent of some iron restraint she put upon her ownemotions, that he became confused and turned his gaze from hers almostwith the rebuking glare of Henshaw. She glanced quickly at him again, studying his face for the first time. There had been such a queer lookin this young man's eyes; she understood most looks, but not that one. 

Henshaw was treating the late interruption as if it had not been. "Yousee, Governor, the way we got the script now, they're in this tomb alonefor the night--understand what I mean--and that's where the kick comesfor the audience. They know he's a strong young fellow and she's abeautiful girl and absolutely in his power--see what I mean?--but he'sa gentleman through and through and never lays a hand on her. Get that?Then later along comes this Ben Ali Ahab--"

The Montague girl glanced again at the face of the strange young manwhose eyes had held a new expression for her, but she and Mr. Henshawand the so-called governor and all those other diners who rattled thickcrockery and talked unendingly had ceased to exist for Merton Gill. A dozen tables down the room and nearer the door sat none other thanBeulah Baxter. Alone at her table, she gazed raptly aloft, meditatingperhaps some daring new feat. Merton Gill stared, entranced, frozen. The Montague girl perfectly understood this look and traced it to itsobject. Then she surveyed Merton Gill again with something faintly likepity in her shrewd eyes. He was still staring, still rapt. 

Beulah Baxter ceased to look aloft. She daintily reached for a woodentoothpick from the bowl before her and arose to pay her check at thenear-by counter. Merton Gill arose at the same moment and stumbled ablind way through the intervening tables. When he reached the counterMiss Baxter was passing through the door. He was about to follow herwhen a cool but cynical voice from the counter said, "Hey, Bill--ain'tyou fergittin' somepin'. "

He looked for the check for his meal; it should have been in one hand orthe other. But it was in neither. He must have left it back on his tray. Now he must return for it. He went as quickly as he could. The Montaguegirl was holding it up as he approached. "Here's the little joker, Kid, "she said kindly. 

"Thanks!" said Merton. He said it haughtily, not meaning to be haughty, but he was embarrassed and also fearful that Beulah Baxter would belost. "Exit limping, " murmured the girl as he turned away. He hurriedagain to the door, paid the check and was outside. Miss Baxter was notto be seen. His forgetfulness about the check had lost her to him. Hehad meant to follow, to find the place where she was working, and lookand look and look! Now he had lost her. But she might be on one ofthose stages within the big barns. Perhaps the day was not yet lost. He crossed the street, forgetting to saunter, and ventured within thecavernous gloom beyond an open door. He stood for a moment, his visiondulled by the dusk. Presently he saw that he faced a wall of canvasbacking. Beyond this were low voices and the sound of people moving. Hewent forward to a break in the canvas wall and at the same moment therewas a metallic jar and light flooded the enclosure. From somewhereoutside came music, principally the low, leisurely moan of a 'cello. Abeautiful woman in evening dress was with suppressed emotion kneeling atthe bedside of a sleeping child. At the doorway stood a dark, handsomegentleman in evening dress, regarding her with a cynical smile. Thewoman seemed to bid the child farewell, and arose with hands to herbreast and quivering lips. The still-smiling gentleman awaited her. Whenshe came to him, glancing backward to the sleeping child, he threwabout her an elaborate fur cloak and drew her to him, his cynical smilechanging to one of deceitful tenderness. The woman still glanced back atthe child, but permitted herself to be drawn through the doorway bythe insistent gentleman. From a door the other side of the bed came akind-faced nurse. She looked first at the little one then advanced tostare after the departing couple. She raised her hands tragically andher face became set in a mask of sorrow and despair. She clasped thehands desperately. 

Merton Gill saw his nurse to be the Montague mother. "All right, " saidan authoritative voice. Mrs. Montague relaxed her features and withdrew, while an unkempt youth came to stand in front of the still-grindingcamera and held before it a placard on which were numbers. The camerastopped, the youth with the placard vanished. "Save it, " called anothervoice, and with another metallic jar the flood of light was turned off. The 'cello ceased its moan in the middle of a bar. 

The watcher recalled some of the girl's chat. Her mother had a characterbit in Her Other Husband. This would be it, one of those movingtragedies not unfamiliar to the screen enthusiast. The beautiful butmisguided wife had been saying good-by to her little one and was leavingher beautiful home at the solicitation of the false friend in eveningdress--forgetting all in one mad moment. The watcher was a tried expert, and like the trained faunal naturalist could determine a species fromthe shrewd examination of one bone of a photoplay. He knew that the wifehad been ignored by a husband who permitted his vast business intereststo engross his whole attention, leaving the wife to seek solace inquestionable quarters. He knew that the shocked but faithful nursewould presently discover the little one to be suffering from a dangerousfever; that a hastily summoned physician would shake his head anddeclare in legible words, "Naught but a mother's love can win that tinysoul back from the brink of Eternity. " The father would overhear this, and would see it all then: how his selfish absorption in Wall Street haddriven his wife to another. He would pursue her, would find her ere yetit was too late. He would discover that her better nature had alreadyprevailed and that she had started back without being sent for. Theywould kneel side by side, hand in hand, at the bedside of the littleone, who would recover and smile and prattle, and together they wouldface an untroubled future. 

This was all thrilling to Merton Gill; but Beulah Baxter was not here, her plays being clean and wholesome things of the great outdoors. Fardown the great enclosure was another wall of canvas backing, a flood oflight above it and animated voices from within. He stood again to watch. But this drama seemed to have been suspended. The room exposed was abedroom with an open window facing an open door; the actors and themechanical staff as well were busily hurling knives at various walls. They were earnest and absorbed in this curious pursuit. Sometimesthey made the knife penetrate the wall, oftener it merely struck andclattered to the floor. Five knives at once were being hurled by fiveenthusiasts, while a harried-looking director watched and criticised. 

"You're a clumsy bunch, " he announced at last. "It's a simple thing todo, isn't it?" The knife-throwers redoubled, their efforts, but they didnot find it a simple thing to do. 

"Let me try it, Mr. Burke. " It was the Montague girl still in her gipsycostume. She had been standing quietly in the shadow observing theineffective practice. 

"Hello, Flips! Sure, you can try it. Show these boys something good, now. Here, Al, give Miss Montague that stickeree of yours. " Al seemedglad to relinquish the weapon. Miss Montague hefted it, and lookeddoubtful. 

"It ain't balanced right, " she declared. "Haven't you got one with aheavier handle?"

"Fair enough, " said the director. "Hey, Pickles, let her try that oneyou got. " Pickles, too, was not unwilling to oblige. 

"That's better, " said the girl. "It's balanced right. " Taking the bladeby its point between thumb and forefinger she sent it with a quick flickof the wrist into the wall a dozen feet away. It hung there quivering. 

"There! That's what we want. It's got to be quivering when Jack shootsat Ramon who threw it at him as he leaps through the window. Try itagain, Flips. " The girl obliged and bowed impressively to the applause. 

"Now come here and try it through the doorway. " He led her around theset. "Now stand here and see can you put it into the wall just to theright of the window. Good! Some little knife-thrower, I'll say. Now tryit once with Jack coming through. Get set, Jack. "

Jack made his way to the window through which he was to leap. He pausedthere to look in with some concern. "Say, Mr. Burke, will you pleasemake sure she understands? She isn't to let go of that thing until I'min and crouched down ready to shoot--understand what I mean? I don'twant to get nicked nor nothing. "

"All right, all right! She understands. "

Jack leaped through the window to a crouch, weapon in hand. The knifequivered in the wall above him as he shot. 

"Fine and dandy. Some class, I'll say. All right, Jack. Get back. We'llgun this little scene right here and now. All ready, Jack, all readyMiss Montague--camera!--one, two, three--come in, Jack. " Again the knifequivered in the wall above his head even while he crouched to shoot atthe treacherous Mexican who had thrown it. 

"Good work, Flips. Thanks a whole lot. We'll do as much for you sometime. "

"You're entirely welcome, Mr. Burke. No trouble to oblige. How youcoming?"

"Coming good. This thing's going to be a knockout. I bet it'll gross amillion. Nearly done, too, except for some chase stuff up in the hills. I'll do that next week. What you doing?"

"Oh, everything's jake with me. I'm over on Number Four--Toys ofDestiny--putting a little pep into the mob stuff. Laid out for twohours, waiting for something--I don't know what. "

Merton Gill passed on. He confessed now to a reluctant admiration forthe Montague girl. She could surely throw a knife. He must practise thathimself sometime. He might have stayed to see more of this drama but hewas afraid the girl would break out into more of her nonsense. He wasaware that she swept him with her eyes as he turned away but heevaded her glance. She was not a person, he thought, that one ought toencourage. 

He emerged from the great building and crossed an alley to another oflike size. Down toward its middle was the usual wall of canvas withhalf-a-dozen men about the opening at one corner. A curious whirringnoise came from within. He became an inconspicuous unit of the group andgazed in. The lights were on, revealing a long table elaborately setas for a banquet, but the guests who stood about gave him instantuneasiness. They were in the grossest caricatures of evening dress, bothmen and women, and they were not beautiful. The gowns of the womenwere grotesque and the men were lawless appearing, either as to hair orbeards or both. He divined the dreadful thing he was stumbling uponeven before he noted the sign in large letters on the back of a foldingchair: "Jeff Baird's Buckeye Comedies. " These were the buffoons who withtheir coarse pantomime, their heavy horse-play, did so much to debasea great art. There, even at his side, was the arch offender, none otherthan Jeff Baird himself, the man whose regrettable sense of so-calledhumour led him to make these low appeals to the witless. And even ashe looked the cross-eyed man entered the scene. Garbed in the weirdlymisfitting clothes of a waiter, holding aloft a loaded tray of dishes, he entered on roller skates, to halt before Baird with his uplifted trayat a precarious balance. 

"All right, that's better, " said Baird. "And, Gertie, listen: don'tthrow the chair in front of him. That's out. Now we'll have the entranceagain. You other boys on the rollers, there--" Three other basely comicwaiters on roller skates came to attention. 

"Follow him in and pile up on him when he makes the grand spill--seewhat I mean? Get your trays loaded now and get off. Now you otherpeople, take your seats. No, no, Annie, you're at the head, I told you. Tom, you're at the foot and start the rough-house when you get the trayin the neck. Now, all set. "

Merton Gill was about to leave this distressing scene but was held inspite of himself by the voice of a newcomer. 

"Hello, Jeff! Atta boy!"

He knew without turning that the Montague girl was again at his elbow. He wondered if she could be following him. 

"Hello, Flips! How's the kid?" The producer had turned cordially to her. "Just in time for the breakaway stuff. See how you like it. "

"What's the big idea?"

"Swell reception at the Maison de Glue, with the waiters on rollerskates in honour of rich Uncle Rollo Glue. The head waiter starts thefight by doing a fall with his tray. Tom gets the tray in the neck andsoaks the nearest man banquet goes flooey. Then we go into the chasestuff. "

"Which is Uncle Rollo?"

"That's him at the table, with the herbaceous border under his chin. "

"Is he in the fight?"

"I think so. I was going to rehearse it once more to see if I could geta better idea. Near as I can see now, everybody takes a crack at him. "

"Well, maybe. " Montague girl seemed to be considering. "Say, how aboutthis, Jeff? He's awful hungry, see, and he's begun to eat the celery andeverything he can reach, and when the mix-up starts he just eats on andpays no attention to it. Never even looks up, see what I mean? The fightspreads the whole length of the table; right around Rollo half-a-dozenmurders are going on and he just eats and pays no attention. And he'sstill eating when they're all down and out, and don't know a thing tillCharlie or someone crowns him with the punch-bowl. How about it? Ain'tthere a laugh in that?" Baird had listened respectfully and now pattedthe girl on a shoulder. 

"Good work, Kid! That's a gag, all right. The little bean's sparkingon all six, ain't it? Drop around again. We need folks like you. Now, listen, Rollo--you there, Rollo, come here and get this. Now, listen--when the fight begins--"

Merton Gill turned decisively away. Such coarse foolery as this wastoo remote from Beulah Baxter who, somewhere on that lot, was doingsomething really, as her interview had put it, distinctive and worthwhile. 

He lingered only to hear the last of Baird's instructions to Rollo andthe absurd guests, finding some sinister fascination in the man's talk. Baird then turned to the girl, who had also started off. 

"Hang around, Flips. Why the rush?"

"Got to beat it over to Number Pour. "

"Got anything good there?"

"Nothing that will get me any billing. Been waiting two hours now justto look frenzied in a mob. "

"Well, say, come around and see me some time. "

"All right, Jeff. Of course I'm pretty busy. When I ain't working I'vegot to think about my art. "

"No, this is on the level. Listen, now, sister, I got another two reelerto pull off after this one, then I'm goin' to do something new, see? Gota big idea. Probably something for you in it. Drop in t' the office andtalk it over. Come in some time next week. 'F I ain't there I'll be onthe lot some place. Don't forget, now. "

Merton Gill, some distance from the Buckeye set, waited to note whatdirection the Montague girl would take. She broke away presently, glanced brazenly in his direction, and tripped lightly out the nearestexit. He went swiftly to one at the far end of the building, and wasagain in the exciting street. But the afternoon was drawing in and thestreet had lost much of its vivacity. It would surely be too late forany glimpse of his heroine. And his mind was already cluttered withimpressions from his day's adventure. He went out through the office, meaning to thank the casting director for the great favour she had shownhim, but she was gone. He hoped the headache had not driven her home. If she were to suffer again he hoped it would be some morning. He wouldhave the Eezo wafers in one pocket and a menthol pencil in the other. And she would again extend to him the freedom of that wonderful city. 

In his room that night he tried to smooth out the jumble in his dazedmind. Those people seemed to say so many things they considered funnybut that were not really funny to any one else. And moving-picture playswere always waiting for something, with the bored actors lounging aboutin idle apathy. Still in his ears sounded the drone of the sawmill andthe deep purr of the lights when they were put on. That was a funnything. When they wanted the lights on they said "Kick it, " and when theywanted the lights off they said "Save it!" And why did a boy come outafter every scene and hold up a placard with numbers on it before thecamera? That placard had never shown in any picture he had seen. Andthat queer Montague girl, always turning up when you thought you hadgot rid of her. Still, she had thrown that knife pretty well. You had togive her credit for that. But she couldn't be much of an actress, evenif she had spoken of acting with Miss Baxter, of climbing down cableswith her and falling off cliffs. Probably she was boasting, because hehad never seen any one but Miss Baxter do these things in her pictures. Probably she had some very minor part. Anyway, it was certain shecouldn't be much of an actress because she had almost promised to actin those terrible Buckeye comedies. And of course no one with any realambition or capacity could consider such a thing--descending to roughhorse-play for the amusement of the coarser element among screenpatrons. 

But there was one impression from the day's whirl that remained clearand radiant: He had looked at the veritable face of his heroine. Hebegan his letter to Tessie Kearns. "At last I have seen Miss Baxter faceto face. There was no doubt about its being her. You would have knownher at once. And how beautiful she is! She was looking up and seemedinspired, probably thinking about her part. She reminded me of thatbeautiful picture of St. Cecelia playing on the piano.... "

CHAPTER VI. UNDER THE GLASS TOPS

He approached the office of the Holden studios the following morningwith a new air of assurance. Formerly the mere approach had beenan adventure; the look through the gate, the quick glimpse of theprivileged ones who entered, the mingling, later, with the hopeful andthe near-hopeless ones who waited. But now his feeling was that he had, somehow, become a part of that higher life beyond the gate. He mightlinger outside at odd moments, but rightfully he belonged inside. Hisnovitiate had passed. He was one of those who threw knives or battledat the sawmill with the persecuter of golden-haired innocence, or luredbeautiful women from their homes. He might be taken, he thought, for anactor resting between pictures. 

At the gate he suffered a momentary regret at an error of tacticscommitted the evening before. Instead of leaving the lot by the officehe should have left by the gate. He should have strolled to this exit ina leisurely manner and stopped, just inside the barrier, for a chat withthe watchman; a chat, beginning with the gift of a cigar, which shouldhave impressed his appearance upon that person. He should have remarkedcasually that he had had a hard day on Stage Number Four, and must nowbe off to a good night's rest because of the equally hard day to-morrow. Thus he could now have approached the gate with confidence and passedfreely in, with a few more pleasant words to the watchman who would haveno difficulty in recalling him. 

But it was vain to wish this. For all the watchman knew this young manhad never been beyond the walls of the forbidden city, nor would he knowany reason why the besieger should not forever be kept outside. He wouldfix that next time. 

He approached the window of the casting office with mingled emotions. Hedid not hope to find his friend again stricken with headache, but if itchanced that she did suffer he hoped to be the first to learn of it. Washe not fortified with the potent Eezo wafers, and a new menthol pencil, even with an additional remedy of tablets that the druggist hadstrongly recommended? It was, therefore, not with any actual, crudedisappointment that he learned of his friend's perfect well-being. Shesmiled pleasantly at him, the telephone receiver at one ear. "Nothingto-day, dear, " she said and put down the instrument. 

Yes, the headache was gone, vanquished by his remedies. She was fine, thank you. No, the headaches didn't come often. It might be weeks beforeshe had another attack. No, of course she couldn't be certain of this. And indeed she would be sure to let him know at the very first sign oftheir recurrence. 

He looked over his patient with real anxiety, a solicitude from thebottom of which he was somehow unable to expel the last trace of alingering hope that would have dismayed the little woman--not hope, exactly, but something almost like it which he would only translate tohimself as an earnest desire that he might be at hand when the dreadindisposition did attack her. Just now there could be no doubt that shewas free from pain. 

He thanked her profusely for her courtesy of the day before. He hadseen wonderful things. He had learned a lot. And he wanted to ask hersomething, assuring himself that he was alone in the waiting room. Itwas this: did she happen to know--was Miss Beulah Baxter married?

The little woman sighed in a tired manner. "Baxter married? Let me see. "She tapped her teeth with the end of a pencil, frowning into her vastknowledge of the people beyond the gate. "Now, let me think. " But thisappeared to be without result. "Oh, I really don't know; I forget. Isuppose so. Why not? She often is. "

He would have asked more questions, but the telephone rang and shelistened a long time, contributing a "yes, yes, " of understanding atbrief intervals. This talk ended, she briskly demanded a number andbegan to talk in her turn. Merton Gill saw that for the time he hadpassed from her life. She was calling an agency. She wanted people for adiplomatic reception in Washington. She must have a Bulgarian general, a Serbian diplomat, two French colonels, and a Belgian captain, all inuniform and all good types. She didn't want just anybody, but types thatwould stand out. Holden studios on Stage Number Two. Before noon, ifpossible. All right, then. Another bell rang, almost before she had hungup. "Hello, Grace. Nothing to-day, dear. They're out on location, downtoward Venice, getting some desert stuff. Yes, I'll let you know. "

Merton Gill had now to make way at the window for a youngish, weary-looking woman who had once been prettier, who led an elaboratelydressed little girl of five. She lifted the child to the window. "Saygood-morning to the beautiful lady, Toots. Good-morning, Countess. I'm sure you got something for Toots and me to-day because it's ourbirthday--both born on the same day--what do you think of that? Anylittle thing will help us out a lot--how about it?"

He went outside before the end of this colloquy, but presently saw thewoman and her child emerge and walk on disconsolately toward the nextstudio. Thus began another period of waiting from which much of theglamour had gone. It was not so easy now to be excited by those glimpsesof the street beyond the gate. A certain haze had vanished, leaving alltoo apparent the circumstance that others were working beyond the gatewhile Merton Gill loitered outside, his talent, his training, ignored. His early air of careless confidence had changed to one not at allcareless or confident. He was looking rather desperate and ratherunbelieving. And it daily grew easier to count his savings. He madeno mistakes now. His hoard no longer enjoyed the addition of fifteendollars a week. Only subtractions were made. 

There came a morning when but one bill remained. It was a ten-dollarbill, bearing at its centre a steel-engraved portrait of Andrew Jackson. He studied it in consternation, though still permitting himself tonotice that Jackson would have made a good motion-picture type--thelong, narrow, severe face, the stiff uncomprising mane of gray hair;probably they would have cast him for a feuding mountaineer, deadlywith his rifle, or perhaps as an inventor whose device was stolen on hisdeath-bed by his wicked Wall Street partner, thus leaving his motherlessdaughter at the mercy of Society's wolves. 

But this was not the part that Jackson played in the gripping drama ofMerton Gill. His face merely stared from the last money brought fromSimsbury, Illinois, and the stare was not reassuring. It seemed to saythat there was no other money in all the world. Decidedly things musttake a turn. Merton Gill had a quite definite feeling that he hadalready struggled and sacrificed enough to give the public somethingbetter and finer. It was time the public realized this. 

Still he waited, not even again reaching the heart of things, for hisfriend beyond the window had suffered no relapse. He came to resent acertain inconsequence in the woman. She might have had those headachesoftener. He had been led to suppose that she would, and now shecontinued to be weary but entirely well. 

More waiting and the ten-dollar bill went for a five and some silver. Hewas illogically not sorry to be rid of Andrew Jackson, who had lookedso tragically skeptical. The five-dollar bill was much more cheerful. Itbore the portrait of Benjamin Harrison, a smooth, cheerful face adornedwith whiskers that radiated success. They were little short of smugwith success. He would almost rather have had Benjamin Harrison on fivedollars than the grim-faced Jackson on ten. Still, facts were facts. Youcouldn't wait as long on five dollars as you could on ten. 

Then on the afternoon of a day that promised to end as other dayshad ended, a wave of animation swept through the waiting room and thecasting office. "Swell cabaret stuff" was the phrase that brought theapplicants to a lively swarm about the little window. Evening clothes, glad wraps, cigarette cases, vanity-boxes--the Victor people doingThe Blight of Broadway with Muriel Mercer--Stage Number Four at 8:30to-morrow morning. There seemed no limit to the people desired. MertonGill joined the throng about the window. Engagements were rapidly made, both through the window and over the telephone that was now ringingthose people who had so long been told that there was nothing to-day. He did not push ahead of the women as some of the other men did. He evenstood out of the line for the Montague girl who had suddenly appearedand who from the rear had been exclaiming: "Women and children first!"

"Thanks, old dear, " she acknowledged the courtesy and beamed through thewindow. "Hullo, Countess!" The woman nodded briefly. "All right, Flips;I was just going to telephone you. Henshaw wants you for some baby-vampstuff in the cabaret scene and in the gambling hell. Better wear thatsalmon-pink chiffon and the yellow curls. Eight-thirty, Stage Four. Goo'-by. "

"Thanks, Countess! Me for the jumping tintypes at the hour named. I'mglad enough to be doing even third business. How about Ma?"

"Sure! Tell her grand-dame stuff, chaperone or something, the graygeorgette and all her pearls and the cigarette case. "

"I'll tell her. She'll be glad there's something doing once more on theperpendicular stage. Goo'-by. "

She stepped aside with "You're next, brother!" Merton Gill acknowledgedthis with a haughty inclination of the head. He must not encourage thishoyden. He glanced expectantly through the little window. His friendheld a telephone receiver at her ear. She smiled wearily. "All right, son. You got evening clothes, haven't you? Of course, I remember now. Stage Four at 8:30. Goo'-by. "

"I want to thank you for this opportunity--" he began, but was pushedaside by an athletic young woman who spoke from under a broad hat. "Hullo, dearie! How about me and Ella?"

"Hullo, Maizie. All right. Stage Four, at 8:30, in your swellest eveningstuff. "

At the door the Montague girl called to an approaching group who seemedto have heard by wireless or occult means the report of new activity inthe casting office. "Hurry, you troupers. You can eat to-morrow night, maybe!" They hurried. She turned to Merton Gill. "Seems like old times, "she observed. 

"Does it?" he replied coldly. Would this chit never understand that hedisapproved of her trifling ways?

He went on, rejoicing that he had not been compelled to part, eventemporarily, with a first-class full-dress suit, hitherto worn only inthe privacy of Lowell Hardy's studio. It would have been awkward, hethought, if the demand for it had been much longer delayed. He wouldsurely have let that go before sacrificing his Buck Benson outfit. Hehad traversed the eucalyptus avenue in this ecstasy, and was on a busierthoroughfare. Before a motion-picture theatre he paused to study thebilling of Muriel Mercer in Hearts Aflame. The beauteous girl, inan alarming gown, was at the mercy of a fiend in evening dress whosehellish purpose was all too plainly read in his fevered eyes. The girlwrithed in his grasp. Doubtless he was demanding her hand in marriage. It was a tense bit. And to-morrow he would act with this petted idol ofthe screen. And under the direction of that Mr. Henshaw who seemed totake screen art with proper seriousness. He wondered if by any chanceMr. Henshaw would call upon him to do a quadruple transition, hate, fear, love, despair. He practised a few transitions as he went on topress his evening clothes in the Patterson kitchen, and to dream, thatnight, that he rode his good old pal, Pinto, into the gilded cabaret tocarry off Muriel Mercer, Broadway's pampered society pet, to the cleanlife out there in the open spaces where men are men. 

At eight the following morning he was made up in a large dressing roomby a grumbling extra who said that it was a dog's life plastering greasepaint over the maps of dubs. He was presently on Stage Four in theprescribed evening regalia for gentlemen. He found the cabaret set, a gilded haunt of pleasure with small tables set about an oblong ofdancing floor. Back of these on three sides were raised platforms withother tables, and above these discreet boxes, half masked by drapery, for the seclusion of more retiring merry-makers. The scene was desertedas yet, but presently he was joined by another early comer, a beautifulyoung woman of Spanish type with a thin face and eager, dark eyes. Hergown was glistening black set low about her polished shoulders, and shecarried a red rose. So exotic did she appear he was surprised when sheaddressed him in the purest English. 

"Say, listen here, old timer! Let's pick a good table right on the edgebefore the mob scene starts. Lemme see--" She glanced up and down therows of tables. "The cam'ras'll be back there, so we can set a littlecloser, but not too close, or we'll be moved over. How 'bout this here?Let's try it. " She sat, motioning him to the other chair. Even so earlyin his picture career did he detect that in facing this girl his backwould be to the camera. He hitched his chair about. 

"That's right, " said the girl, "I wasn't meaning to hog it. Say, we wasjust in time, wasn't we?"

Ladies and gentlemen in evening dress were already entering. They lookedinquiringly about and chose tables. Those next to the dancing spacewere quickly filled. Many of the ladies permitted costly wraps of fur orbrocade to spill across the backs of their chairs. Many of the gentlemenlighted cigarettes from gleaming metal cases. There was a livelyinterchange of talk. 

"We better light up, too, " said the dark girl. Merton Gill had neglectedcigarettes and confessed this with some embarrassment. The girlpresented an open case of gold attached to a chain pendent from hergirdle. They both smoked. On their table were small plates, two wineglasses half filled with a pale liquid, and small coffee-cups. Spiralsof smoke ascended over a finished repast. Of course if the part calledfor cigarettes you must smoke whether you had quit or not. 

The places back of the prized first row were now filling up with thelater comers. One of these, a masterful-looking man of middleage--he would surely be a wealthy club-man accustomed to commandtables--regarded the filled row around the dancing space with frankirritation, and paused significantly at Merton's side. He seemedabout to voice a demand, but the young actor glanced slowly up at him, achieving a superb transition--surprise, annoyance, and, as the invaderturned quickly away, pitying contempt. 

"Atta boy!" said his companion, who was, with the aid of a tinygold-backed mirror suspended with the cigarette case, heightening thecrimson of her full lips. 

Two cameras were now in view, and men were sighting through them. Mertonsaw Henshaw, plump but worried looking, scan the scene from the rear. Hegave hurried direction to an assistant who came down the line of tableswith a running glance at their occupants. He made changes. A couple hereand a couple there would be moved from the first row and other coupleswould come to take their places. Under the eyes of this assistant theSpanish girl had become coquettish. With veiled glances, with flashingsmiles from the red lips, with a small gloved hand upon Merton Gill'ssleeve, she allured him. The assistant paused before them. The Spanishgirl continued to allure. Merton Gill stared moodily at the half-emptywine glass, then exhaled smoke as he glanced up at his companion inprofound ennui. If it was The Blight of Broadway probably they wouldwant him to look bored. 

"You two stay where you are, " said the assistant, and passed on. 

"Good work, " said the girl. "I knew you was a type the minute I madeyou. "

Red-coated musicians entered an orchestra loft far down the set. Thevoice of Henshaw came through a megaphone: "Everybody that's nearthe floor fox-trot. " In a moment the space was thronged with dancers. Another voice called "Kick it!" and a glare of light came on. 

"You an' me both!" said the Spanish girl, rising. 

Merton Gill remained seated. "Can't, " he said. "Sprained ankle. " How washe to tell her that there had been no chance to learn this dance backin Simsbury, Illinois, where such things were frowned upon by pulpitand press? The girl resumed her seat, at first with annoyance, thenbrightened. "All right at that, " she said. "I bet we get more footagethis way. " She again became coquettish, luring with her wiles one whoremained sunk in ennui. 

A whistle blew, a voice called "Save it!" and the lights jarred off. Henshaw came trippingly down the line. "You people didn't dance. What'sthe matter?" Merton Gill glanced up, doing a double transition, fromdignified surprise to smiling chagrin. "Sprained ankle, " he said, andfell into the bored look that had served him with the assistant. Heexhaled smoke and raised his tired eyes to the still luring Spanishgirl. Weariness of the world and women was in his look. Henshaw scannedhim closely. 

"All right, stay there--keep just that way--it's what I want. " Hecontinued down the line, which had become hushed. "Now, people. Iwant some flashes along here, between dances--see what I mean? You'retalking, but you're bored with it all. The hollowness of this nightlife is getting you; not all of you--most of you girls can keep onsmiling--but The Blight of Broadway shows on many. You're beginning towonder if this is all life has to offer--see what I mean?" He continueddown the line. 

From the table back of Merton Gill came a voice in speech to theretreating back of Henshaw: "All right, old top, but it'll take a goodlens to catch any blight on this bunch--most of 'em haven't worked alick in six weeks, and they're tickled pink. " He knew without turningthat this was the Montague girl trying to be funny at the expenseof Henshaw who was safely beyond hearing. He thought she would be adisturbing element in the scene, but in this he was wrong, for hebent upon the wine glass a look more than ever fraught with jadedworld-weariness. The babble of Broadway was resumed as Henshaw went backto the cameras. 

Presently a camera was pushed forward. Merton Gill hardly dared look up, but he knew it was halted at no great distance from him. "Now, here'srather a good little bit, " Henshaw was saying. "You, there, the girl inblack, go on--tease him the way you were, and he's to give you that samelook. Got that cigarette going? All ready. Lights! Camera!" Mertonwas achieving his first close-up. Under the hum of the lights he wasthinking that he had been a fool not to learn dancing, no matter how theReverend Otto Carmichael denounced it as a survival from the barbaricCongo. He was also thinking that the Montague girl ought to be kept awayfrom people who were trying to do really creative things, and he wasbitterly regretting that he had no silver cigarette case. The gloom ofhis young face was honest gloom. He was aware that his companion leanedvivaciously toward him with gay chatter and gestures. Very slowly heinhaled from a cigarette that was already distasteful--adding no littleto the desired effect--and very slowly he exhaled as he raised to hersthe bored eyes of a soul quite disillusioned. Here, indeed, was theblight of Broadway. 

"All right, first rate!" called Henshaw. "Now get this bunch down here. "The camera was pushed on. 

"Gee, that was luck!" said the girl. "Of course it'll be cut to a flash, but I bet we stand out, at that. " She was excited now, no longer needingto act. 

From the table back of Merton came the voice of the Montague girl: "Yes, one must suffer for one's art. Here I got to be a baby-vamp when I'drather be simple little Madelon, beloved by all in the village. "

He restrained an impulse to look around at her. She was not serious andshould not be encouraged. Farther down the set Henshaw was beseechinga table of six revellers to give him a little hollow gayety. "You'resimply forcing yourselves to have a good time, " he was saying; "rememberthat. Your hearts aren't in it. You know this night life is a mockery. Still, you're playing the game. Now, two of you raise your glasses todrink. You at the end stand up and hold your glass aloft. The girl nextto you there, stand up by him and raise your face to his--turn sidewaysmore. That's it. Put your hand up to his shoulder. You're slightlylit, you know, and you're inviting him to kiss you over his glass. Youothers, you're drinking gay enough, but see if you can get over thatit's only half-hearted. You at the other end there--you're staring atyour wine glass, then you look slowly up at your partner but without anylife. You're feeling the blight, see? A chap down the line here just didit perfectly. All ready, now! Lights! Camera! You blonde girl, standup, face raised to him, hand up to his shoulder. You others, drinking, laughing. You at the end, look up slowly at the girl, look away--aboutthere--bored, weary of it all--cut! All right. Not so bad. Now this nextbunch, Paul. "

Merton Gill was beginning to loathe cigarettes. He wondered if Mr. Henshaw would mind if he didn't smoke so much, except, of course, in theclose-ups. His throat was dry and rough, his voice husky. His companionhad evidently played more smoking parts and seemed not to mind it. 

Henshaw was now opposite them across the dancing floor, warning hispeople to be gay but not too gay. The glamour of this night life must bea little dulled. 

"Now, Paul, get about three medium shots along here. There's a goodtable--get that bunch. And not quite so solemn, people; don't overdo it. You think you're having a good time, even if it does turn to ashes inyour mouth--now, ready; lights! Camera!"

"I like Western stuff better, " confided Merton to his companion. Sheconsidered this, though retaining her arch manner. "Well, I don't know. I done a Carmencita part in a dance-hall scene last month over to theBigart, and right in the mi'st of the fight I get a glass of somethin'all over my gown that practically rooned it. I guess I rather do thisrefined cabaret stuff--at least you ain't so li'ble to roon a gown. Still and all, after you been warmin' the extra bench for a month onecan't be choosy. Say, there's the princ'ples comin' on the set. "

He looked around. There, indeed, was the beautiful Muriel Mercer, radiant in an evening frock of silver. At the moment she was putting afew last touches to her perfect face from a make-up box held by a maid. Standing with her was another young woman, not nearly so beautiful, andthree men. Henshaw was instructing these. Presently he called throughhis megaphone: "You people are excited by the entrance of the famousVera Vanderpool and her friends. You stop drinking, break off your talk, stare at her--see what I mean?--she makes a sensation. Music, lights, camera!"

Down the set, escorted by a deferential head-waiter, came Muriel Merceron the arm of a middle-aged man who was elaborately garnished but whosethin dyed mustaches, partially bald head, and heavy eyes, proclaimed himto Merton Gill as one who meant the girl no good. They were followedby the girl who was not so beautiful and the other two men. These wereyoung chaps of pleasing exterior who made the progress laughingly. Thefive were seated at a table next the dancing space at the far end. Theychatted gayly as the older man ordered importantly from the head-waiter. Muriel Mercer tapped one of the younger men with her plumed fan and theydanced. Three other selected couples danced at the same time, thoughtaking care not to come between the star and the grinding camera. The older man leered at the star and nervously lighted a gold-tippedcigarette which he immediately discarded after one savage bite at it. It could be seen that Vera Vanderpool was the gayest of all that gaythrong. Upon her as yet had come no blight of Broadway, though sheshrank perceptibly when the partially bald one laid his hand on herslender wrist as she resumed her seat. Food and wine were brought. VeraVanderpool drank, with a pretty flourish of her glass. 

Now the two cameras were moved forward for close-ups. The older man wascaught leering at Vera. It would surely be seen that he was not one totrust. Vera was caught with the mad light of pleasure in her beautifuleyes. Henshaw was now speaking in low tones to the group, and presentlyVera Vanderpool did a transition. The mad light of pleasure died fromher eyes and the smile froze on her beautiful mouth. A look almost ofterror came into her eyes, followed by a pathetic lift of the upper lip. She stared intently above the camera. She was beholding some evil thingfar from that palace of revels. 

"Now they'll cut back to the tenement-house stuff they shot last week, "explained the Spanish girl. 

"Tenement house?" queried Merton. "But I thought the story would be thatshe falls in love with a man from the great wind-swept spaces out West, and goes out there to live a clean open life with him--that's the wayI thought it would be--out there where she could forget the blight ofBroadway. "

"No, Mercer never does Western stuff. I got a little girl friendworkin' with her and she told me about this story. Mercer gets intothis tenement house down on the east side, and she's a careless societybutterfly; but all at once she sees what a lot of sorrow there is inthis world when she sees these people in the tenement house, starving todeath, and sick kids and everything, and this little friend of mine doesan Italian girl with a baby and this old man here, he's a rich swelland prominent in Wall Street and belongs to all the clubs, but he's thefather of this girl's child, only Mercer don't know that yet. But shegets aroused in her better nature by the sight of all this trouble, andshe almost falls in love with another gentleman who devotes all histime to relieving the poor in these tenements--it was him who took herthere--but still she likes a good time as well as anybody, and she'sstickin' around Broadway and around this old guy who's pretty goodcompany in spite of his faults. But just now she got a shock atremembering the horrible sights she has seen; she can't get it outof her mind. And pretty soon she'll see this other gentleman that shenearly fell in love with, the one who hangs around these tenements doinggood--he'll be over at one of them tables and she'll leave her party andgo over to his table and say, 'Take me from this heartless Broadway toyour tenements where I can relieve their suffering, ' so she goes out andgets in a taxi with him, leaving the old guy with not a thing to dobut pay the check. Of course he's mad, and he follows her down tothe tenements where she's relieving the poor--just in a plain blackdress--and she finds out he's the real father of this little friend ofmine's child, and tells him to go back to Broadway while she has chosenthe better part and must live her life with these real people. Buthe sends her a note that's supposed to be from a poor woman dying ofsomething, to come and bring her some medicine, and she goes off aloneto this dive in another street, and it's the old guy himself who hassent the note, and he has her there in this cellar in his power. But theother gentleman has found the note and has follered her, and breaks inthe door and puts up a swell fight with the old guy and some toughs hehas hired, and gets her off safe and sound, and so they're married andlive the real life far away from the blight of Broadway. It's a swellstory, all right, but Mercer can't act it. This little friend of minecan act all around her. She'd be a star if only she was better lookin'. You bet Mercer don't allow any lookers on the same set with her. Do youmake that one at the table with her now? Just got looks enough toshow Mercer off. Mercer's swell-lookin', I'll give her that, but foractin'--say, all they need in a piece for her is just some stuff to goin between her close-ups. Don't make much difference what it is. Oh, look! There comes the dancers. It's Luzon and Mario. "

Merton Gill looked. These would be hired dancers to entertain thepleasure-mad throng, a young girl with vine leaves in her hair and adark young man of barbaric appearance. The girl was clad in a mere whispof a girdle and shining breast plates, while the man was arrayed chieflyin a coating of dark stain. They swirled over the dance floor to thebroken rhythm of the orchestra, now clinging, now apart, working toa climax in which the man poised with his partner perched upon oneshoulder. Through the megaphone came instructions to applaud the couple, and Broadway applauded--all but Merton Gill, who stared moodily intohis coffee cup or lifted bored eyes to the scene of revelry. He was notbored, but his various emotions combined to produce this effect veryplausibly. He was dismayed at this sudden revelation of art in the danceso near him. Imogene Pulver had once done an art dance back in Simsbury, at the cantata of Esther in the vestry of the Methodist church, andhad been not a little criticised for her daring; but Imogene had beenabundantly clad, and her gestures much more restrained. He was tryingnow to picture how Gashwiler would take a thing like this, or Mrs. Gashwiler, for that matter! One glimpse of those practically uncladbodies skipping and bounding there would probably throw them into apanic. They couldn't have sat it through. And here he was, right up infront of them, and not turning a hair. 

This reflection permitted something of the contemptuous to show in therandom glances with which he swept the dancers? He could not look atthem steadily, not when they were close, as they often were. Also, he loathed the cigarette he was smoking. The tolerant scorn for theGashwilers and his feeling for the cigarette brought him again intofavourable notice. He heard Henshaw, but did not look up. 

"Get another flash here, Paul. He's rather a good little bit. " Henshawnow stood beside him. "Hold that, " he said. "No, wait. " He spoke toMerton's companion. "You change seats a minute with Miss Montague, as ifyou'd got tired of him--see what I mean? Miss Montague--Miss Montague. "The Spanish girl arose, seeming not wholly pleased at this bit ofdirecting. The Montague girl came to the table. She was a blithesomesprite in a salmon-pink dancing frock. Her blonde curls fell low overone eye which she now cocked inquiringly at the director. 

"You're trying to liven him up, " explained Henshaw. "That'sall--baby-vamp him. He'll do the rest. He's quite a good little bit. "

The Montague girl flopped into the chair, leaned roguishly toward MertonGill, placed a small hand upon the sleeve of his coat and peered archlyat him through beaded lashes, one eye almost hidden by its thatch ofcurls. Merton Gill sunk low in his chair, cynically tapped the ash fromhis tenth cigarette into the coffee cup and raised bored eyes to hers. "That's it--shoot it, Paul, just a flash. "

The camera was being wheeled toward them. The Montague girl, with herhand still on his arm, continued her wheedling, though now she spoke. 

"Why, look who's here. Kid, I didn't know you in your stepping-outclothes. Say, listen, why do you always upstage me? I never done a thingto you, did I? Go on, now, give me the fishy eye again. How'd you aceyourself into this first row, anyway? Did you have to fight for it? Say, your friend'll be mad at me putting her out of here, won't she? Well, blame it on the gelatin master. I never suggested it. Say, you gotHenshaw going. He likes that blighted look of yours. "

He made no reply to this chatter. He must keep in the picture. He merelyfavoured her with a glance of fatigued indifference. The camera wasfocused. 

"All ready, you people. Do like I said, now. Lights, camera!"

Merton Gill drew upon his cigarette with the utmost disrelish, raisedthe cold eyes of a disillusioned man to the face of the leering Montaguegirl, turned aside from her with every sign of apathy, and wearilyexhaled the smoke. There seemed to be but this one pleasure left to him. 

"Cut!" said Henshaw, and somewhere lights jarred off. "Just stick therea bit, Miss Montague. We'll have a couple more shots when the dancingbegins. "

Merton resented this change. He preferred the other girl. She lured himbut not in so pronounced, so flagrant a manner. The blight of Broadwaybecame more apparent than ever upon his face. The girl's hand stillfluttered upon his sleeve as the music came and dancers shuffled bythem. 

"Say, you're the actin' kid, all right. " She was tapping the floorwith the heel of a satin slipper. He wished above all things that shewouldn't call him "Kid. " He meditated putting a little of Broadway'sblight upon her by saying in a dignified way that his real name wasClifford Armytage. Still, this might not blight her--you couldn't tellabout the girl. 

"You certainly are the actin'est kid on this set, I'll tell the lotthat. Of course these close-ups won't mean much, just about one second, or half that maybe. Or some hick in the cuttin' room may kill 'em dead. Come on, give me the fish-eye again. That's it. Say, I'm glad I didn'thave to smoke cigarettes in this scene. They wouldn't do for my type, standin' where the brook and river meet up. I hate a cigarette worse'nanything. You--I bet you'd give up food first. "

"I hate 'em, too, " he muttered grudgingly, glad to be able to say this, even though only to one whose attentions he meant to discourage. "If Ihave to smoke one more it'll finish me. "

"Now, ain't that the limit? Too bad, Kid!"

"I didn't even have any of my own. That Spanish girl gave me these. "

The Montague girl glanced over his shoulder at the young woman whoseplace she had usurped. "Spanish, eh? If she's Spanish I'm a Swede rightout of Switzerland. Any-way, I never could like to smoke. I started tolearn one summer when I was eight. Pa and Ma and I was out with a tentTom-show, me doing Little Eva, and between acts I had to put on pantsand come out and do a smoking song, all about a kid learning to smokehis first cigar and not doin' well with it, see? But they had to cut itout. Gosh, what us artists suffer at times! Pa had me try it a couple ofyears later when I was doin' Louise the blind girl in the Two Orphans, playin' thirty cents top. It was a good song, all right, with lots offunny gags. I'd 'a' been the laughing hit of the bill if I could 'a'learned not to swallow. We had to cut it out again after the secondnight. Talk about entering into your part. Me? I was too good. "

If the distant camera glanced this way it caught merely the persistentefforts of a beautiful debutante who had not yet felt the blight ofBroadway to melt the cynicism of one who suffered it more and moreacutely each moment. Her hand fluttered on his sleeve and her left eyecontinuously beguiled him from under the overhanging curl. As often ashe thought it desirable he put the bored glance upon her, though mostlyhe stared in dejection at the coffee cup or the empty wine glass. Hewas sorry that she had had that trouble with the cigar, but one who asLittle Eva or poor persecuted Louise, the blind girl, had to do a songand dance between the acts must surely come from a low plane of art. He was relieved when, at megaphoned directions, an elderly fop came towhirl her off in the dance. Her last speech was: "That poor Henshaw--thegelatin master'll have megaphone-lip by to-night. "

He was left alone at his table. He wondered if they might want aclose-up of him this way, uncompanioned, jaded, tired of it all, as ifhe would be saying: "There's always the river!" But nothing of this sorthappened. There was more dancing, more close-ups of Muriel Mercer beingstricken with her vision of tenement misery under the foul glare ofa middle-aged roue inflamed with wine. And there was a shot of Murielperceiving at last the blight of Broadway and going to a table at whichsat a pale, noble-looking young man with a high forehead, who presentlyled her out into the night to the real life of the worthy poor. Later the deserted admirer became again a roue inflamed with wine andsubmitted to a close-up that would depict his baffled rage. He clenchedhis hands in this and seemed to convey, with a snarling lift of his lip, that the girl would yet be his. Merton Gill had ceased to smoke. Hehad sounded on Broadway even the shallow pleasure of cigarettes. He wasthoroughly blighted. 

At last a megaphoned announcement from the assistant director dismissingthe extras, keeping the star, the lead, and a few small-part people, toclean up medium shots, "dramatics, " and other work requiring no crowd. "All you extra people here to-morrow morning, eight-thirty, same clothesand make-up. " There was a quick breaking up of the revelry. The Broadwaypleasure-seekers threw off the blight and stormed the assistant directorfor slips of paper which he was now issuing. Merton Gill received one, labelled "Talent check. " There was fine print upon it which he tookno pains to read, beyond gathering its general effect that the VictorFilm-art Company had the full right to use any photographs of him thatits agents might that day have obtained. What engrossed him to theexclusion of this legal formality was the item that he would now be paidseven dollars and fifty cents for his day's work--and once he had beenforced to toil half a week for this sum! Emerging from the stage intothe sunlight he encountered the Montague girl who hailed him as he wouldhave turned to avoid her. 

"Say, trouper, I thought I'd tell you in case you didn't know--we don'ttake our slips to that dame in that outside cafeteria any more. Shealways pinches off a quarter or may be four bits. They got it fixednow so the cash is always on tap in the office. I just thought I'd tellyou. "

"Thanks, " he said, still with the jaded air of the disillusioned. Hehad only the vaguest notion of her meaning, but her intention had beenkindly. "Thank you very much. "

"Oh, don't mention it. I just thought I'd tell you. " She glanced afterhim shrewdly. 

Nearing the office he observed a long line of Broadway revellers waitingto cash their slips. Its head was lost inside the building and ittrailed far outside. No longer was any blight to be perceived. The slipswere ready in hand. Instead of joining the line Merton decided uponluncheon. It was two o'clock, and though waiters with trays had beenabundant in the gilded cabaret, the best screen art had not seemed todemand a serving of actual food. Further, he would eat in the cafeteriain evening dress, his make-up still on, like a real actor. The othertime he had felt conspicuous because nothing had identified him with theordinary clientele of the place. 

The room was not crowded now. Only a table here and there held latecomers, and the choice of foods when he reached the serving counterat the back was limited. He permitted himself to complain of this in apractised manner, but made a selection and bore his tray to the centreof the room. He had chosen a table and was about to sit, when hedetected Henshaw farther down the room, and promptly took the one nexthim. It was probable that Henshaw would recall him and praise the workhe had done. But the director merely rolled unseeing eyes over him ashe seated himself, and continued his speech to the man Merton had beforeseen him with, the grizzled dark man with the stubby gray mustachewhom he called Governor. Merton wondered if he could be the governor ofCalifornia, but decided not. Perhaps an ex-governor. 

"She's working out well, " he was saying. "I consider it one of the bestcontinuities Belmore has done. Not a line of smut in it, but to make upfor that we'll have over thirty changes of costume. "

Merton Gill coughed violently, then stared moodily at his plate of bakedbeans. He hoped that this, at least, would recall him to Henshaw whomight fix an eye on him to say: "And, by the way, here is a young actorthat was of great help to me this morning. " But neither man even glancedup. Seemingly this young actor could choke to death without excitingtheir notice. He stared less moodily at the baked beans. Henshaw wouldnotice him sometime, and you couldn't do everything at once. 

The men had finished their luncheon and were smoking. The animatedHenshaw continued his talk. "And about that other thing we werediscussing, Governor, I want to go into that with you. I tell you if wecan do Robinson Crusoe, and do it right, a regular five-thousand-footprogram feature, the thing ought to gross a million. A good, clean, censor-proof picture--great kid show, run forever. Shipwreck stuff, loading the raft, island stuff, hut stuff, goats, finding the footprint, cannibals, the man Friday--can't you see it?"

The Governor seemed to see it. "Fine--that's so!" He stared above thedirector's head for the space of two inhalations from his cigarette, imbuing Merton Gill with gratitude that he need not smoke again thatday. "But say, look here, how about your love interest?"

Henshaw waved this aside with his own cigarette and began to make markson the back of an envelope. "Easy enough--Belmore can fix that up. Wetalked over one or two ways. How about having Friday's sister broughtover with him to this island? The cannibals are going to eat her, too. Then the cannibals run to their canoes when they hear the gun, just thesame as in the book. And Crusoe rescues the two. And when he cuts thegirl's bonds he finds she can't be Friday's real sister, because she'swhite--see what I mean? Well, we work it out later that she's thedaughter of an English Earl that was wrecked near the cannibal island, and they rescued her, and Friday's mother brought her up as her ownchild. She's saved the papers that came ashore, and she has the Earl'scoat-of-arms tattooed on her shoulder blade, and finally, after Crusoehas fallen in love with her, and she's remembered a good deal of herpast, along comes the old Earl, her father, in a ship and rescues themall. How about that?" Henshaw, brightly expectant, awaited the verdictof his chief. 

"Well--I don't know. " The other considered. "Where's your conflict, after the girl is saved from the savages? And Crusoe in the book wears along beard. How about that? He won't look like anything--sort of hairy, and that's all. "

Henshaw from the envelope on which he drew squares and oblongs appearedto gain fresh inspiration. He looked up with new light in his eyes. "Igot it--got the whole thing. Modernize it. This chap is a rich young NewYorker, cruising on his yacht, and he's wrecked on this island and getsa lot of stuff ashore and his valet is saved, too--say there's somegood comedy, see what I mean?--valet is one of these stiff English lads, never been wrecked on an island before and complains all the time aboutthe lack of conveniences. I can see a lot of good gags for him, havingto milk the goats, and getting scared of the other animals, and no placeto press his master's clothes--things like that, you know. Well, theyoung fellow explores the island and finds another party that's beenwrecked on the other side, and it's the girl and the man that got herfather into his power and got all of his estate and is going to makebeggars of them if the girl won't marry him, and she comes on theyoung fellow under some palms and they fall in love and fix it up todouble-cross the villain--Belmore can work it out from there. How aboutthat? And say, we can use a lot of trims from that South Sea piece wedid last year, all that yacht and island stuff--see what I mean?"

The other considered profoundly. "Yes, you got a story there, but itwon't be Robinson Crusoe, don't you see?"

Again Henshaw glanced up from his envelope with the light ofinspiration. "Well, how about this? Call it Robinson Crusoe, Junior!There you are. We get the value of the name and do the story the way wewant it, the young fellow being shaved every day by the valet, and hecan invite the other party over to dine with him and receive them inevening dress and everything. Can't you see it? If that story wouldn'tgross big then I don't know a story. And all easy stuff. We can use thetrims for the long shots, and use that inlet, toward the other endof Catalina for the hut and the beach; sure-fire stuff, Governor--andRobinson Crusoe, Junior is a cinch title. "

"Well, give Belmore as much dope as you've got, and see what he can workout. "

They arose and stood by the counter to pay their checks. 

"If you want to see the rushes of that stuff we shot this morning beover to the projection room at five, " said Henshaw as they went out. Neither had observed the rising young screen actor, Clifford Armytage, though he had coughed violently again as they left. He had coughed mostplausibly, moreover, because of the cigarettes. 

At the cashier's window, no longer obstructed, he received his money, another five-dollar bill adorned with the cheerfully prosperous face ofBenjamin Harrison and half that amount in silver coin. Then, althoughloath to do this, he went to the dressing room and removed his make-up. That grease paint had given him a world of confidence. 

At the casting office he stopped to tell his friend of the day's cameratriumph, how the director had seemed to single him out from a hundred orso revellers to portray facially the deadly effect of Broadway's nightlife. 

"Good work!" she applauded. "Before long you'll be having jobs oftener. And don't forget, you're called again to-morrow morning for thegambling-house scene. "

She was a funny woman; always afraid he would forget something he couldnot possibly forget. Once more in the Patterson kitchen he pressed hissuit and dreamt of new eminences in his chosen art. 

The following morning he was again the first to reach the long dressingroom, the first to be made up by the grumbling extra, the first to reachthe big stage. The cabaret of yesterday had overnight been transformedinto a palatial gambling hell. Along the sides of the room and at itscentre were tables equipped for strange games of chance which only hispicture knowledge enabled him to recognize. He might tarry at thesetables, he thought, but he must remember to look bored in the nearpresence of Henshaw. The Spanish girl of yesterday appeared and hegreeted her warmly. "I got some cigarettes this time, " he said, "so letme pay you back all those I smoked of yours yesterday. " Together theyfilled the golden case that hung from her girdle. 

"It's swell, all right, " said the girl, gazing about the vast room nowfilling with richly clad gamblers. 

"But I thought it was all over except the tenement-house scenes whereVera Vanderpool has gone to relieve the poor, " he said. 

The girl explained. "This scene comes before the one we did yesterday. It's where the rich old boy first sees Vera playing roulette, and sheloses a lot of money and is going to leave her string of pearls, buthe says it's a mere trifle and let him pay her gambling losses, so ina weak moment she does, and that's how he starts to get her into hispower. You'll see how it works out. Say, they spent some money on thisset, all right. "

It was indeed a rich set, as the girl had said. It seemed to Merton Gillthat it would be called on the screen "One of those Plague Spots thatEat like a Cancer at the Heart of New York. " He lighted a cigarette andleaned nonchalantly against a pillar to smile a tired little smile atthe pleasure-mad victims of this life who were now grouping around theroulette and faro tables. He must try for his jaded look. 

"Some swell shack!" The speaker was back of him, but he knew her for theMontague girl, and was instantly enabled to increase the blighted lookfor which he had been trying. "One natty little hovel, I'll tell theworld, " the girl continued. "Say, this puts it all over the GrandCentral station, don't it? Must be right smack at the corner of Broadwayand Fifth Avenue. Well, start the little ball rolling, so I can make akilling. " He turned his head slightly and saw her dance off to one ofthe roulette tables, accompanied by the middle-aged fop who had been hercompanion yesterday. 

Henshaw and his assistant now appeared and began grouping the playersat the various tables. Merton Gill remained leaning wearily against hismassive pillar, trying to appear blase under the chatter of the Spanishgirl. The groups were arranged to the liking of Henshaw, though onlyafter many trials. The roulette ball was twirled and the lively rattleof chips could be heard. Scanning his scene, he noted Merton and hiscompanion. 

"Oh, there you are, you two. Sister, you go and stand back of that crowdaround the faro table. Keep craning to look over their shoulders, andgive us your side view. I want to use this man alone. Here. " He ledMerton to a round table on which were a deck of cards and some neatlystacked chips. "Sit here, facing the camera. Keep one hand on the cards, sort of toying with 'em, see what I mean?"

He scattered the piled chips loosely about the table, and called to ablack waiter: "Here, George, put one of those wine glasses on his left. "

The wine glass was placed. "Now kind of slump down in your chair, likeyou saw the hollowness of it all--see what I mean?"

Merton Gill thought he saw. He exhaled smoke, toyed contemptuously withthe cards at his right hand and, with a gesture of repulsion, pushed thewine glass farther away. He saw the hollowness of it all. The spirit ofwine sang in his glass but to deaf ears. Chance could no longer enticehim. It might again have been suspected that cigarettes were ceasing toallure. 

"Good work! Keep it up, " said Henshaw and went back to his cameras. 

The lights jarred on; desperate gaming was filmed. "More life atthe roulette tables, " megaphoned Henshaw. "Crowd closer around thatleft-hand faro table. You're playing for big stakes. " The gaming becamemore feverish. The mad light of pleasure was in every eye, yet one feltthat the blight of Broadway was real. 

The camera was wheeled forward and Merton Gill joyously quit smokingwhile Henshaw secured flashes of various groups, chiefly of losers whowere seeing the hollowness of it all. He did not, however, disdain a bitof comedy. 

"Miss Montague. "

"Yes, Mr. Henshaw. " The Montague girl paused in the act of sprinklingchips over a roulette lay-out. 

"Your escort has lost all his chips and you've lost all he bought foryou--"

The girl and her escort passed to other players the chips before them, and waited. 

"Your escort takes out his wallet, shows it to you empty, and shrugs hisshoulders. You shrug, too, but turn your back on him, facing the camera, and take some bills out of your stocking--see what I mean? Give her somebills, someone. "

"Never mind, Mr. Henshaw; I already got some there. " The pantomime wasdone, the girl turned, stooped, withdrew flattened bills from one of thesalmon-pink stockings and flourished them at her escort who achieveda transition from gloom to joy. Merton Gill, observing this shamelessprocedure, plumbed the nether depths of disgust for Broadway's nightlife. 

The camera was now wheeled toward him and he wearily lighted anothercigarette. "Get a flash of this chap, " Henshaw was saying. The subjectleaned forward in his chair, gazing with cynical eyes at the feveredthrong. Wine, women, song, all had palled. Gambling had no charm--helooked with disrelish at the cigarette he had but just lighted. 

"All right, Paul, that's good. Now get that bunch over at the craptable. "

Merton Gill lost no time in relinquishing his cigarette. He dropped itinto the wine glass which became a symbol of Broadway's dead-sea fruit. Thereafter he smoked only when he was in the picture. He felt that hewas becoming screen wise. And Henshaw had remembered him. The cast ofThe Blight of Broadway might not be jewelled with his name, but his workwould stand out. He had given the best that was in him. 

He watched the entrance of Muriel Mercer, maddest of all the mad throng, accompanied by the two young men and the girl who was not so beautiful. He watched her lose steadily, and saw her string of pearls saved by theelderly scoundrel who had long watched the beautiful girl as only theWolf of Wall Street could watch one so fair. He saw her leave uponhis arm, perhaps for further unwholesome adventure along Broadway. Thelights were out, the revelry done. 

Merton Gill beyond a doubt preferred Western stuff, some heart-grippingtale of the open spaces, or perhaps of the frozen north, where he couldbe the hard-riding, straight-shooting, two-fisted wonder-man, and nothave to smoke so many cigarettes--only one now and then, which he wouldroll himself and toss away after a few puffs. Still, he had shown abovethe mob of extra people, he thought. Henshaw had noticed him. He wascoming on. 

The Montague girl hailed him as he left the set. "Hullo, old trouper. Icaught you actin' again to-day, right out before the white folks. Well, so far so good. But say, I'm glad all that roulette and stuff was forthe up-and-down stage and not on the level. I'd certainly have losteverything but my make-up. So long, Kid!" She danced off to join a groupof other women who were leaving. He felt a kindly pity for the child. There could be little future in this difficult art for one who took itso lightly; who talked so frankly to strangers without being introduced. 

At luncheon in the cafeteria he waited a long time in the hope ofencountering Henshaw, who would perhaps command his further servicesin the cause of creative screen art. He meant to be animated at thismeeting, to show the director that he could be something more than anactor who had probed the shams of Broadway. But he lingered in vain. Hethought Henshaw would perhaps be doing without food in order to work onthe scenario for Robinson Crusoe, Junior. 

He again stopped to thank his friend, the casting director, for securinghim his first chance. She accepted his thanks smilingly, and asked himto drop around often. "Mind, you don't forget our number, " she said. 

He was on the point of making her understand once for all that he wouldnot forget the number, that he would never forget Gashwiler's address, that he had been coming to this studio too often to forget its location. But someone engaged her at the window, so he was obliged to go onwithout enlightening the woman. She seemed to be curiously dense. 

CHAPTER VII. "NOTHING TO-DAY, DEAR!"

The savings had been opportunely replenished. In two days he hadaccumulated a sum for which, back in Simsbury, he would have had to toila week. Yet there was to be said in favour of the Simsbury position thatit steadily endured. Each week brought its fifteen dollars, pittancethough it might be, while the art of the silver screen was capriciousin its rewards, not to say jumpy. Never, for weeks at a stretch, hadGashwiler said with a tired smile, "Nothing to-day--sorry!" He mighthave been a grouch and given to unreasonable nagging, but with him therewas always a very definite something to-day which he would specify, in short words if the occasion seemed to demand. There was not only adefinite something every day but a definite if not considerable sum ofmoney to be paid over every Saturday night, and in the meantime threevery definite and quite satisfying meals to be freely partaken of atstated hours each day. 

The leisure enforced by truly creative screen art was often occupiednow with really moving pictures of Metta Judson placing practicable foodupon the Gashwiler table. This had been no table in a gilded Broadwayresort, holding empty coffee cups and half empty wine glasses, passedand repassed by apparently busy waiters with laden trays who neverleft anything of a practicable nature. Doubtless the set would not haveappealed to Henshaw. He would never have been moved to take close-ups, even for mere flashes, of those who ate this food. And yet, more andmore as the days went by, this old-time film would unreel itself beforethe eager eyes of Merton Gill. Often now it thrilled him as might havean installment of The Hazards of Hortense, for the food of his favouritepharmacy was beginning to pall and Metta Judson, though giving hershallow mind to base village gossip, was a good cook. She became theadored heroine of an apparently endless serial to be entitled TheHazards of Clifford Armytage, in which the hero had tragically little todo but sit upon a bench and wait while tempting repasts were served. 

Sometimes on the little bench around the eucalyptus tree he would runan entire five-thousand-foot program feature, beginning with the Sundaymidday dinner of roast chicken, and abounding in tense dramatic momentssuch as corned-beef and cabbage on Tuesday night, and corned-beef hashon Wednesday morning. He would pause to take superb closeups of these, the corned beef on its spreading platter hemmed about with boiledpotatoes and turnips and cabbage, and the corned beef hash with itsrichly browned surface. The thrilling climax would be the roast of beefon Saturday night, with close-ups taken in the very eye of the camera, of the mashed potatoes and the apple pie drenched with cream. And therewere close-ups of Metta Judson, who had never seriously contemplateda screen career, placing upon the table a tower of steaming hot cakes, while a platter of small sausages loomed eloquently in the foreground. 

With eyes closed he would run this film again and again, cutting here, rearranging sequences, adding trims from suddenly remembered meals ofthe dead past, devising more intimate close-ups, such as the oneof Metta withdrawing pies from the oven or smoothing hot chocolatecaressingly over the top of a giant cake, or broiling chops, or sayingin a large-lettered subtitle--artistically decorated with cookedfoods--"How about some hot coffee, Merton?"

He became an able producer of this drama. He devised a hundredsympathetic little touches that Henshaw would probably never havethought of. He used footage on a mere platter of steak that anotherdirector might have ignored utterly. He made it gripping--the supremeheart-interest drama of his season a big thing done in a big way, andyet censor-proof. Not even the white-souled censors of the great stateof Pennsylvania could have outlawed its realism, brutal though this wasin such great moments as when Gashwiler carved the roast beef. So ablewas his artistry that Merton's nostrils would sometimes betray him--hecould swear they caught rich aromas from that distant board. 

Not only had the fare purveyed by his favourite pharmacy put a blightupon him equal to Broadway's blight, but even of this tasteless stuff hemust be cautious in his buying. A sandwich, not too meaty at the centre, coffee tasting strangely of other things sold in a pharmacy, a segmentof pie fair--seeming on its surface, but lacking the punch, as he putit, of Metta Judson's pie, a standardized, factory-made, altogetherformal and perfunctory pie--these were the meagre items of hisaccustomed luncheon and dinner. 

He had abandoned breakfast, partly because it cost money and partlybecause a gentleman in eastern Ohio had recently celebrated his hundredand third birthday by reason, so he confided to the press, of havingalways breakfasted upon a glass of clear cold water. Probably ham andeggs or corned--beef hash would have cut him off at ninety, and waterfrom the tap in the Patterson kitchen was both clear and cold. It wasnot so much that he cared to live beyond ninety or so, but he wished tosurvive until things began to pick up on the Holden lot, and if this didbring him many more years, well and good. Further, if the woman in thecasting office persisted, as she had for ten days, in saying "Nothingyet" to inquiring screen artists, he might be compelled to intensify theregime of the Ohio centenarian. Perhaps a glass of clear cold water atnight, after a hearty midday meal of drug--store sandwiches and pie, would work new wonders. 

It seemed to be the present opinion of other waiters on the extra benchthat things were never going to pick up on the Holden lot nor on anyother lot. Strongly marked types, ready to add distinction to the screenof painted shadows, freely expressed a view that the motion-picturebusiness was on the rocks. Unaffected by the optimists who wrote inthe picture magazines, they saw no future for it. More than one of themthreatened to desert the industry and return to previous callings. Asthey were likely to put it, they were going to leave the pictures flatand go back to type-writing or selling standard art-works or waiting ontable or something where you could count on your little bit every week. 

Under the eucalyptus tree one morning Merton Gill, making someappetizing changes in the fifth reel of Eating at Gashwiler's, wasaccosted by a youngish woman whom he could not at first recall. She hadcome from the casting office and paused when she saw him. 

"Hello, I thought it was you, but I wasn't sure in them clothes. Howthey coming?"

He stared blankly, startled at the sudden transposition he had beencompelled to make, for the gleaming knife of Gashwiler, standing up tocarve, had just then hovered above the well-browned roast of beef. Thenhe placed the speaker by reason of her eyes. It was the Spanish girl, his companion of the gilded cabaret, later encountered in the palatialgambling hell that ate like a cancer at the heart of New York--probablyat the corner of Broadway and Fifth Avenue. 

He arose and shook hands cordially. He had supposed, when he thoughtof the girl at all, that she would always be rather Spanish, an exoticcreature rather garishly dressed, nervously eager, craving excitementsuch as may be had in cabarets on Broadway, with a marked inclinationfor the lighter life of pleasure. But she wore not so much as a rose inher smoothly combed hair. She was not only not excited but she wasnot exciting. She was plainly dressed in skirt and shirtwaist of nodistinction, her foot-gear was of the most ordinary, and well worn, andher face under a hat of no allure was without make-up, a commonplace, somewhat anxious face with lines about the eyes. But her voice as wellas her eyes helped him to recall her. 

She spoke with an effort at jauntiness after Merton had greeted her. "That's one great slogan, 'Business as Usual!' ain't it? Well, it'sbusiness as usual here, so I just found out from the Countess--as usual, rotten. I ain't had but three days since I seen you last. "

"I haven't had even one, " he told her. 

"No? Say, that's tough. You're registered with the Service Bureau, ain'tyou?"

"Well, I didn't do that, because they might send me any place, and Isort of wanted to work on this particular lot. " Instantly he saw himselfsaving Beulah Baxter, for the next installment, from a fate worse thandeath, but the one-time Spanish girl did not share this vision. 

"Oh, well, little I care where I work. I had two days at the Bigart in ahop-joint scene, and one over at the United doin' some board-walk stuff. I could 'a' had another day there, but the director said I wasn't justthe type for a chick bathing-suit. He was very nice about it. Of courseI know my legs ain't the best part of me--I sure ain't one of them likethe girl that says she's wasted in skirts. " She grinned ruefully. 

He felt that some expression of sympathy would be graceful here, yet hedivined that it must be very discreetly, almost delicately, worded. Hecould easily be too blunt. 

"I guess I'd be pretty skinny in a bathing-suit myself, right now. Iknow they won't be giving me any such part pretty soon if I have to cutdown on the meals the way I been doing. "

"Oh, of course I don't mean I'm actually skinny--"

He felt he had been blunt, after all. 

"Not to say skinny. " she went on, "but--well, you know--more likehome-folks, I guess. Anyway, I got no future as a bathing beauty--nonewhatever. And this walkin' around to the different lots ain't helpin'me any, either. Of course it ain't as if I couldn't go back to theinsurance office. Mr. Gropp, he's office manager, he was very nice aboutit. He says, 'I wish you all the luck in the world, girlie, and rememberyour job as filin' clerk will always be here for you. ' Wasn't thatgentlemanly of him? Still, I'd rather act than stand on my feet all dayfiling letters. I won't go back till I have to. "

"Me either, " said Merton Gill, struggling against the obsession ofSaturday-night dinner at Gashwiler's. 

Grimly he resumed his seat when the girl with a friendly "So long!" hadtrudged on. In spite of himself he found something base in his naturepicturing his return to the emporium and to the thrice-daily encounterwith Metta Judson's cookery. He let his lower instincts toy with theunworthy vision. Gashwiler would advance him the money to return, andthe job would be there. Probably Spencer Grant had before this tiredof the work and gone into insurance or some other line, and probablyGashwiler would be only too glad to have the wanderer back. He would getoff No. 3 just in time for breakfast. 

He brushed the monstrous scene from his eyes, shrugged it from hisshoulders. He would not give up. They had all struggled and sacrificed, and why should he shrink from the common ordeal? But he wished theSpanish girl hadn't talked about going back to her job. He regrettednot having stopped her with words of confident cheer that would havestiffened his own resolution. He could see her far down the street, onher way to the next lot, her narrow shoulders switching from light toshadow as she trudged under the line of eucalyptus trees. He hoped shewouldn't give up. No one should ever give up--least of all Merton Gill. 

The days wore wearily on. He began to feel on his own face the tiredlittle smile of the woman in the casting office as she would look upto shake her head, often from the telephone over which she was saying:"Nothing to-day, dear. Sorry!" She didn't exactly feel that themotion-picture business had gone on the rocks, but she knew it wasn'tpicking up as it should. And ever and again she would have Merton Gillassure her that he hadn't forgotten the home address, the town wherelived Gighampton or Gumwash or whoever it was that held the good old jobopen for him. He had divined that it was a jest of some sort when shewarned him not to forget the address and he would patiently smile atthis, but he always put her right about the name of Gashwiler. Of courseit was a name any one might forget, though the woman always seemed tomake the most earnest effort to remember it. 

Each day, after his brief chat with her in which he learned that therewould be nothing to-day, he would sit on the waiting-room bench or outunder the eucalyptus tree and consecrate himself anew to the art of theperpendicular screen. And each day, as the little hoard was diminishedby even those slender repasts at the drug store, he ran his film of theGashwiler dining room in action. 

From time to time he would see the Montague girl, alone or with hermother, entering the casting office or perhaps issuing from the guardedgate. He avoided her when possible. She persisted in behaving as if theyhad been properly introduced and had known each other a long time. Shewas too familiar, and her levity jarred upon his more serious mood. Sofar as he could see, the girl had no screen future, though doubtless shewas her own worst enemy. If someone had only taught her to be serious, her career might have been worth while. She had seemed not whollynegligible in the salmon-pink dancing frock, though of course the blondecurls had not been true. 

Then the days passed until eating merely at a drug-store lunch counterbecame not the only matter of concern. There was the item of room rent. Mrs. Patterson, the Los Angeles society woman, had, upon the occasionof their first interview, made it all too clear that the money, triflingthough it must seem for a well-furnished room with the privilegeof electric iron in the kitchen, must be paid each week in advance. Strictly in advance. Her eye had held a cold light as she dwelt uponthis. 

There had been times lately when, upon his tree bench, he would tryto dramatize Mrs. Patterson as a woman with a soft heart under thatpolished society exterior, chilled by daily contact with other societypeople at the Iowa or Kansas or other society picnics, yet ready to meltat the true human touch. But he had never quite succeeded in this bitof character work. Something told him that she was cold all through, asociety woman without a flaw in her armour. He could not make her seemto listen patiently while he explained that only one company was nowshooting on the lot, but that big things were expected to be on inanother week or so. A certain skeptic hardness was in her gaze as hevisioned it. 

He decided, indeed, that he could never bring himself even to attemptthis scene with the woman, so remote was he from seeing her eye softenand her voice warm with the assurance that a few weeks more or lessneed not matter. The room rent, he was confident, would have to be paidstrictly in advance so long as their relations continued. She was thekind who would insist upon this formality even after he began to play, at an enormous salary, a certain outstanding part in the Hazards ofHortense. The exigencies, even the adversities, of art would never makethe slightest appeal to this hardened soul. So much for that. And dailythe hoard waned. 

Yet his was not the only tragedy. In the waiting room, where he nowspent more of his time, he listened one day to the Montague girl chatthrough the window with the woman she called Countess. 

"Yeah, Pa was double-crossed over at the Bigart. He raised that lovelyset of whiskers for Camillia of the Cumberlands and what did he get forit?--just two weeks. Fact! What do you know about that? Hugo has himkilled off in the second spool with a squirrel rifle from ambush, and Pathinking he would draw pay for at least another three weeks. He kicked, but Hugo says the plot demanded it. I bet, at that, he was just tryingto cut down his salary list. I bet that continuity this minute shows Padrinking his corn out of a jug and playing a fiddle for the dance rightdown to the last scene. Don't artists get the razz, though. And thatHugo, he'd spend a week in the hot place to save a thin dime. Let metell you, Countess, don't you ever get your lemon in his squeezer. "

There were audible murmurs of sympathy from the Countess. 

"And so the old trouper had to start out Monday morning to peddlethe brush. Took him three days to land anything at all, and then it'snothing but a sleeping souse in a Western bar-room scene. In here now heis--something the Acme people are doing. He's had three days, just lyingdown with his back against a barrel sleeping. He's not to wake up evenwhen the fight starts, but sleep right on through it, which they saywill be a good gag. Well, maybe. But it's tough on his home. He gets allhis rest daytimes and keeps us restless all night making a new kind ofbeer and tending his still, and so on. You bet Ma and I, the minute he'sthrough with this piece, are going pronto to get that face of his asnaked as the day he was born. Pa's so temperamental--like that time hewas playing a Bishop and never touched a drop for five weeks, and in bedevery night at nine-thirty. Me? Oh, I'm having a bit of my own in thisAcme piece--God's Great Outdoors, I think it is--anyway, I'm to be alittle blonde hussy in the bar-room, sitting on the miners' knees andall like that, so they'll order more drinks. It certainly takes allkinds of art to make an artist. And next week I got some shipwreckstuff for Baxter, and me with bronchial pneumonia right this minute, andhating tank stuff, anyway. Well, Countess, don't take any counterfeitmoney. So long. "

She danced through a doorway and was gone--she was one who seldomdescended to plain walking. She would manage a dance step even in theshort distance from the casting--office door to the window. It wasnot of such material, Merton Gill was sure, that creative artists weremoulded. And there was no question now of his own utter seriousness. The situation hourly grew more desperate. For a week he had foregone thedrug-store pie, so that now he recalled it as very wonderful pie indeed, but he dared no longer indulge in this luxury. An occasional smallbag of candy and as much sugar as he could juggle into his coffee mustsatisfy his craving for sweets. Stoically he awaited the end--some end. The moving-picture business seemed to be still on the rocks, but thingsmust take a turn. 

He went over the talk of the Montague girl. Her father had perhaps beenunfairly treated, but at least he was working again. And there wereother actors who would go unshaven for even a sleeping part in thebar-room scene of God's Great Outdoors. Merton Gill knew one, andrubbed his shaven chin. He thought, too, of the girl's warning aboutcounterfeit money. He had not known that the casting director's dutiesrequired her to handle money, but probably he had overlooked this itemin her routine. And was counterfeit money about? He drew out his ownremaining bill and scrutinized it anxiously. It seemed to be genuine. He hoped it was, for Mrs. Patterson's sake, and was relieved when sheaccepted it without question that night. 

Later he tested the handful of silver that remained to him and prayedearnestly that an increase of prosperity be granted to producers of themotion picture. With the silver he eked out another barren week, only toface a day the evening of which must witness another fiscal transactionwith Mrs. Patterson. And there was no longer a bill for this heartlesssociety creature. He took a long look at the pleasant little room ashe left it that morning. The day must bring something but it might notbring him back that night. 

At the drug store he purchased a bowl of vegetable soup, loaded itheavily with catsup at intervals when the attendant had other matterson his mind, and seized an extra half--portion of crackers left ontheir plate by a satiated neighbour. He cared little for catsup, but itdoubtless bore nourishing elements, and nourishment was now important. He crumpled his paper napkin and laid upon the marble slab a triflingsilver coin. It was the last of his hoard. When he should eat next andunder what circumstances were now as uncertain as where he should sleepthat night, though he was already resolving that catsup would be no partof his meal. It might be well enough in its place, but he had abundantlyproved that it was not, strictly speaking, a food. 

He reached the Holden studios and loitered outside for half an hourbefore daring the daily inquiry at the window. Yet, when at last he didapproach it, his waning faith in prayer was renewed, for here in hisdirest hour was cheering news. It seemed even that his friend beyond thewindow had been impatient at his coming. 

"Just like you to be late when there's something doing!" she called tohim with friendly impatience. "Get over to the dressing rooms on thedouble-quick. It's the Victor people doing some Egyptian stuff--they'llgive you a costume. Hurry along!"

And he had lingered over a bowl of soggy crackers soaked, at the last, chiefly in catsup! He hurried, with a swift word of thanks. 

In the same dressing room where he had once been made up as a Broadwaypleasure seeker he now donned the flowing robe and burnoose of aBedouin, and by the same grumbling extra his face and hands were stainedthe rich brown of children of the desert. A dozen other men of the palerrace had undergone the same treatment. A sheik of great stature andnoble mien smoked an idle cigarette in the doorway. He was accoutredwith musket and with pistols in his belt. 

An assistant director presently herded the desert men down an alleybetween two of the big stages and to the beginning of the orientalstreet that Merton had noticed on his first day within the Holden walls. It was now peopled picturesquely with other Bedouins. Banners hung fromthe walls and veiled ladies peeped from the latticed balconies. A camelwas led excitingly through the crowded way, and donkeys and goats wereto be observed. It was a noisy street until a whistle sounded at thefarther end, then all was silence while the voice of Henshaw camethrough the megaphone. 

It appeared that long shots of the street were Henshaw's first need. Upand down it Merton Gill strolled in a negligent manner, stopping perhapsto haggle with the vendor who sold sweetmeats from a tray, or to chatwith a tribal brother fresh from the sandy wastes, or to purchase aglass of milk from the man with the goats. He secured a rose from theflower seller, and had the inspiration to toss it to one of the discreetbalconies above him, but as he stepped back to do this he was stopped bythe watchful assistant director who stood just inside a doorway. "Hey, Bill, none of that! Keep your head down, and pay no attention to thedames. It ain't done. "

He strolled on with the rose in his hand. Later, and much nearer theend of the street where the cameras were, he saw the sheik of noble mienhalt the flower seller, haggle for another rose, place this daintilybehind his left ear and stalk on, his musket held over one shoulder, hisother hand on a belted pistol. Merton disposed of his rose in the samemanner. He admired the sheik for his stature, his majestic carriage, his dark, handsome, yet sinister face with its brooding eyes. He thoughtthis man, at least, would be a true Arab, some real son of the desertwho had wandered afar. His manner was so much more authentic than thatof the extra people all about. 

A whistle blew and the street action was suspended. There was a longwait while cameras were moved up and groups formed under the directionof Henshaw and his assistant. A band of Bedouins were now to worshipin the porch of a mosque. Merton Gill was among these. The assistantdirector initiated them briefly into Moslem rites. Upon prayer rugs theybowed their foreheads to earth in the direction of Mecca. 

"What's the idea of this here?" demanded Merton Gill's neighbour inaggrieved tones. 

"Ssh!" cautioned Merton. "It's Mass or something like that. " And theybent in unison to this noon-tide devotion. 

When this was done Henshaw bustled into the group. "I want about a dozenor fifteen good types for the cafe, " he explained to his assistant. Merton Gill instinctively stood forward, and was presently among thoseselected. "You'll do, " said Henshaw, nodding. The director, of course, had not remembered that this was the actor he had distinguished in TheBlight of Broadway, yet he had again chosen him for eminence. It showed, Merton felt, that his conviction about the screen value of his face wasnot ill founded. 

The selected types were now herded into a dark, narrow, low-ceiled roomwith a divan effect along its three walls. A grizzled Arab made coffeeover a glowing brazier. Merton Gill sat cross-legged on the divan andbecame fearful that he would be asked to smoke the narghileh whichthe assistant director was now preparing. To one who balked at merecigarettes, it was an evil-appearing device. His neighbour who had beenpuzzled at prayer-time now hitched up his flowing robe to withdraw apaper of cigarettes from the pocket of a quite occidental garment. 

"Go on, smoke cigarettes, " said the assistant director. 

"Have one?" said Merton's neighbour, and he took one. It seemed youcouldn't get away from cigarettes on the screen. East and West werehere one. He lighted it, though smoking warily. The noble sheik, of undoubtedly Asiatic origin, came to the doorway overlooking theassistant director's work on the narghileh. A laden camel halted nearhim, sneered in an evil manner at the bystanders, and then, liftingan incredible length of upper lip, set his yellow teeth in the nearestshoulder. It was the shoulder of the noble sheik, who instantly rent theair with a plaintive cry: "For the love of Mike!--keep that man-eateroff'n me, can't you?"

His accent had not been that of the Arabian waste-land. Merton Gill wasdisappointed. So the fellow was only an actor, after all. If he had feltsympathy at all, it would now have been for the camel. The beastwas jerked back with profane words and the sheik, rubbing his bittenshoulder, entered the cafe, sitting cross-legged at the end of the divannearest the door. 

"All right, Bob. " The assistant director handed him the tube of thewater pipe, and the sheik smoked with every sign of enjoyment. MertonGill resolved never to play the part of an Arab sheik--at the mercy ofman-eating camels and having to smoke something that looked murderous. 

Under Henshaw's direction the grizzled proprietor now served tiny cupsof coffee to the sheik and his lesser patrons. Two of these playeddominoes, and one or two reclined as in sleep. Cameras were brought up. The interior being to his satisfaction, Henshaw rehearsed the entranceof a little band of European tourists. A beautiful girl in sports garb, a beautiful young man in khaki and puttees, a fine old British fatherwith gray side whiskers shaded by a sun-hat with a flowing veil twinedabout it. These people sat and were served coffee, staring in a touristmanner at their novel surroundings. The Bedouins, under stern command, ignored them, conversing among themselves over their coffee--all but thesheik. 

The sheik had been instantly struck by the fair young English girl. Hissinister eyes hung constantly upon her, shifting only when she regardedhim, furtively returning when she ceased. When they left the cafe, thesheik arose and placed himself partly in the girl's way. She pausedwhile his dark eyes caught and held hers. A long moment went before sheseemed able to free herself from the hypnotic tension he put upon her. Then he bowed low, and the girl with a nervous laugh passed him. 

It could be seen that the sheik meant her no good. He stepped to thedoor and looked after the group. There was evil purpose in his gaze. 

Merton Gill recalled something of Henshaw's words the first day he hadeaten at the cafeteria: "They find this deserted tomb just at nightfall, and he's alone there with the girl, and he could do anything, but thekick for the audience is that he's a gentleman and never lays a fingeron her. "

This would be the story. Probably the sheik would now arrange with theold gentleman in the sun-hat to guide the party over the desert, andwould betray them in order to get the beautiful girl into his power. Of course there would be a kick for the audience when the young fellowproved to be a gentleman in the deserted tomb for a whole night--anymoving-picture audience would expect him under these propitiouscircumstances to be quite otherwise, if the girl were as beautiful asthis one. But there would surely be a greater kick when the sheik foundthem in the tomb and bore the girl off on his camel, after a fightin which the gentleman was momentarily worsted. But the girl would berescued in time. And probably the piece would be called Desert Passion. 

He wished he could know the ending of the story. Indeed he sincerelywished he could work in it to the end, not alone because he was curiousabout the fate of the young girl in the bad sheik's power. Undoubtedlythe sheik would not prove to be a gentleman, but Merton would like towork to the end of the story because he had no place to sleep and butlittle assurance of wholesome food. Yet this, it appeared, was not tobe. Already word had run among the extra people. Those hired to-daywere to be used for to-day only. Tomorrow the desert drama would unfoldwithout them. 

Still, he had a day's pay coming. This time, though, it would be butfive dollars--his dress suit had not been needed. And five dollars wouldappease Mrs. Patterson for another week. Yet what would be the good ofsleeping if he had nothing to eat? He was hungry now. Thin soup, ever soplenteously spiced with catsup, was inadequate provender for a workingartist. He knew, even as he sat there cross-legged, an apparentlyself-supporting and care-free Bedouin, that this ensuing five dollarswould never be seen by Mrs. Patterson. 

There were a few more shots of the cafe's interior during which one ofthe inmates carefully permitted his half--consumed cigarette to goout. After that a few more shots of the lively street which, it was nowlearned, was a street in Cairo. Earnest efforts were made by the throngsin these scenes to give the murderous camel plenty of head room. Someclose-ups were taken of the European tourists while they bargained witha native merchant for hammered brassware and rare shawls. 

The bad sheik was caught near the group bending an evil glare upon thebeauteous English girl, and once the camera turned while she facedhim with a little shiver of apprehension. Later the sheik was caughtbargaining for a camel train with the innocent-looking old gentlemanin the sun-hat. Undoubtedly the sheik was about to lead them into thedesert for no good purpose. A dreadful fate seemed in store for thegirl, but she must be left to face it without the support of MertonGill. 

The lately hired extras were now dismissed. They trooped back tothe dressing room to doff their flowing robes and remove the Bedouinmake-up. Merton Gill went from the dressing room to the little windowthrough which he had received his robe and his slip was returned to himsigned by the assistant director. It had now become a paper of value, even to Mrs. Patterson; but she was never to know this, for its ownerwent down the street to another window and relinquished it for afive-dollar bill. 

The bill was adorned with a portrait of Benjamin Harrison smuglyradiating prosperity from every hair in his beard. He was clearly onewho had never gone hungry nor betrayed the confidence of a society womancounting upon her room rent strictly in advance. The portrait of thissuccessful man was borne swiftly to the cafeteria where its presentowner lavishly heaped a tray with excellent food and hastened with itto a table. He ate with but slight regard for his surroundings. BeulahBaxter herself might have occupied a neighbouring table without comingto his notice at once. He was very hungry. The catsup-laden soup hadproved to be little more than an appetizer. 

In his first ardour he forgot his plight. It was not until later in themeal that the accusing face of Mrs. Patterson came between him and thelast of his stew which he secured with blotters of bread. Even then heignored the woman. He had other things to think of. He had to think ofwhere he should sleep that night. But for once he had eaten enough; hisoptimism was again enthroned. 

Sleeping, after all, was not like eating. There were more ways to manageit. The law of sleep would in time enforce itself, while eating didnothing of the sort. You might sleep for nothing, but someone had tobe paid if you ate. He cheerfully paid eighty cents for his repast. Thecatsup as an appetizer had been ruinous. 

It was late in the afternoon when he left the cafeteria and the cheerfulactivities of the lot were drawing to a close. Extra people from thevarious stages were hurrying to the big dressing room, whence they wouldpresently stream, slips in hand, toward the cashier's window. Belatedprincipals came in from their work to resume their choice streetgarments and be driven off in choice motor cars. 

Merton Gill in deep thought traversed the street between the big stagesand the dressing rooms. Still in deep thought he retraced his steps, andat the front office turned off to the right on a road that led to thedeserted street of the Western town. His head bowed in thought he wentdown this silent thoroughfare, his footsteps echoing along the way linedby the closed shops. The Happy Days Saloon and Joe--Buy or Sell, thepool-room and the restaurant, alike slept for want of custom. He feltagain the eeriness of this desertion, and hurried on past the silentplaces. 

Emerging from the lower end of this street he came upon a log cabinwhere activity still survived. He joined the group before its door. Inside two cameras were recording some drama of the rude frontier. Overglowing coals in the stone fireplace a beautiful young girl preparedfood in a long-handled frying pan. At a table in the room's centre twobearded miners seemed to be appraising a buckskin pouch of nuggets, pouring them from hand to hand. A candle stuck in a bottle flickeredbeside them. They were honest, kindly faced miners, roughly dressed andheavily bearded, but it could be seen that they had hearts of gold. Thebeautiful young girl, who wore a simple dress of blue calico, and whosehair hung about her fair face in curls of a radiant buff, now servedthem food and poured steaming coffee from a large pot. 

The miners seemed loth to eat, being excited by the gold nuggets. Theymust have struck it rich that day, Merton Gill divined, and now withwealth untold they would be planning to send the girl East to school. They both patted her affectionately, keeping from her the great surprisethey had in store. 

The girl was arch with them, and prettily kissed each upon his baldhead. Merton at once saw that she would be the daughter of neither; shewould be their ward. And perhaps they weren't planning to send her toschool. Perhaps they were going to send her to fashionable relatives inthe East, where she would unwittingly become the rival of her beautifulbut cold-hearted cousin for the hand of a rich young stock-broker, andbe ill-treated and long for the old miners who would get word of itand buy some fine clothes from Joe--Buy or Sell, and go East to theconsternation of the rich relatives and see that their little mountainflower was treated right. 

As he identified this photo-play he studied the interior of the cabin, the rough table at which the three now ate, the makeshift chairs, therifle over the fireplace, the picks and shovels, the shelf along thewall with its crude dishes, the calico curtain screening off what wouldbe the dressing room of the little mountain flower. It was a home-likeroom, for all its roughness. Along one wall were two bunks, one abovethe other, well supplied with blankets. 

The director, after a final shot of one of the miners being scalded byhis coffee which he drank from a saucer, had said, "All right, boys!We'll have the fight first thing in the morning. "

Merton Gill passed on. He didn't quite know what the fight would beabout. Surely the two miners wouldn't fight. Perhaps another miner ofloose character would come along and try to jump their claim, or attemptsome dirty work with the little girl. Something like that. He carriedwith him the picture of the homey little ulterior, the fireplacewith its cooking utensils, the two bunks with their ample stockof blankets--the crude door closed with a wooden bar and a leatherlatch-string, which hung trustfully outside. 

In other circumstances--chiefly those in which Merton Gill had now beenthe prominent figure in the film world he meant one day to become--hewould on this night have undoubtedly won public attention for hismysterious disappearance. The modest room in the Patterson home, towhich for three months he had unfailingly come after the first pictureshow, on this night went untenanted. The guardian at the Holden gatewould have testified that he had not passed out that way, and the waythrough the offices had been closed at five, subsequent to which hourseveral witnesses could have sworn to seeing him still on the lot. 

In the ensuing search even the tank at the lower end of the lot mighthave been dragged--without result. 

Being little known to the public, however, and in the Patterson home itbeing supposed that you could never tell about motion-picture actors, his disappearance for the night caused absolutely no slightest ripple. Public attention as regarded the young man remained at a mirror-likecalm, unflawed by even the mildest curiosity. He had been seen, perhaps, though certainly not noted with any interest, to be one of the groupwatching a night scene in front of one of the Fifth Avenue mansions. 

Lights shone from the draped windows of this mansion and from itsportals issued none other than Muriel Mercer, who, as Vera Vanderpool, freed at last from the blight of Broadway, was leaving her palatial hometo cast her lot finally with the ardent young tenement worker with thehigh forehead. She descended the brown-stone steps, paused once to lookback upon the old home where she had been taught to love pleasure abovethe worth-while things of life, then came on to the waiting limousine, being greeted here by the young man with the earnest forehead who hadwon her to the better way. 

The missing youth might later have been observed, but probably was not, walking briskly in the chill night toward the gate that led to the outerworld. But he wheeled abruptly before reaching this gate, and walkedagain briskly, this time debouching from the main thoroughfare intothe black silence of the Western village. Here his pace slackened, andhalfway down the street he paused irresolutely. He was under the woodenporch of the Fashion Restaurant--Give our Tamales a Trial. He lingeredhere but a moment, however, then lurked on down the still thoroughfare, keeping well within the shadow of the low buildings. Just beyond thestreet was the log cabin of the big-hearted miners. A moment later hecould not have been observed even by the keenest eye. 

Nothing marked his disappearance, at least nothing that would have beennoted by the casual minded. He had simply gone. He was now no more thanthe long-vanished cowboys and sheriffs and gamblers and petty tradesmenwho had once peopled this street of silence and desolation. 

A night watchman came walking presently, flashing an electric torch fromside to side. He noticed nothing. He was, indeed, a rather imaginativeman, and he hoped he would not notice anything. He did not like comingdown this ghostly street, which his weak mind would persist in peoplingwith phantom crowds from long-played picture dramas. It gave him thecreeps, as he had more than once confessed. He hurried on, flashing historch along the blind fronts of the shops in a perfunctory manner. Hewas especially nervous when he came to corners. And he was glad when heissued from the little street into the wider one that was well lighted. 

How could he have been expected to notice a very trifling incongruousdetail as he passed the log cabin? Indeed many a keener-eyed andentirely valorous night watchman might have neglected to observe thatthe leathern latch-string of the cabin's closed door was no longerhanging outside. 

CHAPTER VIII. CLIFFORD ARMYTAGE, THE OUTLAW

Dawn brought the wide stretches of the Holden lot into gray relief. Itlightened the big yellow stages and crept down the narrow street of theWestern town where only the ghosts of dead plays stalked. It burnishedthe rich fronts of the Fifth Avenue mansions and in the next blockillumined the rough sides of a miner's cabin. 

With more difficulty it seeped through the blurred glass of the onewindow in this structure and lightened the shadows of its interior toa pale gray. The long-handled frying-pan rested on the hearth where thelittle girl had left it. The dishes of the overnight meal were still onthe table; the vacant chairs sprawled about it; and the rifle was in itsplace above the rude mantel; the picks and shovels awaited the toil of anew day. All seemed as it had been when the director had closed the doorupon it the previous night. 

But then the blankets in the lower bunk were seen to heave and to bethrust back from the pale face of Merton Gill. An elbow came into play, and the head was raised. A gaze still vague with sleep travelled aboutthe room in dull alarm. He was waking up in his little room at thePatterson house and he couldn't make it look right. He rubbed his eyesvigorously and pushed himself farther up. His mind resumed its brokenthreads. He was where he had meant to be from the moment he had spiedthe blankets in those bunks. 

In quicker alarm, now, he reached for his watch. Perhaps he had slepttoo late and would be discovered--arrested, jailed! He found his watchon the floor beside the bunk. Seven o'clock. He was safe. He could dressat leisure, and presently be an early-arriving actor on the Holden lot. He wondered how soon he could get food at the cafeteria. Sleeping inthis mountain cabin had cursed him with a ravenous appetite, as if hehad indeed been far off in the keen air of the North Woods. 

He crept from the warm blankets, and from under the straw mattress--inwhich one of the miners had hidden the pouch of nuggets--he took hisnewly pressed trousers. Upon a low bench across the room was a batteredtin wash--basin, a bucket of water brought by the little girl fromthe spring, and a bar of yellow soap. He made a quick toilet, and atseven-thirty, a good hour before the lot would wake up, he was dressedand at the door. 

It might be chancy, opening that door; so he peered through a narrowcrack at first, listening intently. He could hear nothing and no one wasin sight. He pushed the latch--string through its hole, then opened thedoor enough to emit his slender shape. 

A moment later, ten feet from the closed door, he stood at ease, scanning the log cabin as one who, passing by, had been attracted by itsquaint architecture. Then glancing in both directions to be again surethat he was unobserved, he walked away from his new home. 

He did not slink furtively. He took the middle of the street and therewas a bit of swagger to his gait. He felt rather set up about thisadventure. He reached what might have been called the lot's civic centreand cast a patronizing eye along the ends of the big stages and thelong, low dressing--room building across from them. Before the open doorof the warehouse he paused to watch a truck being loaded with handsomefurniture--a drawing room was evidently to be set on one of the stages. Rare rugs and beautiful chairs and tables were carefully brought out. He had rather a superintending air as he watched this process. He mighthave been taken for the owner of these costly things, watching to seethat no harm befell them. He strolled on when the truck had receivedits load. Such people as he had met were only artisans, carpenters, electricians, property-men. He faced them all confidently, with glancesof slightly amused tolerance. They were good men in their way but theywere not actors--not artists. 

In the neatly landscaped little green place back of the office buildinga climbing rose grew on a trellis. He plucked a pink bud, fixed it inhis lapel, and strolled down the street past the dressing rooms. Acrossfrom these the doors of the big stages were slid back, and inside hecould see that sets were being assembled. The truckload of furniturecame to one of these doors and he again watched it as the stuff wascarried inside. 

For all these workmen knew, he might presently be earning a princelysalary as he acted amid these beautiful objects, perhaps attending areception in a Fifth Avenue mansion where the father of a beautiful NewYork society girl would tell him that he must first make good before hecould aspire to her hand. And he would make good--out there in the greatopen spaces, where the girl would come to him after many adventures andwhere they would settle to an untroubled future in the West they bothloved. 

He had slept; he knew where--with luck--he could sleep again; and he hadmoney in his pocket for several more ample meals. At this moment hefelt equal to anything. No more than pleasantly aware of his hunger, sharpened by the walk in this keen morning air, he made a nonchalantprogress toward the cafeteria. Motor cars were now streaming through thegate, disgorging other actors--trim young men and beautiful young womenwho must hurry to the dressing rooms while he could sit at ease in afirst-class cafeteria and eat heavily of sustaining foods. Inside hechose from the restricted menu offered by the place at this early hourand ate in a leisurely, almost condescending manner. Half-a-dozen otherearly comers wolfed their food as if they feared to be late for work, but he suffered no such anxiety. He consumed the last morsel that histray held, drained his cup of coffee, and jingled the abundant silvercoin in his pocket. 

True, underneath it, as he plumed himself upon his adventure, was acertain pestering consciousness that all was not so well with him asobservers might guess. But he resolutely put this away each time itthreatened to overwhelm him. He would cross no bridge until he came toit. He even combated this undercurrent of sanity by wording part of aninterview with himself some day to appear in Photo Land:

"Clifford Armytage smiled that rare smile which his admirers have foundso winning on the silver screen--a smile reminiscent, tender, eloquentof adversities happily surmounted. 'Yes, ' he said frankly in the mellowtones that are his, 'I guess there were times when I almost gave upthe struggle. I recall one spell, not so many years ago, when I campedinformally on the Holden lot, sleeping where I could find a bed andstinting myself in food to eke out my little savings. Yet I look backupon that time'--he mischievously pulled the ears of the magnificentGreat Dane that lolled at his feet--'as one of the happiest in mycareer, because I always knew that my day would come. I had done only afew little bits, but they had stood out, and the directors had noticedme. Not once did I permit myself to become discouraged, and so I sayto your readers who may feel that they have in them the stuff for trulycreative screen art--'"

He said it, dreaming above the barren tray, said it as Harold Parmaleehad said it in a late interview extorted from him by Augusta Blivensfor the refreshment of his host of admirers who read Photo Land. He wasstill saying it as he paid his check at the counter, breaking off onlyto reflect that fifty-five cents was a good deal to be paying for foodso early in the day. For of course he must eat again before seekingshelter of the humble miner's cabin. 

It occurred to him that the blankets might be gone by nightfall. Hehoped they would have trouble with the fight scene. He hoped therewould be those annoying delays that so notoriously added to the cost ofproducing the screen drama--long waits, when no one seemed to know whatwas being waited for, and bored actors lounged about in apathy. Hehoped the fight would be a long fight. You needed blankets even in sunnyCalifornia. 

He went out to pass an enlivening day, fairly free of misgiving. Hefound an abundance of entertainment. On one stage he overlooked forhalf an hour a fragment of the desert drama which he had assisted theprevious day. A covered incline led duskily down to the deserted tomb inwhich the young man and the beautiful English girl were to take shelterfor the night. They would have eluded the bad sheik for a little while, and in the tomb the young man would show himself to be a gentleman bylaying not so much as a finger upon the defenceless girl. 

But this soon palled upon the watching connoisseur. The actualshots were few and separated by barren intervals of waiting for thatmysterious something which photoplays in production seemed to need. Being no longer identified with this drama he had lost much of hisconcern over the fate in store for the girl, though he knew she wouldemerge from the ordeal as pure as she was beautiful--a bit foolish atmoments, perhaps, but good. 

He found that he was especially interested in bedroom scenes. On StageFour a sumptuous bedroom, vacant for the moment, enchained him for along period of contemplation. The bed was of some rare wood ornatelycarved, with a silken canopy, spread with finest linen and quilts ofdown, its pillows opulent in their embroidered cases. The hide of apolar bear, its head mounted with open jaws, spread over the rich rugbeside the bed. He wondered about this interestingly. Probably the stagewould be locked at night. Still, at a suitable hour, he could descreetlyfind out. On another stage a bedroom likewise intrigued him, though thiswas a squalid room in a tenement and the bed was a cheap thing sparselycovered and in sad disorder. People were working on this set, and hepresently identified the play, for Muriel Mercer in a neat black dressentered to bring comfort to the tenement dwellers. But this play, too, had ceased to interest him. He knew that Vera Vanderpool had escaped theblight of Broadway to choose the worthwhile, the true, the vital thingsof life, and that was about all he now cared to know of the actual play. This tenement bed had become for him its outstanding dramatic value. Hesaw himself in it for a good night's rest, waking refreshed in plenty oftime to be dressed and out before the tenement people would need it. Hemust surely learn if the big sliding doors to these stages were lockedovernight. 

He loitered about the stages until late afternoon, with especialattention to sleeping apartments. In one gripping drama he felt cheated. The set showed the elaborately fitted establishment of a fashionablemodiste. Mannequins in wondrous gowns came through parted curtainsto parade before the shop's clientele, mostly composed of societybutterflies. One man hovered attentive about the most beautiful ofthese, and whispered entertainingly as she scanned the gowns submittedto her choice. He was a dissolute--looking man, although faultlesslyarrayed. His hair was thin, his eyes were cruel, and his face bespokeself-indulgence. 

The expert Merton Gill at once detected that the beautiful young womanhe whispered to would be one of those light--headed wives who caremore for fashionable dress than for the good name of their husbands. He foresaw that the creature would be trapped into the power of thisvillain by her love of finery, though he was sure that the end wouldfind her still a good woman. The mannequins finished their parade andthe throng of patrons broke up. The cameras were pushed to an adjoiningroom where the French proprietor of the place figured at a desk. Thedissolute pleasure-seeker came back to question him. His errant fancyhad been caught by one of the mannequins--the most beautiful of them, a blonde with a flowerlike face and a figure whose perfection had beenboldly attested by the gowns she had worn. The unprincipled proprietorat once demanded from a severe-faced forewoman that this girl be sentfor, after which he discreetly withdrew. The waiting scoundrel sat andcomplacently pinched the ends of his small dark mustache. It could beseen that he was one of those who believe that money will buy anything. 

The fair girl entered and was leeringly entreated to go out to dinnerwith him. It appeared that she never went out to dinner with any one, but spent her evenings with her mother who was very, very ill. Herunworthy admirer persisted. Then the telephone on the manager's deskcalled her. Her mother was getting worse. The beautiful face was nowsuffused with agony, but this did not deter the man from his loathsomeadvances. There was another telephone call. She must come at once if shewere to see her mother alive. The man seized her. They struggled. Allseemed lost, even the choice gown she still wore; but she broke away tobe told over the telephone that her mother had died. Even this sad newsmade no impression upon the wretch. He seemed to be a man of one idea. Again he seized her, and the maddened girl stabbed him with a pairof long gleaming shears that had lain on the manager's desk. He felllifeless at her feet, while the girl stared in horror at the weapon shestill grasped. 

Merton Gill would not have lingered for this. There were tedious waits, and scenes must be rehearsed again and again. Even the agony of the girlas she learned of her mother's passing must be done over and over atthe insistence of a director who seemed to know what a young girl shouldfeel at these moments. But Merton had watched from his place back of thelights with fresh interest from the moment it was known that the girl'spoor old mother was an invalid, for he had at first believed that themother's bedroom would be near by. He left promptly when it becameapparent that the mother's bedroom would not be seen in this drama. Theywould probably show the doctor at the other telephone urging the girlto hurry home, and show him again announcing that all was over, but theexpense of mother and her deathbed had been saved. He cared little forthe ending of this play. Already he was becoming a little callous to theplight of beautiful young girls threatened with the loss of that whichthey held most dear. 

Purposely all day he had avoided the neighbourhood of his humble miner'shome. He thought it as well that he should not be seen much aroundthere. He ate again at four o'clock, heartily and rather expensively, and loafed about the stages until six. Then he strolled leisurely downthe village street and out the lower end to where he could view thecabin. Work for the day was plainly over. The director and his assistantlingered before the open door in consultation. A property man and anelectrician were engaged inside, but a glance as he passed showed thatthe blankets were still in the bunks. He did not wait to see more, butpassed on with all evidences of disinterest in this lowly abode. 

He ascertained that night that the fight must have been had. The tablewas overturned, one of the chairs wrecked, and there were other signsof disorder. Probably it had been an excellent fight; probably theseprimitive men of the woods had battled desperately. But he gave littleconsideration to the combat, and again slept warmly under the blankets. Perhaps they would fight again to-morrow, or perhaps there would be lessviolent bits of the drama that would secure him another night of calmrepose. 

The following morning found him slightly disturbed by two unforeseenneeds arising from his novel situation. He looked carefully at hiscollar, wondering how many days he would be able to keep it lookinglike a fresh collar, and he regretted that he had not brought hissafety-razor to this new home. Still the collar was in excellent shapeas yet, and a scrutiny of his face in the cracked mirror hanging onthe log wall determined that he could go at least another day withoutshaving. His beard was of a light growth, gentle in texture, and hewas yet far from the plight of Mr. Montague. Eventually, to be sure, he would have to go to the barber shop on the lot and pay money to beshaved, which seemed a pity, because an actor could live indefinitelyunshaven but could live without food for the merest fragment of time. 

He resolved to be on the lookout that day for a barber-shop set. Hebelieved they were not common in the photodrama, still one might befound. 

He limited himself to the lightest of breakfasts. He had timidlyrefrained from counting his silver but he knew he must be frugal. Herejoiced at this economy until late afternoon when, because of it, hesimply had to eat a heavier dinner than he had expected to need. Therewas something so implacable about this demand for food. If you skimpedin the morning you must make amends at the next meal. He passed the timeas on the previous day, a somewhat blase actor resting between pictures, and condescending to beguile the tedium by overlooking the efforts ofhis professional brethren. He could find no set that included a barbershop, although they were beds on every hand. He hoped for another nightin the cabin, but if that were not to be, there was a bed easy ofaccess on Stage Three. When he had observed it, a ghastly old father wascoughing out his life under its blankets, nursed only by his daughter, a beautiful young creature who sewed by his bedside, and who woulddoubtless be thrown upon the world in the very next reel, though--Mertonwas glad to note--probably not until the next day. 

Yet there was no need for this couch of the tubercular father, foraction in the little cabin was still on. After making the unhappydiscovery in the cafeteria that his appetite could not be hoodwinked bythe clumsy subterfuge of calling coffee and rolls a breakfast some sixhours previously, he went boldly down to stand before his home. Bothminers were at work inside. The room had been placed in order again, though the little mountain flower was gone. A letter, he gathered, hadbeen received from her, and one of the miners was about to leave on along journey. 

Merton could not be sure, but he supposed that the letter from thelittle girl told that she was unhappy in her new surroundings, perhapsbeing ill-treated by the supercilious Eastern relatives. The miner whowas to remain helped the other to pack his belongings in a quaint oldcarpet sack, and together they undid a bundle which proved to containa splendid new suit. Not only this, but now came a scene of eloquentappeal to the watcher outside the door. The miner who was to remainexpressed stern disapproval of the departing miner's beard. It wouldnever do, he was seen to intimate, and when the other miner portrayedhelplessness a new package was unwrapped and a safety razor revealed tohis shocked gaze. 

At this sight Merton Gill felt himself growing too emotional for a merecareless bystander, and withdrew to a distance where he could regainbetter control of himself. When he left the miner to be shorn wasbetraying comic dismay while the other pantomimed the correct use ofthe implement his thoughtfulness had provided. When he returned afterhalf--an-hour's rather nervous walk up another street, the departingminer was clean shaven and one might note the new razor glittering onthe low bench beside the battered tin basin. 

They worked late in his home that night; trifling scenes were takenand retaken. The departing miner had to dress in his splendid butill-fitting new garments and to bid an affectionate farewell to hispartner, then had to dress in his old clothes again for some bit thathad been forgotten, only to don the new suit for close-ups. At anothertime Merton Gill might have resented this tediously drawn-out affairwhich was keeping him from his rest, for he had come to look upon thisstructure as one having rights in it after a certain hour, but a sightof the razor which had not been touched allayed any possible feeling ofirritation. 

It was nine-thirty before the big lights jarred finally off and thedirector said, "That's all, boys. " Then he turned to call, "Jimmie! Hey, Jimmie! Where's that prop-rustler gone to now?"

"Here, Mr. Burke, yes, sir. "

"We've finished the shack stuff. Let's see--" He looked at the watch onhis wrist--"That'll be all for tonight. Strike this first thing tomorrowmorning. "

"Yes, sir, " said Jimmie. The door was closed and the men walked away. Merton trailed them a bit, not remaining too pointedly near the cabin. He circled around through Fifth Avenue to regain the place. 

Softly he let himself in and groped through the dark until his handclosed upon the abandoned razor. Satisfying himself that fresh bladeshad accompanied it, he made ready for bed. He knew it was to be his lastnight in this shelter. The director had told Jimmie to strike it firstthing in the morning. The cabin would still be there, but it wouldcontain no homely furniture, no chairs, no table, no wash-basin, nosafety-razor and, most vital of lacks--it would be devoid of blankets. 

Yet this knowledge did not dismay him. He slept peacefully after prayingthat something good would happen to him. He put it that way very simply. He had placed himself, it seemed, where things could only happen to him. He was, he felt, beyond bringing them about. 

CHAPTER IX. MORE WAYS THAN ONE

Early he was up to bathe and shave. He shaved close to make it lastlonger, until his tender face reddened under the scraping. Probably hewould not find another cabin in which a miner would part with his beardfor an Eastern trip. Probably he would have to go to the barber the nexttime. He also succeeded, with soap and water, in removing a stain fromhis collar. It was still a decent collar; not immaculate, perhaps, butentirely possible. 

This day he took eggs with his breakfast, intending to wheedle hisappetite with a lighter second meal than it had demanded the day before. He must see if this would not average better on the day's overhead. 

After breakfast he was irresistibly drawn to view the moving picture ofhis old home being dismantled. He knew now that he might stand brazenlythere without possible criticism. He found Jimmy and a companionproperty-boy already busy. Much of the furniture was outside to becarted away. Jimmy, as Merton lolled idly in the doorway, emptied theblackened coffee pot into the ashes of the fireplace and then proceededto spoon into the same refuse heap half a kettle of beans upon whichthe honest miners had once feasted. The watcher deplored that he had notdone more than taste the beans when he had taken his final survey of theplace this morning. They had been good beans, but to do more than tastethem would have been stealing. Now he saw them thrown away and regrettedthat he could not have known what their fate was to be. There had beenenough of them to save him a day's expenses. 

He stood aside as the two boys brought out the cooking utensils, therifle, the miners' tools, to stow them in a waiting handcart. When theyhad loaded this vehicle they trundled it on up the narrow street of theWestern town. Yet they went only a little way, halting before one of thestreet's largest buildings. A sign above its wooden porch flaunted thename Crystal Palace Hotel. They unlocked its front door and took thethings from the cart inside. 

From the street the watcher could see them stowing these away. The roomappeared to contain a miscellaneous collection of articles needed in theruder sort of photodrama. Emptying their cart, they returned with itto the cabin for another load. Merton Gill stepped to the doorway andpeered in from apparently idle curiosity. He could see a row of saddleson wooden supports; there were kitchen stoves, lamps, painted chairs, and heavy earthenware dishes on shelves. His eyes wandered over thesearticles until they came to rest upon a pile of blankets at one side ofthe room. They were neatly folded, and they were many. 

Down before the cabin he could see the handcart being reloaded by Jimmieand his helper. Otherwise the street was empty. The young man at thedoorway stepped lightly in and regarded the windows on either side ofthe door. He sauntered to the street and appeared to be wondering whathe would examine next in this curious world. He passed Jimmie and theother boy returning with the last load from the cabin. He noted at thetop of the load the mattress on which he had lain for three nightsand the blankets that had warmed him. But he was proved not to be sohelpless as he had thought. Again he knew where a good night's restmight be had by one using ordinary discretion. 

Again that day, the fourth of his double life, he went the mad pace, awell-fed, carefree youth, sauntering idly from stage to stage, regardingnonchalantly the joys and griefs, the twistings of human destiny therevariously unfolded. Not only was he this to the casual public notice; tohimself he was this, at least consciously. True, in those nether regionsof the mind so lately discovered and now being so expertly probed byScience, in the mind's dark basement, so to say, a certain unlovelyfronted dragon of reality would issue from the gloom where it seemed tohave been lurking and force itself upon his notice. 

This would be at oddly contented moments when he least feared thefuture, when he was most successfully being to himself all that he mustseem to others. At such times when he leisurely walked a world of plentyand fruition, the dragon would half-emerge from its subconscious lairto chill him with its head composed entirely of repellent facts. Then astout effort would be required to send the thing back where it belonged, to those lower, decently hidden levels of the mind--life. 

And the dragon was cunning. From hour to hour, growing more restive, itemployed devices of craft and subtlety. As when Merton Gill, carefreeto the best of his knowledge, strolling lightly to another point ofinterest, graciously receptive to the pleasant life about him, wouldsuddenly discover that a part of his mind without superintendence hadfor some moments been composing a letter, something that ran in effect:

"Mr. Gashwiler, dear sir, I have made certain changes in my plans sinceI first came to sunny California and getting quite a little homesick forgood old Simsbury and I thought I would write you about taking back myold job in the emporium, and now about the money for the ticket back toSimsbury, the railroad fare is--"

He was truly amazed when he found this sort of thing going on inthat part of his mind he didn't watch. It was scandalous. He wouldindignantly snatch the half-finished letter and tear it up each time hefound it unaccountably under way. 

It was surely funny the way your mind would keep doing things you didn'twant it to do. As, again, this very morning when, with his silver coinout in his hand, he had merely wished to regard it as a great deal ofsilver coin, a store of plenty against famine, which indeed it lookedto be under a not-too-minute scrutiny. It looked like as much as twodollars and fifty cents, and he would have preferred to pocket it againwith this impression. Yet that rebellious other part of his mind hadbasely counted the coin even while he eyed it approvingly, and it hadpersisted in shouting aloud that it was not two dollars and fifty centsbut one dollar and eighty--five cents. 

The counting part of the mind made no comment on this discrepancy; itdid not say that this discovery put things in a very different light. Itmerely counted, registered the result, and ceased to function, with anair of saying that it would ascertain the facts without prejudice andyou could do what you liked about them. It didn't care. 

That night a solitary guest enjoyed the quiet hospitality of the CrystalPalace Hotel. He might have been seen--but was not--to effect a lateevening entrance to this snug inn by means of a front window which had, it would seem, at some earlier hour of the day, been unfastened fromwithin. Here a not-too-luxurious but sufficing bed was contrived on thefloor of the lobby from a pile of neatly folded blankets at hand, and asecond night's repose was enjoyed by the lonely patron, who again atan early hour of the morning, after thoughtfully refolding the blanketsthat had protected him, was at some pains to leave the place as he hadentered it without attracting public notice, perchance of unpleasantcharacter. 

On this day it would not have been possible for any part of the mindwhatsoever to misvalue the remaining treasure of silver coin. It hadbecome inconsiderable, and even if kept from view could be, and was, counted again and again by mere blind fingertips. They contracted, indeed, a senseless habit of confining themselves in a trouser's pocketto count the half-dollar, the quarter, and the two dimes long after thetotal was too well known to its owner. 

Nor did this total, unimpressive at best, long retain even these poordimensions. A visit to the cafeteria, in response to the imperiousdemands of a familiar organic process, resulted in less labour, by twodimes, for the stubbornly reiterative fingertips. 

An ensuing visit to the Holden lot barber, in obedience to socialdemands construed to be equally imperious with the physical, reduced allsubsequent counting, whether by fingertips or a glance of the eye, tobarest mechanical routine. A single half-dollar is easy to count. Still, on the following morning there were two coins to count. True, both weredimes. 

A diligent search among the miscellany of the Crystal Palace Hotel hadfailed to reveal a single razor. The razor used by the miner should inall reason have been found, but there was neither that nor any other. The baffled seeker believed there must have been crooked work somewhere. Without hesitation he found either Jimmie or his companion to be guiltyof malfeasance in office. But at least one item of more or less worrieddebate was eliminated. He need no longer weigh mere surface gentilityagainst the stern demands of an active metabolism. A shave cost aquarter. Twenty cents would not buy a shave, but it would buy at thecafeteria something more needful to any one but a fop. 

He saw himself in the days to come--if there were very many days tocome, of which he was now not too certain--descending to the unwholesomeartistic level of the elder Montague. He would, in short, be compelledto peddle the brush. And of course as yet it was nothing like abrush--nothing to kindle the eye of a director needing genuine brushes. In the early morning light he fingered a somewhat gaunt chin andwondered how long "they" would require to grow. Not yet could he betaken for one of those actors compelled by the rigorous exactions ofcreative screen art to let Nature have its course with his beard. Atpresent he merely needed a shave. 

And the collar had not improved with usage. Also, as the day wore on, coffee with one egg proved to have been not long-enduring fare forthis private in the army of the unemployed. Still, his morale was butslightly impaired. There were always ways, it seemed. And the laterhours of the hungry afternoon were rather pleasantly occupied indwelling upon one of them. 

The sole guest of the Crystal Palace Hotel entered the hostelry thatnight somewhat earlier than was usual; indeed at the very earliestmoment that foot traffic through the narrow street seemed to havediminished to a point where the entry could be effected withoutincurring the public notice which he at these moments so sincerelyshunned. After a brief interval inside the lobby he issued fromhis window with certain objects in hand, one of which dropped as heclambered out. The resulting clamour seemed to rouse far echoes alongthe dead street, and he hastily withdrew, with a smothered exclamationof dismay, about the nearest corner of the building until it could beascertained that echoes alone had been aroused. 

After a little breathless waiting he slunk down the street, keeping wellwithin friendly shadows, stepping softly, until he reached the humblecabin where so lately the honest miners had enacted their heart-tragedy. He jerked the latch-string of the door and was swiftly inside, groping away to the fireplace. Here he lighted matches, thoughtfully appropriatedthat morning from the cafeteria counter. He shielded the blaze with onehand while with the other he put to use the articles he had brought fromhis hotel. 

Into a tin cooking pot with a long handle he now hastily ladledwell-cooked beans from the discarded heap in the fireplace, by means ofan iron spoon. He was not too careful. More or less ashes accompaniedthe nutritious vegetables as the pot grew to be half full. That was athing to be corrected later, and at leisure. When the last bean hadbeen salvaged the flame of another match revealed an unsuspecteditem--a half-loaf of bread nestled in the ashes at the far corner of thefireplace. It lacked freshness; was, in truth, withered and firm to thetouch, but doubtless more wholesome than bread freshly baked. 

He was again on his humble cot in the seclusion of the Crystal PalaceHotel. Half-reclining, he ate at leisure. It being inadvisable to lightmatches here he ate chiefly by the touch system. There was a markedalkaline flavour to the repast, not unpleasantly counteracted by agrowth of vegetable mould of delicate lavender tints which Nature hadbeen decently spreading over the final reduction of this provender toits basic elements. But the time was not one in which to cavil aboutminor infelicities. Ashes wouldn't hurt any one if taken in moderation;you couldn't see the mould in a perfectly dark hotel; and the bread wasgood. 

The feast was prolonged until a late hour, but the finger--tips thathad accurately counted money in a dark pocket could ascertain in a darkhotel that a store of food still remained. He pulled the blankets abouthim and sank comfortably to rest. There was always some way. 

Breakfast the next morning began with the promise of only moderateenjoyment. Somehow in the gray light sifting through the windows thebeans did not look as good as they had tasted the night before, and theearly mouthfuls were less blithesome on the palate than the rememberedones of yesterday. He thought perhaps he was not so hungry as he hadbeen at his first encounter with them. He delicately removed a pocketof ashes from the centre, and tried again. They tasted better now. Themould of tender tints was again visible but he made no effort to avoidit. For his appetite had reawakened. He was truly hungry, and ate withan entire singleness of purpose. 

Toward the last of the meal his conscious self feebly prompted him toquit, to save against the inevitable hunger of the night. But the voicewas ignored. He was now clay to the moulding of the subconscious. Hecould have saved a few of the beans when reason was again enthroned, butthey were so very few that he fatuously thought them not worth saving. Might as well make a clean job of it. He restored the stewpan and spoonto their places and left his hotel. He was fed. To-day something elsewould have to happen. 

The plush hat cocked at a rakish angle, he walked abroad with somethingof the old confident swagger. Once he doubtfully fingered the sproutingbeard, but resolutely dismissed a half-formed notion of finding out howthe Holden lot barber would regard a proposition from a new patron toopen a charge account. If nothing worse than remaining unshaven wasgoing to happen to him, what cared he? The collar was still pretty good. Why let his beard be an incubus? He forgot it presently in noticing thatthe people arriving on the Holden lot all looked so extremely well fed. He thought it singular that he should never before have noticed how manywell-fed people one saw in a day. 

Late in the afternoon his explorations took him beyond the lower end ofhis little home street, and he was attracted by sounds of the picturedrama from a rude board structure labelled the High Gear Dance Hall. Heapproached and entered with that calm ease of manner which his days onthe lot had brought to a perfect bloom. No one now would eversuppose that he was a mere sightseer or chained to the Holden lot bycircumstances over which he had ceased to exert the slightest control. 

The interior of the High Gear Dance Hall presented nothing new to hisseasoned eye. It was the dance-hall made familiar by many a smashingfive-reel Western. The picture was, quite normally, waiting. Electricians were shoving about the big light standards, cameras werebeing moved, and bored actors were loafing informally at the roundtables or chatting in groups about the set. 

One actor alone was keeping in his part. A ragged, bearded, unkemptelderly man in red shirt and frayed overalls, a repellent fell hatpulled low over his brow, reclined on the floor at the end of the bar, his back against a barrel. Apparently he slept. A flash of remembrancefrom the Montague girl's talk identified this wretched creature. Thiswas what happened to an actor who had to peddle the brush. Perhaps fordays he had been compelled to sleep there in the interests of dance-hallatmosphere. 

He again scanned the group, for he remembered, too, that the Montaguegirl would also be working here in God's Great Outdoors. His eyespresently found her. She was indeed a blonde hussy, short-skirted, low-necked, pitifully rouged, depraved beyond redemption. She stoodat the end of the piano, and in company with another of the dance-hallgirls who played the accompaniment, she was singing a ballad the refrainof which he caught as "God calls them Angels in Heaven, we call themMothers here. "

The song ended, the Montague girl stepped to the centre of the room, looked aimlessly about her, then seized an innocent bystander, one ofthe rough characters frequenting this unsavoury resort, and did a dancewith him among the tables. Tiring of this, she flitted across the roomand addressed the bored director who impatiently awaited the changingof lights. She affected to consider him a reporter who had sought aninterview with her. She stood erect, facing him with one hand on a hip, the other patting and readjusting her blonde coiffure. 

"Really, " she began in a voice of pained dignity, "I am at a loss tounderstand why the public should be so interested in me. What can Isay to your readers--I who am so wholly absorbed in my art that I can'tthink of hardly anything else? Why will not the world let us alone? Holdon--don't go!"

She had here pretended that the reporter was taking her at her word. Sheseized him by a lapel to which she clung while with her other arm sheencircled a post, thus anchoring the supposed intruder into her privateaffairs. "As I was saying, " she resumed, "all this publicity is highlydistasteful to the artist, and yet since you have forced yourself inhere I may as well say a few little things about how good I am and howI got that way. Yes, I have nine motor cars, and I just bought a lacetablecloth for twelve hundred bones--"

She broke off inconsequently, poor victim of her constitutionalfrivolity. The director grinned after her as she danced away, thoughMerton Gill had considered her levity in the worst of taste. Then hereye caught him as he stood modestly back of the working electricians andshe danced forward again in his direction. He would have liked to evadeher but saw that he could not do this gracefully. 

She greeted him with an impudent grin. "Why, hello, trouper! As I live, the actin' Kid!" She held out a hand to him and he could not well refuseit. He would have preferred to "up-stage" her once more, as she hadphrased it in her low jargon, but he was cornered. Her grip of his handquite astonished him with its vigour. 

"Well, how's everything with you? Everything jake?" He tried for a showof easy confidence. "Oh, yes, yes, indeed, everything is. "

"Well, that's good, Kid. " But she was now without the grin, and wasrunning a practised eye over what might have been called his production. The hat was jaunty enough, truly a hat of the successful, but all belowthat, the not-too-fresh collar, the somewhat rumpled coat, the trouserscrying for an iron despite their nightly compression beneath theirslumbering owner, the shoes not too recently polished, and, more thanall, a certain hunted though still-defiant look in the young man's eyes, seemed to speak eloquently under the shrewd glance she bent on him. 

"Say, listen here, Old-timer, remember I been trouping man and boy forover forty year and it's hard to fool me--you working?"

He resented the persistent levity of manner, but was coerced by thevery apparent real kindness in her tone. "Well, " he looked about the setvaguely in his discomfort, "you see, right now I'm between pictures--youknow how it is. "

Again she searched his eyes and spoke in a lower tone: "Well, allright--but you needn't blush about it, Kid. " The blush she detectedbecame more flagrant. 

"Well, I--you see--" he began again, but he was saved from beingexplicit by the call of an assistant director. 

"Miss Montague. Miss Montague--where's that Flips girl--on the set, please. " She skipped lightly from him. When she returned a little laterto look for him he had gone. 

He went to bed that night when darkness had made this practicable, andunder his blankets whiled away a couple of wakeful hours by runningtensely dramatic films of breakfast, dinner, and supper at the Gashwilerhome. It seemed that you didn't fall asleep so quickly when you hadeaten nothing since early morning. Never had he achieved such perfectphotography as now of the Gashwiler corned-beef hash and light biscuits, the Gashwiler hot cakes and sausage, and never had Gashwiler soimpressively carved the Saturday night four-rib roast of tender beef. Gashwiler achieved a sensational triumph in the scene, being accordedall the close--ups that the most exacting of screen actors could wish. His knife-work was perfect. He held his audience enthralled by histechnique. 

Mrs. Gashwiler, too, had a small but telling part in the drama to-night;only a character bit, but one of those poignant bits that stand out inthe memory. The subtitle was, "Merton, won't you let me give you anotherpiece of the mince pie?" That was all, and yet, as screen artists say, it got over. There came very near to being not a dry eye in thehouse when the simple words were flashed beside an insert of thick, flaky-topped mince pies with quarters cut from them to reveal theirnoble interiors

Sleep came at last while he was regretting that lawless orgy of themorning. He needn't have cleaned up those beans in that silly way. He could have left a good half of them. He ran what might have beenconsidered a split-reel comedy of the stew-pan's bottom still coveredwith perfectly edible beans lightly protected with Nature's ownpastel-tinted shroud for perishing vegetable matter and diversified hereand there with casual small deposits of ashes. 

In the morning something good really did happen. As he folded hisblankets in the gray light a hard object rattled along the floor fromthem. He picked this up before he recognized it as a mutilated fragmentfrom the stale half--loaf of bread he had salvaged. He wondered how hecould have forgotten it, even in the plenitude of his banquet. There itwas, a mere nubbin of crust and so hard it might almost have been takenfor a petrified specimen of prehistoric bread. Yet it proved to berarely palatable. It's flavour was exquisite. It melted in the mouth. 

Somewhat refreshed by this modest cheer, he climbed from the window ofthe Crystal Palace with his mind busy on two tracks. While the letter toGashwiler composed itself, with especially clear directions about wherethe return money should be sent, he was also warning himself to remainthroughout the day at a safe distance from the door of the cafeteria. Hehad proved the wisdom of this even the day before that had started witha bounteous breakfast. To-day the aroma of cooked food occasionallywafted from the cafeteria door would prove, he was sure, to be more thanhe could bear. 

He rather shunned the stages to-day, keeping more to himself. Thecollar, he had to confess, was no longer, even to the casual eye, whata successful screen-actor's collar should be. The sprouting beardmight still be misconstrued as the whim of a director sanctifiedto realism--every day it was getting to look more like that--but nodirector would have commanded the wearing of such a collar except inactual work where it might have been a striking detail in the apparel ofan underworldling, one of those creatures who became the tools ofrich but unscrupulous roues who are bent upon the moral destruction ofbeautiful young screen heroines. He knew it was now that sort of collar. No use now in pretending that it had been worn yesterday for the firsttime. 

CHAPTER X. OF SHATTERED ILLUSIONS

The next morning he sat a long time in the genial sunlight watchingcarpenters finish a scaffolding beside the pool that had once floatedlogs to a sawmill. The scaffolding was a stout affair supporting animmense tank that would, evidently for some occult reason important toscreen art, hold a great deal of water. The sawmill was gone; at one endof the pool rode a small sail-boat with one mast, its canvas flappingidly in a gentle breeze. Its deck was littered with rigging upon whichtwo men worked. They seemed to be getting things shipshape for a cruise. 

When he had tired of this he started off toward the High Gear DanceHall. Something all day had been drawing him there against his will. Hehesitated to believe it was the Montague girl's kindly manner toward himthe day before, yet he could identify no other influence. Probably itwas that. Yet he didn't want to face her again, even if for a moment shehad quit trying to be funny, even if for a moment her eyes had searchedhis quite earnestly, her broad, amiable face glowing with that suddenfriendly concern. It had been hard to withstand this yesterday; he hadbeen in actual danger of confiding to her that engagements of late werenot plentiful--something like that. And it would be harder to-day. Eventhe collar would make it harder to resist the confidence that he was notat this time overwhelmed with offers for his art. 

He had for what seemed like an interminable stretch of time beensolitary and an outlaw. It was something to have been spoken to by ahuman being who expressed ever so fleeting an interest in his affairs, even by someone as inconsequent, as negligible in the world ofscreen artistry as this lightsome minx who, because of certain mentalinfirmities, could never hope for the least enviable eminence in aprofession demanding seriousness of purpose. Still it would be foolishto go again to the set where she was. She might think he was encouragingher. 

So he passed the High Gear, where a four-horse stage, watched by twocameras, was now releasing its passengers who all appeared to bedirect from New York, and walked on to an outdoor set that promisedentertainment. This was the narrow street of some quaint Europeanvillage, Scotch he soon saw from the dress of its people. A largeautomobile was invading this remote hamlet to the dismay of itsinhabitants. Rehearsed through a megaphone they scurried within doorsat its approach, ancient men hobbling on sticks and frantic mothersgrabbing their little ones from the path of the monster. Two trial tripshe saw the car make the length of the little street. 

At its lower end, brooding placidly, was an ancient horse ratherrecalling Dexter in his generously exposed bones and the jaded droop ofhis head above a low stone wall. Twice the car sped by him, arousing nosign of apprehension nor even of interest. He paid it not so much as thetribute of a raised eyelid. 

The car went back to the head of the street where its entrance would bemade. "All right--ready!" came the megaphoned order. Again the peacefulstreet was thrown into panic by this snorting dragon from the outerworld. The old men hobbled affrightedly within doors, the mothers savedtheir children. And this time, to the stupefaction of Merton Gill, even the old horse proved to be an actor of rare merits. As the carapproached he seemed to suffer a painful shock. He tossed his aged head, kicked viciously with his rear feet, stood absurdly aloft on them, thenturned and fled from the monster. As Merton mused upon the genius of thetrainer who had taught his horse not only to betray fright at a motorcar but to distinguish between rehearsals and the actual taking of ascene, he observed a man who emerged from a clump of near-by shrubbery. He carried a shotgun. This was broken at the breech and the man wasblowing smoke from the barrels as he came on. 

So that was it. The panic of the old horse had been but a simplereaction to a couple of charges of--perhaps rock--salt. Merton Gillhoped it had been nothing sterner. For the first time in his screencareer he became cynical about his art. A thing of shame, of machinery, of subterfuge. Nothing would be real, perhaps not even the art. 

It is probable that lack of food conduced to this disparaging outlook;and he recovered presently, for he had been smitten with a quick visionof Beulah Baxter in one of her most daring exploits. She, at least, was real. Deaf to entreaty, she honestly braved her hazards. It was acomforting thought after this late exposure of a sham. 

In this slightly combative mood he retraced his steps and found himselfoutside the High Gear Dance Hall, fortified for another possibleencounter with the inquiring and obviously sympathetic Montague girl. Heentered and saw that she was not on the set. The bar-room dance-hall wasfor the moment deserted of its ribald crew while an honest inhabitantof the open spaces on a balcony was holding a large revolver to theshrinking back of one of the New York men who had lately arrived by thestage. He forced this man, who was plainly not honest, to descend thestairs and to sign, at a table, a certain paper. Then, with weapon stillin hand, the honest Westerner forced the cowardly New Yorker in thedirection of the front door until they had passed out of the picture. 

On this the bored director of the day before called loudly, "Now, boys, in your places. You've heard a shot--you're running outside to seewhat's the matter. On your toes, now--try it once. " From rear doors camethe motley frequenters of the place, led by the elder Montague. 

They trooped to the front in two lines and passed from the picture. Herethey milled about, waiting for further orders. 

"Rotten!" called the director. "Rotten and then some. Listen. You camelike a lot of children marching out of a public school. Don't come inlines, break it up, push each other, fight to get ahead, and you'renoisy, too. You're shouting. You're saying, 'What's this? What's it allabout? What's the matter? Which way did he go?' Say anything you wantto, but keep shouting--anything at all. Say 'Thar's gold in them hills!'if you can't think of anything else. Go on, now, boys, do it again andpep it, see. Turn the juice on, open up the old mufflers. "

The men went back through the rear doors. The late caller would herehave left, being fed up with this sort of stuff, but at that moment hedescried the Montague girl back behind a light-standard. She had notnoted him, but was in close talk with a man he recognized as Jeff Baird, arch perpetrator of the infamous Buckeye comedies. They came toward him, still talking, as he looked. 

"We'll finish here to-morrow afternoon, anyway, " the girl was saying. 

"Fine, " said Baird. "That makes everything jake. Get over on the setwhenever you're through. Come over tonight if they don't shoot here, just to give us a look-in. "

"Can't, " said the girl. "Soon as I get out o' this dump I got to eat onthe lot and everything and be over to Baxter's layout--she'll be doingtank stuff till all hours--shipwreck and murder and all like that. Gosh, I hope it ain't cold. I don't mind the water, but I certainly hate toget out and wait in wet clothes while Sig Rosenblatt is thinking about aretake. "

"Well"--Baird turned to go--"take care of yourself--don't dive andforget to come up. Come over when you're ready. "

"Sure! S'long!" Here the girl, turning from Baird, noted Merton Gillbeside her. "Well, well, as I live, the actin' kid once more! Say, you're getting to be a regular studio hound, ain't you?"

For the moment he had forgotten his troubles. He was burning to ask herif Beulah Baxter would really work in a shipwreck scene that nightat the place where he had watched the carpenters and the men on thesailboat; but as he tried to word this he saw that the girl was againscanning him with keen eyes. He knew she would read the collar, thebeard, perhaps even a look of mere hunger that he thought must now beshowing. 

"Say, see here, Trouper, what's the shootin' all about, anyway? You upagainst it--yes. " There was again in her eye the look of warm concern, and she was no longer trying to be funny. He might now have admitteda few little things about his screen career, but again the directorinterrupted. 

"Miss Montague--where are you? Oh! Well, remember you're behind thepiano during that gun play just now, and you stay hid till after theboys get out. We'll shoot this time, so get set. "

She sped off, with a last backward glance of questioning. He waitedbut a moment before leaving. He was almost forgetting his hunger in thepretty certain knowledge that in a few hours he would actually beholdhis wonder-woman in at least one of her daring exploits. Shipwreck!Perhaps she would be all but drowned. He hastened back to the poolthat had now acquired this high significance. The carpenters were stillputtering about on the scaffold. He saw that platforms for the camerashad been built out from its side. 

He noted, too, and was puzzled by an aeroplane propeller that had beenstationed close to one corner of the pool, just beyond the stern ofthe little sailing-craft. Perhaps there would be an aeroplane wreck inaddition to a shipwreck. Now he had something besides food to think of. And he wondered what the Montague girl could be doing in the company ofa really serious artist like Beulah Baxter. From her own story shewas going to get wet, but from what he knew of her she would be somecharacter not greatly missed from the cast if she should, as Baird hadsuggested, dive and forget to come up. He supposed that Baird had meantthis to be humorous, the humour typical of a man who could profane agreat art with the atrocious Buckeye comedies, so called. 

He put in the hours until nightfall in aimless wandering and idlegazing, and was early at the pool-side where his heroine would do hersensational acting. It was now a scene of thrilling activity. Immenselights, both from the scaffolding and from a tower back of thesailing-craft, flooded its deck and rigging from time to time asadjustments were made. The rigging was slack and the deck was stilllittered, intentionally so, he now perceived. The gallant little boathad been cruelly buffeted by a gale. Two sailors in piratical dresscould be seen to emerge at intervals from the cabin. 

Suddenly the gale was on with terrific force, the sea rose in greatwaves, and the tiny ship rocked in a perilous manner. Great billowsof water swept its decks. Merton Gill stared in amazement at thesephenomena so dissonant with the quiet starlit night. Then he traced themwithout difficulty to their various sources. The gale issued from theswift revolutions of that aeroplane propeller he had noticed a whileago. The flooding billows were spilled from the big tank at the topof the scaffold and the boat rocked in obedience to the tugging of arope--tugged from the shore by a crew of helpers--that ran to the top ofits mast. Thus had the storm been produced. 

A spidery, youngish man from one of the platforms built out from thescaffold, now became sharply vocal through a megaphone to assistantswho were bending the elements to the need of this particular hazard ofHortense. He called directions to the men who tugged the rope, to themen in control of the lights, and to another who seemed to create thebillows. Among other items he wished more action for the boat and morewater for the billows. "See that your tank gets full-up this time, "he called, whereupon an engine under the scaffold, by means of a largerubber hose reaching into the pool, began to suck water into the tankabove. 

The speaker must be Miss Baxter's director, the enviable personage whosaw her safely through her perils. When one of the turning reflectorsillumined him Merton saw his face of a keen Semitic type. He seemed topossess not the most engaging personality; his manner was aggressive, he spoke rudely to his doubtless conscientious employees, he dancedin little rages of temper, and altogether he was not one with whom thewatcher would have cared to come in contact. He wondered, indeed, thatso puissant a star as Beulah Baxter should not be able to choose her owndirector, for surely the presence of this unlovely, waspishly temperedbeing could be nothing but an irritant in the daily life of thewonder-woman. Perhaps she had tolerated him merely for one picture. Perhaps he was especially good in shipwrecks. 

If Merton Gill were in this company he would surely have words with thisperson, director or no director. He hastily wrote a one-reel scenario inwhich the man so far forgot himself as to speak sharply to the star, andin which a certain young actor, a new member of the company, resentedthe ungentlemanly words by pitching the offender into a convenient pooland earned even more than gratitude from the starry-eyed wonder-woman. 

The objectionable man continued active, profuse of gesture andloud through the megaphone. Once more the storm. The boat rockedthreateningly, the wind roared through its slack rigging, and giantbillows swept the frail craft. Light as from a half-clouded moon brokethrough the mist that issued from a steam pipe. There was another lull, and the Semitic type on the platform became increasingly offensive. Merton saw himself saying, "Allow me, Miss Baxter, to relieve you ofthe presence of this bounder. " The man was impossible. Constantly he hadsearched the scene for his heroine. She would probably not appear untilthey were ready to shoot, and this seemed not to be at once if therising temper of the director could be thought an indication. 

The big hose again drew water from the pool to the tank, whence, at asudden release, it would issue in billows. The big lights at last seemedto be adjusted to the director's whim. The aeroplane propeller whirredand the gale was found acceptable. The men at the rope tugged the boatinto grave danger. The moon lighted the mist that overhung the scene. 

Then at last Merton started, peering eagerly forward across the lengthof the pool. At the far end, half illumined by the big lights, stoodthe familiar figure of his wonder--woman, the slim little girl with thewistful eyes. Plainly he could see her now as the mist lifted. She waschatting with one of the pirates who had stepped ashore from the boat. The wonderful golden hair shone resplendent under the glancing rays ofthe arcs. A cloak was about her shoulders, but at a word of command fromthe director she threw it off and stepped to the boat's deck. She wasdressed in a short skirt, her trim feet and ankles lightly shod andsilken clad. The sole maritime touch in her garb was a figured kerchiefat her throat similar to those worn by the piratical crew. 

"All ready, Hortense--all ready Jose and Gaston, get your places. "

Miss Baxter acknowledged the command with that characteristic littlewave of a hand that he recalled from so many of her pictures, ahalf-humorous, half-mocking little defiance. She used it often whenescaping her pursuers, as if to say that she would see them in the nextinstallment. 

The star and the two men were now in the cabin, hidden from view. MertonGill was no seaman, but it occurred to him that at least one of the crewwould be at the wheel in this emergency. Probably the director knew nobetter. Indeed the boat, so far as could be discerned, had no wheel. Apparently when a storm came up all hands went down into the cabin toget away from it. 

The storm did come up at this moment, with no one on deck. It struckwith the full force of a tropic hurricane. The boat rocked, the windblew, and billows swept the deck. At the height of the tempest BeulahBaxter sprang from the cabin to the deck, clutching wildly at astanchion. Buffeted by the billows she groped a painful way along theside, at risk of being swept off to her death. 

She was followed by one of the crew who held a murderous knife in hishand, then by the other sailor who also held a knife. They, too, wereswept by the billows, but seemed grimly determined upon the death ofthe heroine. Then, when she reached midships and the foremost fiend wasalmost upon her, the mightiest of all the billows descended and swepther off into the cruel waters. Her pursuers, saving themselves only bygreat effort, held to the rigging and stared after the girl. They leanedfar over the ship's rocking side and each looked from under a spreadhand. 

For a distressing interval the heroine battled with the waves, but herfrail strength availed her little. She raised a despairing face for aninstant to the camera and its agony was illumined. Then the dread watersclosed above her. The director's whistle blew, the waves were stilled, the tumult ceased. The head of Beulah Baxter appeared halfway down thetank. She was swimming toward the end where Merton stood. 

He had been thrilled beyond words at this actual sight of his heroine inaction, but now it seemed that a new emotion might overcome him. He feltfaint. Beulah Baxter would issue from the pool there at his feet. Hemight speak to her, might even help her to climb out. At least no oneelse had appeared to do this. Seemingly no one now cared where MissBaxter swam to or whether she were offered any assistance in landing. She swam with an admirable crawl stroke, reached the wall, and put upa hand to it. He stepped forward, but she was out before he reached herside. His awe had delayed him. He drew back then, for the star, aftervigorously shaking herself, went to a tall brazier in which glowed acharcoal fire. 

Here he now noticed for the first time the prop-boy Jimmie, he whohad almost certainly defaulted with an excellent razor. Jimmie threwa blanket about the star's shoulders as she hovered above the glowingcoals. Merton had waited for her voice. He might still venture to speakto her--to tell her of his long and profound admiration for her art. Hervoice came as she shivered over the fire:

"Murder! That water's cold. Rosenblatt swore he'd have it warmed but I'mhere to say it wouldn't boil an egg in four minutes. "

He could not at first identify this voice with the remembered tones ofBeulah Baxter. But of course she was now hoarse with the cold. Underthe circumstances he could hardly expect his heroine's own musicalclearness. Then as the girl spoke again something stirred among his morerecent memories. The voice was still hoarse, but he placed it now. He approached the brazier. It was undoubtedly the Montague girl. Sherecognized him, even as she squeezed water from the hair of wondrousgold. 

"Hello, again, Kid. You're everywhere, ain't you? Say, wha'd you thinkof that Rosenblatt man? Swore he'd put the steam into that water andtake off the chill. And he never. " She threw aside the blanket andsqueezed water from her garments, then began to slap her legs, arms, andchest. 

"Well, I'm getting a gentle glow, anyhow. Wha'd you think of the scene?"

"It was good--very well done, indeed. " He hoped it didn't soundpatronizing, though that was how he felt. He believed now that MissBaxter would have done it much better. He ventured a question. "But howabout Miss Baxter--when does she do something? Is she going to be sweptoff the boat, too?"

"Baxter? Into that water? Quit your kidding!"

"But isn't she here at all--won't she do anything here?"

"Listen here, Kid; why should she loaf around on the set when she'spaying me good money to double for her?"

"You--double for Beulah Baxter?" It was some more of the girl'snonsense, and a blasphemy for which he could not easily forgive her. 

"Why not? Ain't I a good stunt actress? I'll tell the lot she hasn'tfound any one yet that can get away with her stuff better than what Ido. "

"But she--I heard her say herself she never allowed any one to doublefor her--she wouldn't do such a thing. "

Here sounded a scornful laugh from Jimmie, the prop--boy. "Bunk!"said he at the laugh's end. "How long you been doublin' for her, MissMontague? Two years, ain't it?--I know it was before I come here, and Ibeen on the lot a year and a half. Say, he ought to see some the stuffyou done for her out on location, like jumpin' into the locomotiveengine from your auto and catchin' the brake beams when the train'smovin', and goin' across that quarry on the cable, and ridin' downthat lumber flume sixty miles per hour and ridin' some them outlawbuckjumpers--he'd ought to seen some that stuff, hey, Miss Montague?"

"That's right, Jimmie, you tell him all about me. I hate to talk ofmyself. " Very wonderfully Merton Gill divined that this was said witha humorous intention. Jimmy was less sensitive to values. He began toobey. 

"Well, I dunno--there's that motorcycle stuff. Purty good, I'll say. I wouldn't try that, no, sir, not for a cool million dollars. And thatchase stuff on the roofs down town where you jumped across that courtthat wasn't any too darned narrow, an' say, I wisht I could skin up atree the way you can. An' there was that time--"

"All right, all right, Jimmie. I can tell him the rest sometime. I don'treally hate to talk about myself--that's on the level. And say, listenhere, Jimmie, you're my favourite sweetheart, ain't you?"

"Yes, ma'am, " assented Jimmie, warmly. "All right. Beat it up and get meabout two quarts of that hot coffee and about four ham sandwiches, twofor you and two for me. That's a good kid. "

"Sure!" exclaimed Jimmie, and was off. 

Merton Gill had been dazed by these revelations, by the swift and utterdestruction of his loftiest ideal. He hardly cared to know, now, ifBeulah Baxter were married. It was the Montague girl who had mostthrilled him for two years. Yet, almost as if from habit, he heardhimself asking, "Is--do you happen to know if Beulah Baxter is married?"

"Baxter married? Sure! I should think you'd know it from the way thatSig Rosenblatt bawls everybody out. "

"Who is he?"

"Who is he? Why, he's her husband, of course--he's Mr. Beulah Baxter. "

"That little director up on the platform that yells so?" Thisunspeakable person to be actually the husband of the wonder-woman, theman he had supposed she must find intolerable even as a director. It wasunthinkable, more horrible, somehow, than her employment of a double. Intime he might have forgiven that--but this!

"Sure, that's her honest-to-God husband. And he's the best one out ofthree that I know she's had. Sig's a good scout even if he don't looklike Buffalo Bill. In fact, he's all right in spite of his rough ways. He'd go farther for you than most of the men on this lot. If I wanteda favour I'd go to Sig before a lot of Christians I happen to know. Andhe's a bully director if he is noisy. Baxter's crazy about him, too. Don't make any mistake there. "

"I won't, " he answered, not knowing what he said. 

She shot him a new look. "Say, Kid, as long as we're talking, you seemkind of up against it. Where's your overcoat a night like this, and whendid you last--"

"Miss Montague! Miss Montague!" The director was calling. 

"Excuse me, " she said. "I got to go entertain the white folks again. "She tucked up the folds of her blanket and sped around the pool todisappear in the mazes of the scaffolding. He remained a moment staringdully into the now quiet water. Then he walked swiftly away. 

Beulah Baxter, his wonder-woman, had deceived her public in Peoria, Illinois, by word of mouth. She employed a double at critical junctures. "She'd be a fool not to, " the Montague girl had said. And in privatelife, having been unhappily wed twice before, she was Mrs. SigmundRosenblatt. And crazy about her husband!

A little while ago he had felt glad he was not to die of starvationbefore seeing his wonder-woman. Reeling under the first shock ofhis discoveries he was now sorry. Beulah Baxter was no longer hiswonder-woman. She was Mr. Rosenblatt's. He would have preferred death, he thought, before this heart-withering revelation. 

CHAPTER XI. THE MONTAGUE GIRL INTERVENES

He came to life the next morning, shivering under his blankets. Itmust be cold outside. He glanced at his watch and reached for anotherblanket, throwing it over himself and tucking it in at the foot. Thenhe lay down again to screen a tense bit of action that had occurred latethe night before. He had plunged through the streets for an hour, after leaving the pool, striving to recover from the twin shocks he hadsuffered. Then, returning to his hotel, he became aware that The Hazardsof Hortense were still on. He could hear the roar of the aeroplanepropeller and see the lights over the low buildings that lined hisstreet. 

Miserably he was drawn back to the spot where the most important of allhis visions had been rent to tatters. He went to the end of the poolwhere he had stood before. Mr. Rosenblatt-hardly could he bring his mindto utter the hideous syllables-was still dissatisfied with the sea'smight. He wanted bigger billows and meant to have them if the companystayed on the set all night. He was saying as much with peevishinflections. Merton stood warming himself over the fire that stillglowed in the brazier. 

To him from somewhere beyond the scaffold came now the Montague girl andJimmie. The girl was in her blanket, and Jimmie bore a pitcher, twotin cups, and a package of sandwiches. They came to the fire and Jimmiepoured coffee for the girl. He produced sugar from a pocket. 

"Help yourself, James, " said the girl, and Jimmie poured coffee forhimself. They ate sandwiches as they drank. Merton drew a little backfrom the fire. The scent of the hot coffee threatened to make him forgethe was not only a successful screen actor but a gentleman. 

"Did you have to do it again?" he asked. 

"I had to do it twice again, " said the girl from over her tin cup. "They're developing the strips now, then they'll run them in theprojection room, and they won't suit Sig one little bit, and I'll haveto do it some more. I'll be swimming here till daylight doth appear. "

She now shot that familiar glance of appraisal at Merton. "Have asandwich and some coffee, Kid-give him your cup, Jimmie. "

It was Merton Gill's great moment, a heart-gripping climax to atwo-days' drama that had at no time lacked tension. Superbly he arose toit. Consecrated to his art, Clifford Armytage gave the public somethingbetter and finer. He drew himself up and spoke lightly, clearly, withcareless ease:

"No, thanks-I couldn't eat a mouthful. " The smile with which heaccompanied the simple words might be enigmatic, it might hint of secretsorrows, but it was plain enough that these could not ever so distantlyrelate to a need for food. 

Having achieved this sensational triumph, with all the quietness ofmethod that should distinguish the true artist, he became seized withstage fright amounting almost to panic. He was moved to snatch thesandwich that Jimmie now proffered, the cup that he had refilled withcoffee. Yet there was but a moment of confusion. Again he wielded aniron restraint. But he must leave the stage. He could not tarry thereafter his big scene, especially under that piercing glance of the girl. Somehow there was incredulity in it. 

"Well, I guess I'll have to be going, " he remarked jauntily, and turnedfor his exit. 

"Say, Kid. " The girl halted him a dozen feet away. 

"Say, listen here. This is on the level. I want to have a talk with youto-morrow. You'll be on the lot, won't you?"

He seemed to debate this momentarily, then replied, "Oh, yes. I'll bearound here somewhere. " "Well, remember, now. If I don't run intoyou, you come down to that set where I was working to-day. See? I gotsomething to say to you. "

"All right. I'll probably see you sometime during the day. "

He had gone on to his hotel. But he had no intention of seeing theMontague girl on the morrow, nor of being seen by her. He would keep outof that girl's way whatever else he did. She would ask him if everythingwas jake, and where was his overcoat, and a lot of silly questions aboutmatters that should not concern her. 

He was in two minds about the girl now. Beneath an unreasonable but verygenuine resentment that she should have doubled for Beulah Baxter-asif she had basely cheated him of his most cherished ideal-there ran anundercurrent of reluctant but very profound admiration for her prowess. She had done some thrilling things and seemed to make nothing of it. Through this admiration there ran also a thread of hostility because he, himself, would undoubtedly be afraid to attempt her lightest exploit. Not even the trifling feat he had just witnessed, for he had neverlearned to swim. But he clearly knew, despite this confusion, that hewas through with the girl. He must take more pains to avoid her. If metby chance, she must be snubbed-up-staged, as she would put it. 

Under his blankets now, after many appealing close-ups of the sandwichwhich Jimmie had held out to him, he felt almost sorry that he had nottaken the girl's food. All his being, save that part consecrated to hisart, had cried out for it. Art, had triumphed, and now he was near toregretting that it had not been beaten down. No good thinking about it, though. 

He reached again for his watch. It was seven-thirty and time to beabroad. Once more he folded his blankets and placed them on the pile, keeping an alert glance, the while, for another possible bit of thedelicious bread. He found nothing of this sort. The Crystal Palace Hotelwas bare of provender. Achieving a discreet retirement from the hostelryhe stood irresolute in the street. This morning there was no genialsun to warm him. A high fog overcast the sky, and the air was chill. Atintervals he shivered violently. For no reason, except that he had therelast beheld actual food, he went back to the pool. 

Evidently Mr. Rosenblatt had finally been appeased. The place wasdeserted and lay bare and ugly in the dull light. The gallant ship ofthe night before was seen to be a poor, flimsy make-shift. No wonder Mr. Rosenblatt had wished billows to engulf it and mist to shroud it. He saton a beam lying at the ship end of the pool and stared moodily at thepitiful make-believe. 

He rounded his shoulders and pulled up the collar of his coat. He knewhe should be walking, but doubted his strength. The little walk to thepool had made him strangely breathless. He wondered how long people werein starving to death. He had read of fasters who went for weeks withoutfood, but he knew he was not of this class. He lacked talent for it. Doubtless another day would finish him. He had no heart now for visionsof the Gashwiler table. He descended tragically to recalling that lastmeal at the drug store-the bowl of soup with its gracious burden ofrich, nourishing catsup. 

He began to alter the scenario of his own life. Suppose he had workedtwo more weeks for Gashwiler. That would have given him thirty dollars. Suppose he had worked a month. He could have existed a long timeon sixty dollars. Suppose he had even stuck it out for one weekmore-fifteen dollars at this moment! He began to see a breakfast, thesort of meal to be ordered by a hungry man with fifteen dollars tosquander. 

The shivering seized him again and he heard his teeth rattle. Hemust move from this spot, forever now to be associated with blackdisillusion. He arose from his seat and was dismayed to hear a hail fromthe Montague girl. Was he never to be free from her? She was poised ata little distance, one hand raised to him, no longer the drenched victimof a capricious Rosenblatt, but the beaming, joyous figure of one whohad triumphed over wind and wave. He went almost sullenly to her whileshe waited. No good trying to escape her for a minute or so. 

"Hello, old Trouper! You're just in time to help me hunt for something. "She was in the familiar street suit now, a skirt and jacket of somerough brown goods and a cloth hat that kept close to her small headabove hair that seemed of no known shade whatever, though it was lighterthan dark. She flashed a smile at him from her broad mouth as he cameup, though her knowing gray eyes did not join in this smile. He knewinstantly that she was taking him in. 

This girl was wise beyond her years, he thought, but one even far lessknowing could hardly have been in two minds about his present abjectcondition. The pushed-up collar of his coat did not entirely hide theonce-white collar beneath it, the beard had reached its perhaps mostdistressing stage of development, and the suit was rumpled out of allthe nattiness for which it had been advertised. Even the plush hat hadlost its smart air. 

Then he plainly saw that the girl would, for the moment at least, ignorethese phenomena. She laughed again, and this time the eyes laughed, too. "C'mon over and help me hunt for that bar pin I lost. It must be at thisend, because I know I had it on when I went into the drink. Maybe it'sin the pool, but maybe I lost it after I got out. It's one of Baxter'sthat she wore in the scene just ahead of last night, and she'll have tohave it again to-day. Now--" She began to search the ground around thecold brazier. "It might be along here. " He helped her look. Pretty soonhe would remember an engagement and get away. The search at the endof the pool proved fruitless. The girl continued to chatter. They hadworked until one-thirty before that grouch of a Rosenblatt would call ita day. At that she'd rather do water stuff than animal stuff-especiallylions. "Lions? I should think so!" He replied to this. "Dangerous, isn'tit?"

"Oh, it ain't that. They're nothing to be afraid of if you know 'em, butthey're so hot and smelly when you have to get close to 'em. AnythingI really hate, it's having to get up against a big, hot, hairy, smellylion. "

He murmured a sympathetic phrase and extended his search for the lostpin to the side of the pool. Almost under the scaffold he saw the shineof precious stones and called to her as he picked up the pin, a bar pinsplendidly set with diamonds. He was glad that he had found it for her. It must have cost a great deal of money and she would doubtless be heldresponsible for its safe-keeping. 

She came dancing to him. "Say, that's fine-your eyes are working, ain'tthey? I might 'a' been set back a good six dollars if you hadn't foundthat. " She took the bauble and fastened it inside her jacket. So thepin, too, had been a tawdry makeshift. Nothing was real any more. As sheadjusted the pin he saw his moment for escape. With a gallant strivingfor the true Clifford Armytage manner he raised the plush hat. 

"Well, I'm glad you found Mrs. Rosenblatt's pin-and I guess I'll begetting on. "

The manner must have been defective. She looked through him and saidwith great firmness, "Nothing like that, old pippin. " Again he was takenwith a violent fit of shivering. He could not meet her eyes. He wasturning away when she seized him by the wrist. Her grip was amazinglyforceful. He doubted if he could break away even with his stoutesteffort. He stood miserably staring at the ground. Suddenly the girlreached up to pat his shoulder. He shivered again and she continued topat it. When his teeth had ceased to be castanets she spoke:

"Listen here, old Kid, you can't fool any one, so quit trying. Don't yous'pose I've seen 'em like you before? Say, boy, I was trouping while youplayed with marbles. You're up against it. Now, c'mon"--with the arm athis shoulder she pulled him about to face her-"c'mon and be nice-tellmother all about it. "

The late Clifford Armytage was momentarily menaced by a completeemotional overthrow. Another paroxysm of shivering perhaps avertedthis humiliation. The girl dropped his wrist, turned, stooped, and didsomething. He recalled the scene in the gambling hell, only this timeshe fronted away from the camera. When she faced him again he was notsurprised to see bills in her hand. It could only have been the chill hesuffered that kept him from blushing. She forced the bills into hisnumb fingers and he stared at them blankly. "I can't take these, " hemuttered. 

"There, now, there, now! Be easy. Naturally I know you're all right orI wouldn't give up this way. You're just having a run of hard luck. TheLord knows, I've been helped out often enough in my time. Say, listen, I'll never forget when I went out as a kid with Her First FalseStep-they had lions in that show. It was a frost from the start. Nosalaries, no nothing. I got a big laugh one day when I was late atrehearsal. The manager says: 'You're fined two dollars, Miss Montague. 'I says, 'All right, Mr. Gratz, but you'll have to wait till I can writehome for the money. ' Even Gratz had to laugh. Anyway, the show went bustand I never would 'a' got any place if two or three parties hadn't ofhelped me out here and there, just the same as I'm doing with you thisminute. So don't be foolish. "

"Well-you see-I don't--" He broke off from nervous weakness. In his mindwas a jumble of incongruous sentences and he seemed unable to manage anyof them. 

The girl now sent a clean shot through his armour. "When'd you eatlast?"

He looked at the ground again in painful embarrassment. Even in thechill air he was beginning to feel hot. "I don't remember, " he said atlast quite honestly. 

"That's what I thought. You go eat. Go to Mother Haggin's, thatcafeteria just outside the gate. She has better breakfast things thanthe place on the lot. " Against his will the vision of a breakfastenthralled him, yet even under this exaltation an instinct of thewariest caution survived. 

"I'll go to the one on the lot, I guess. If I went out to the other oneI couldn't get in again. "

She smiled suddenly, with puzzling lights in her eyes. "Well, of allthings! You want to get in again, do you? Say, wouldn't that beat thehot place a mile? You want to get in again? All right, Old-timer, I'llgo out with you and after you've fed I'll cue you on to the lot again. "

"Well-if it ain't taking you out of your way. " He knew that the girlwas somehow humouring him, as if he were a sick child. She knew, andhe knew, that the lot was no longer any place for him until he could berightly there. 

"No, c'mon, I'll stay by you. " They walked up the street of the Westernvillage. The girl had started at a brisk pace and he was presentlybreathless. 

"I guess I'll have to rest a minute, " he said. They were now before theCrystal Palace Hotel and he sat on the steps. 

"All in, are you? Well, take it easy. "

He was not only all in, but his mind still played with incongruoussentences. He heard himself saying things that must sound foolish. 

"I've slept in here a lot, " he volunteered. The girl went to lookthrough one of the windows. 

"Blankets!" she exclaimed. "Well, you got the makings of a trouper inyou, I'll say that. Where else did you sleep?"

"Well, there were two miners had a nice cabin down the street here withbunks and blankets, and they had a fight, and half a kettle of beans andsome bread, and one of them shaved and I used his razor, but I haven'tshaved since because I only had twenty cents day before yesterday, andanyway they might think I was growing them for a part, the way yourfather did, but I moved up here when I saw them put the blankets in, andI was careful and put them back every morning. I didn't do any harm, do you think? And I got the rest of the beans they'd thrown into thefireplace, and if I'd only known it I could have brought my razor andovercoat and some clean collars, but somehow you never seem to knowwhen--"

He broke off, eyeing her vaguely. He had little notion what he had beensaying or what he would say next. 

"This is going to be good, " said the Montague girl. "I can see that fromhere. But now you c'mon-we'll walk slow-and you tell me the rest whenyou've had a little snack. "

She even helped him to rise, with a hand under his elbow, though hewas quick to show her that he had not needed this help. "I can walk allright, " he assured her. 

"Of course you can. You're as strong as a horse. But we needn't go toofast. " She took his arm in a friendly way as they completed the journeyto the outside cafeteria. 

At this early hour they were the only patrons of the place. MissMontague, a little with the air of a solicitous nurse, seated her chargeat a corner table and took the place opposite him. 

"What's it going to be?" she demanded. 

Visions of rich food raced madly through his awakened mind, wideplatters heaped with sausage and steaks and ham and corned-beef hash. 

"Steak, " he ventured, "and something like ham and eggs and some hotcakes and coffee and--" He broke off. He was becoming too emotionalunder this golden spread of opportunity. The girl glanced up from thebill of fare and appraised the wild light in his eyes. 

"One minute, Kid-let's be more restful at first. You know-kind of easeinto the heavy eats. It'll prob'ly be better for you. "

"Anything you say, " he conceded. Her words of caution had stricken himwith a fear that this was a dream; that he would wake up under blanketsback in the Crystal Palace. It was like that in dreams. You seemed ableto order all sorts of food, but something happened; it never reached thetable. He would take no further initiative in this scene, whether dreamor reality. "You order something, " he concluded. His eyes trustfullysought the girl's. 

"Well, I think you'll start with one orange, just to kind of hint tothe old works that something good is coming. Then--lemme see"--sheconsidered gravely. "Then I guess about two soft-boiled eggs--no, youcan stand three--and some dry toast and some coffee. Maybe a few thinstrips of bacon wouldn't hurt. We'll see can you make the grade. " Sheturned to give the order to a waitress. "And shoot the coffee along, sister. A cup for me, too. "

Her charge shivered again at the mere mention of coffee. The juncturewas critical. He might still be dreaming, but in another moment he mustknow. He closely, even coolly, watched the two cups of coffee that wereplaced before them. He put a benumbed hand around the cup in front ofhim and felt it burn. It was too active a sensation for mere dreaming. He put sugar into the cup and poured in the cream from a miniaturepitcher, inhaling a very real aroma. Events thus far seemed normal. He stirred the coffee and started to raise the cup. Now, after all, itseemed to be a dream. His hand shook so that the stuff spilled into thesaucer and even out on to the table. Always in dreams you were thwartedat the last moment. 

The Montague girl had noted the trembling and ineffective hand. Sheturned her back upon him to chat with the waitress over by the foodcounter. With no eye upon him, he put both hands about the cup andsucceeded in raising it to his lips. The hands were still shaky, but hemanaged some sips of the stuff, and then a long draught that seemed toscald him. He wasn't sure if it scalded or not. It was pretty hot, andfire ran through him. He drained the cup--still holding it with bothhands. It was an amazing sensation to have one's hand refuse to obey sosimple an order. Maybe he would always be that way now, practically acripple. 

The girl turned back to him. "Atta boy, " she said. "Now take the orange. And when the toast comes you can have some more coffee. " A dread loadwas off his mind. He did not dream this thing. He ate the orange, andate wonderful toast to the accompaniment of another cup of coffee. Thelatter half of this he managed with but one hand, though it was not yetwholly under control. The three eggs seemed like but one. He thoughtthey must have been small eggs. More toast was commanded and morecoffee. 

"Easy, easy!" cautioned his watchful hostess from time to time. "Don'twolf it--you'll feel better afterwards. "

"I feel better already, " he announced. 

"Well, " the girl eyed him critically, "you certainly got the mainchandelier lighted up once more. "

A strange exhilaration flooded all his being. His own thoughts babbledto him, and he presently began to babble to his new friend. 

"You remind me so much of Tessie Kearns, " he said as he scraped thesides of the egg cup. 

"Who's she?"

"Oh, she's a scenario writer I know. You're just like her. " He was nowdrunk--maudlin drunk--from the coffee. Sober, he would have known thatno human beings could be less alike than Tessie Kearns and the Montaguegirl. Other walls of his reserve went down. 

"Of course I could have written to Gashwiler and got some money to goback there--"

"Gashwiler, Gashwiler?" The girl seemed to search her memory. "I thoughtI knew all the tank towns, but that's a new one. Where is it?"

"It isn't a town; it's a gentleman I had a position with, and hesaid he'd keep it open for me. " He flew to another thought with theinconsequence of the drunken. "Say, Kid"--He had even caught that formof address from her--"I'll tell you. You can keep this watch of minetill I pay you back this money. " He drew it out. "It's a good solid-goldwatch and everything. My uncle Sylvester gave it to me for notsmoking, on my eighteenth birthday. He smoked, himself; he even drankconsiderable. He was his own worst enemy. But you can see it's a goodsolid--gold watch and keeps time, and you hold it till I pay you back, will you?"

The girl took the watch, examining it carefully, noting the inscriptionengraved on the case. There were puzzling glints in her eyes as shehanded it back to him. "No; I'll tell you, it'll be my watch until youpay me back, but you keep it for me. I haven't any place to carry itexcept the pocket of my jacket, and I might lose it, and then where'd webe?"

"Well, all right. " He cheerfully took back the watch. His presentecstasy would find him agreeable to all proposals. 

"And say, " continued the girl, "what about this Gashweiler, or whateverhis name is? He said he'd take you back, did he? A farm?"

"No, an emporium--and you forgot his name just the way that lady in thecasting office always does. She's funny. Keeps telling me not to forgetthe address, when of course I couldn't forget the town where I lived, could I? Of course it's a little town, but you wouldn't forget it whenyou lived there a long time--not when you got your start there. "

"So you got your start in this town, did you?"

He wanted to talk a lot now. He prattled of the town and his life there, of the eight-hour talent-tester and the course in movie-acting. OfTessie Kearns and her scenarios, not yet prized as they were sure to belater. Of Lowell Hardy, the artistic photographer, and the stills thathe had made of the speaker as Clifford Armytage. Didn't she think thatwas a better stage name than Merton Gill, which didn't seem to soundlike so much? Anyway, he wished he had his stills here to show her. Ofcourse some of them were just in society parts, the sort of thing thatHarold Parmalee played--had she noticed that he looked a good deal likeHarold Parmalee? Lots of people had. 

Tessie Kearns thought he was the dead image of Parmalee. But he likedWestern stuff better--a lot better than cabaret stuff where you hadto smoke one cigarette after another--and he wished she could see thestills in the Buck Benson outfit, chaps and sombrero and spurs andholster. He'd never had two guns, but the one he did have he could drawpretty well. There would be his hand at his side, and in a flash hewould have the gun in it, ready to shoot from the hip. And roping--he'dneed to practise that some. Once he got it smack over Dexter's head, butusually it didn't go so well. 

Probably a new clothesline didn't make the best rope--too stiff. Hecould probably do a lot better with one of those hair ropes that thereal cowboys used. And Metta Judson--she was the best cook anywherearound Simsbury. He mustn't forget to write to Metta, and to TessieKearns, to be sure and see The Blight of Broadway when it came to theBijou Palace. They would be surprised to see those close--ups thatHenshaw had used him in. And he was in that other picture. No close-upsin that, still he would show pretty well in the cage-scene--he'd had tosmoke a few cigarettes there, because Arabs smoke all the time, and hehadn't been in the later scene where the girl and the young fellow werein the deserted tomb all night and he didn't lay a finger on her becausehe was a perfect gentleman. 

He didn't know what he would do next. Maybe Henshaw would want him inRobinson Crusoe, Junior, where Friday's sister turned out to be thedaughter of an English earl with her monogram tattooed on her leftshoulder. He would ask Henshaw, anyway. 

The Montague girl listened attentively to the long, wandering recital. At times she would seem to be strongly moved, to tears or something. But mostly she listened with a sympathetic smile, or perhaps witha perfectly rigid face, though at such moments there would be thosecurious glints of light far back in her gray eyes. Occasionally shewould prompt him with a question. 

In this way she brought out his version of the Sabbath afternoonexperience with Dexter. He spared none of the details, for he was allfrankness now. He even told how ashamed he had felt having to leadDexter home from his scandalous grazing before the Methodist Church. Hehad longed to leap upon the horse and ride him back at a gallop, but hehad been unable to do this because there was nothing from which to climbon him, and probably he would have been afraid to gallop the beast, anyway. 

This had been one of the bits that most strangely moved his listener. Her eyes were moist when he had finished, and some strong emotion seemedabout to overpower her, but she had recovered command of herself, andbecome again the sympathetic provider and counsellor. 

He would have continued to talk, apparently, for the influence of strongdrink had not begun to wane, but the girl at length stopped him. 

"Listen here, Merton--" she began; her voice was choked to a peculiarhoarseness and she seemed to be threatened with a return of her latestrong emotion. She was plainly uncertain of her control, fearing totrust herself to speech, but presently, after efforts which he observedwith warmest sympathy, she seemed to recover her poise. She swallowedearnestly several times, wiped her moisture--dimmed eyes with herhandkerchief, and continued, "It's getting late and I've got to be overat the show shop. So I'll tell you what to do next. You go out and geta shave and a haircut and then go home and get cleaned up--you said youhad a room and other clothes, didn't you?"

Volubly he told her about the room at Mrs. Patterson's, and, with abrief return of lucidity, how the sum of ten dollars was now due thisheartless society woman who might insist upon its payment before hewould again enjoy free access to his excellent wardrobe. 

"Well, lemme see--" She debated a moment, then reached under the table, fumbled obscurely, and came up with more money. "Now, here, here'stwenty more besides that first I gave you, so you can pay the dame hermoney and get all fixed up again, fresh suit and clean collar and ashine and everything. No, no--this is my scene; you stay out. "

He had waved protestingly at sight of the new money, and now again heblushed. 

"That's all understood, " she continued. "I'm staking you to cakes tillyou get on your feet, see? And I know you're honest, so I'm not throwingmy money away. There--sink it and forget it. Now, you go out and do whatI said, the barber first. And lay off the eats until about noon. Youhad enough for now. By noon you can stoke up with meat andpotatoes--anything you want that'll stick to the merry old slats. And I'd take milk instead of any more coffee. You've thinned downsome--you're not near so plump as Harold Parmalee. Then you rest up forthe balance of the day, and you show here to-morrow morning about thistime. Do you get it? The Countess'll let you in. Tell her I said to, andcome over to the office building. See?"

He tried to tell her his gratitude, but instead he babbled again of howmuch she was like Tessie Kearns. They parted at the gate. 

With a last wondering scrutiny of him, a last reminder of her veryminute directions, she suddenly illumined him with rays of a compassionthat was somehow half-laughter. "You poor, feckless dub!" she pronouncedas she turned from him to dance through the gate. He scarcely heard thewords; her look and tone had been so warming. 

Ten minutes later he was telling a barber that he had just finished ahard week on the Holden lot, and that he was glad to get the brush offat last. From the barber's he hastened to the Patterson house, ratherdreading the encounter with one to whom he owed so much money. He foundthe house locked. Probably both of the Pattersons had gone out intosociety. He let himself in and began to follow the directions of theMontague girl. The bath, clean linen, the other belted suit, alreadypressed, the other shoes, the buttoned, cloth-topped ones, alreadypolished! He felt now more equal to the encounter with a heartlesssociety woman. But, as she did not return, he went out in obedience to anew hunger. 

In the most sumptuous cafeteria he knew of, one patronized only in hisfirst careless days of opulence, he ate for a long time. Roast beefand potatoes he ordered twice, nor did he forget to drink the milkprescribed by his benefactress. Plenty of milk would make him more thanever resemble Harold Parmalee. And he commanded an abundance of dessert:lemon pie and apple pie and a double portion of chocolate cake withice-cream. His craving for sweets was still unappeased, so at a near-bydrug store he bought a pound box of candy. 

The world was again under his feet. Restored to his rightful domain, he trod it with lightness and certainty. His mind was still a pleasantjumble of money and food and the Montague girl. Miles of gorgeous filmflickered across his vision. An experienced alcoholic would have toldhim that he enjoyed a coffee "hang-over. " He wended a lordly way to thenearest motion-picture theatre. 

Billed there was the tenth installment of The Hazards of Hortense. Hepassed before the lively portrayal in colours of Hortense driving amotor car off an open drawbridge. The car was already halfway betweenthe bridge and the water beneath. He sneered openly at the announcement:"Beulah Baxter in the Sensational Surprise Picture of the Century. " Asurprise picture indeed, if those now entering the theatre could be toldwhat he knew about it! He considered spreading the news, but decided toretain the superiority his secret knowledge gave him. 

Inside the theatre, eating diligently from his box of candy, he wascompelled to endure another of the unspeakable Buckeye comedies. The cross-eyed man was a lifeguard at a beach and there weresocial entanglements involving a bearded father, his daughter inan inconsiderable bathing suit, a confirmed dipsomaniac, two socialderelicts who had to live by their wits, and a dozen young girls alsoarrayed in inconsiderable bathing suits. He could scarcely follow thechain of events, so illogical were they, and indeed made little effortto do so. He felt far above the audience that cackled at these dreadfulbuffooneries. One subtitle read: "I hate to kill him--murder is so hardto explain. "

This sort of thing, he felt more than ever, degraded an art whereearnest people were suffering and sacrificing in order to give thepublic something better and finer. Had he not, himself, that very day, completed a perilous ordeal of suffering and sacrifice? And he was askedto laugh at a cross--eyed man posing before a camera that fell to pieceswhen the lens was exposed, shattered, presumably, by the impact of theafflicted creature's image! This, surely, was not art such as CliffordArmytage was rapidly fitting himself, by trial and hardship, to conferupon the public. 

It was with curiously conflicting emotions that he watched the ensuingHazards of Hortense. He had to remind himself that the slim littlegirl with the wistful eyes was not only not performing certain feats ofdaring that the film exposed, but that she was Mrs. Sigmund Rosenblattand crazy about her husband. Yet the magic had not wholly departed fromthis wronged heroine. He thought perhaps this might be because he nowknew, and actually liked, that talkative Montague girl who would bedoing the choice bits of this drama. Certainly he was loyal to the handthat fed him. 

Black Steve and his base crew, hirelings of the scoundrelly guardian whowas "a Power in Wall Street, " again and again seemed to have encompassedthe ruin, body and soul, of the persecuted Hortense. They had herprisoner in a foul den of Chinatown, whence she escaped to balanceprecariously upon the narrow cornice of a skyscraper, hundreds offeet above a crowded thoroughfare. They had her, as the screen said, "Depressed by the Grim Menace of Tragedy that Impended in the Shadows. "They gave her a brief respite in one of those gilded resorts "Where theClink of Coin Opens Wide the Portals of Pleasure, Where Wealth Beckonswith Golden Fingers, " but this was only a trap for the unsuspectinggirl, who was presently, sewed in a plain sack, tossed from the sternof an ocean liner far out at sea by creatures who would do anything formoney--who, so it was said, were Remorseless in the Mad Pursuit of Gain. 

At certain gripping moments it became apparent to one of the audiencethat Mrs. Sigmund Rosenblatt herself was no longer in jeopardy. He knewthe girl who was, and profoundly admired her artistry as she fled alongthe narrow cornice of the skyscraper. For all purposes she was BeulahBaxter. He recalled her figure as being--not exactly stubby, but atleast not of marked slenderness. Yet in the distance she was indeedall that an audience could demand. And she was honest, while Mrs. Rosenblatt, in the Majestic Theatre at Peoria, Illinois, had trifledairily with his faith in women and deceived him by word of mouth. 

He applauded loudly at the sensational finish, when Hortense, drivingher motor car at high speed across the great bridge, ran into the draw, that opened too late for her to slow down, and plunged to the cruelwaters far below. 

Mrs. Rosenblatt would possibly have been a fool to do this herself. TheMontague girl had been insistent on that point; there were enough thingsshe couldn't avoid doing, and all stars very sensibly had doubles forsuch scenes when distance or action permitted. At the same time, hecould never again feel the same toward her. Indeed, he would never havefelt the same even had there been no Rosenblatt. Art was art!

It was only five o'clock when he left the picture theatre, but he ateagain at the luxurious cafeteria. He ate a large steak, drank an immensequantity of milk, and bought another box of candy on his way to thePatterson home. Lights were on there, and he went in to face the womanhe had so long kept out of her money. She would probably greet himcoldly and tell him she was surprised at his actions. 

Yet it seemed that he had been deceived in this society woman. She washuman, after all. She shook hands with him warmly and said they wereglad to see him back; he must have been out on location, and she wasglad they were not to lose him, because he was so quiet and regular andnot like some other motion-picture actors she had known. 

He told her he had just put in a hard week on the Holden lot, wherethings were beginning to pick up. He was glad she had missed him, and hecertainly had missed his comfortable room, because the accommodations onthe lot were not of the best. In fact, they were pretty unsatisfactory, if you came right down to it, and he hoped they wouldn't keep him thereagain. And, oh, yes--he was almost forgetting. Here was ten dollars--hebelieved there were two weeks' rent now due. He passed over the moneywith rather a Clifford Armytage flourish. 

Mrs. Patterson accepted the bill almost protestingly. She hadn't oncethought about the rent, because she knew he was reliable, and he was toremember that any time convenient to him would always suit her inthese matters. She did accept the bill, still she was not the heartlesscreature he had supposed her to be. 

As he bade her good-night at the door she regarded him closely and said, "Somehow you look a whole lot older, Mr. Armytage. "

"I am, " replied Mr. Armytage. 

* * * * * * *

Miss Montague, after parting with her protege had walked quickly, notwithout little recurrent dance steps--as if some excess of joy wouldever and again overwhelm her--to the long office building on the Holdenlot, where she entered a door marked "Buckeye Comedies. Jeff Baird, Manager. " The outer office was vacant, but through the open door toanother room she observed Baird at his desk, his head bent low overcertain sheets of yellow paper. He was a bulky, rather phlegmaticlooking man, with a parrot-like crest of gray hair. He did not look upas the girl entered. She stood a moment as if to control her excitement, then spoke. 

"Jeff, I found a million dollars for you this morning. "

"Thanks!" said Mr. Baird, still not looking up. "Chuck it down in thecoal cellar, will you? We're littered with the stuff up here. "

"On the level, Jeff. "

Baird looked up. "On the level?"

"You'll say so. "

"Shoot!"

"Well, he's a small-town hick that saved up seventy-two dollars tocome here from Goosewallow, Michigan, to go into pictures-took acorrespondence course in screen--acting and all that, and he went brokeand slept in a property room down in the village all last week; no eatsat all for three, four days. I'd noticed him around the lot on differentsets; something about him that makes you look a second time. I don'tknow what it is-kind of innocent and bug-eyed the way he'd rubber atthings, but all the time like as if he thought he was someone. Well, Ikeep running across him and pretty soon I notice he's up against it. Hestill thinks he's someone, and is very up-stage if you start to kid himthe least bit, but the signs are there, all right. He's up against itgood and hard. 

"All last week he got to looking worse and worse. But he still had hisstage presence. Say, yesterday he looked like the juvenile lead of abusted road show that has walked in from Albany and was just standingaround on Broadway wondering who he'd consent to sign up with for fortyweeks--see what I mean?-hungry but proud. He was over on the Baxter setlast night while I was doing the water stuff, and you'd ought to see himfreeze me when I suggested a sandwich and a cup o' coffee. It was grand. 

"Well, this morning I'm back for a bar pin of Baxter's I'd lost, andthere he is again, no overcoat, shivering his teeth loose, and all in. So I fell for him. Took him up for some coffee and eggs, staked him tohis room rent, and sent him off to get cleaned and barbered. Butbefore he went he cut loose and told me his history from the cradle toHollywood. 

"I'd 'a' given something good if you'd been at the next table. I guesshe got kind of jagged on the food, see? He'd tell me anything that runin his mind, and most of it was good. You'll say so. I'll get him todo it for you sometime. Of all the funny nuts that make this lot! Well, take my word for it; that's all I ask. And listen here, Jeff--I'm downto cases. There's something about this kid, like when I tell you I'dalways look at him twice. And it's something rich that I won't let outfor a minute or two. But here's what you and me do, right quick:

"The kid was in that cabaret and gambling-house stuff they shot lastweek for The Blight of Broadway, and this something that makes you lookat him must of struck Henshaw the way it did me, for he let him stayright at the edge of the dance floor and took a lot of close-ups ofhim looking tired to death of the gay night life. Well, you call up theVictor folks and ask can you get a look at that stuff because you'rethinking of giving a part to one of the extras that worked in it. Maybewe can get into the projection room right away and you'll see whatI mean. Then I won't have to tell you the richest thing about it. Now!"--she took a long breath--"will you?"

Baird had listened with mild interest to the recital, occasionallyseeming not to listen while he altered the script before him. But hetook the telephone receiver from its hook and said briefly to the girl:"You win. Hello! Give me the Victor office. Hello! Mr. Baird speaking--"

The two were presently in the dark projection room watching the scenesthe girl had told of. 

"They haven't started cutting yet, " she said delightedly. "All hisclose-ups will be in. Goody! There's the lad-get him? Ain't he theactin'est thing you ever saw? Now wait-you'll see others. "

Baird watched the film absorbedly. Three times it was run for the solepurpose of exposing to this small audience Merton Gill's notion ofbeing consumed with ennui among pleasures that had palled. In thegambling-hall bit it could be observed that he thought not too wellof cigarettes. "He screens well, too, " remarked the girl. "Of course Icouldn't be sure of that. "

"He screens all right, " agreed Baird. 

"Well, what do you think?"

"I think he looks like the first plume on a hearse. "

"He looks all of that, but try again. Who does he remind you of? Catchthis next one in the gambling hell--get the profile and the eyebrows andthe chin--there!"

"Why--" Baird chuckled. "I'm a Swede if he don't look like--"

"You got it!" the girl broke in excitedly. "I knew you would. I didn'tat first, this morning, because he was so hungry and needed a shave, andhe darned near had me bawling when he couldn't hold his cup o' coffeeexcept with two hands. But what d'you think?--pretty soon he tells mehimself that he looks a great deal like Harold Parmalee and wouldn'tmind playing parts like Parmalee, though he prefers Western stuff. Wouldn't that get you?"

The film was run again so that Baird could study the Gill face in thelight of this new knowledge. 

"He does, he does, he certainly does--if he don't look like a No. 9 company of Parmalee I'll eat that film. Say, Flips, you did findsomething. "

"Oh, I knew it; didn't I tell you so?"

"But, listen--does he know he's funny?"

"Not in a thousand years! He doesn't know anything's funny, near as Ican make him. "

They were out in the light again, walking slowly back to the Buckeyeoffices. 

"Get this, " said Baird seriously. "You may think I'm kidding, but onlyyesterday I was trying to think if I couldn't dig up some guy thatlooked more like Parmalee than Parmalee himself does--just enough moreto get the laugh, see? And you spring this lad on me. All he needs isthe eyebrows worked up a little bit. But how about him--will he handle?Because if he will I'll use him in the new five-reeler. "

"Will he handle?" Miss Montague echoed the words with deep emphasis. "Leave him to me. He's got to handle. I already got twenty-five bucksinvested in his screen career. And, Jeff, he'll be easy to work, except he don't know he's funny. If he found out he was, it might queerhim--see what I mean? He's one of that kind--you can tell it. How willyou use him? He could never do Buckeye stuff. "

"Sure not. But ain't I told you? In this new piece Jack is stage struckand gets a job as valet to a ham that's just about Parmalee's type, and we show Parmalee acting in the screen, but all straight stuff, youunderstand. Unless he's a wise guy he'll go all through the piece andnever get on that it's funny. See, his part's dead straight and seriousin a regular drama, and the less he thinks he's funny the bigger screamhe'll be. He's got to be Harold Parmalee acting right out, all over theset, as serious as the lumbago--get what I mean?"

"I got you, " said the girl, "and you'll get him to-morrow morning. Itold him to be over with his stills. And he'll be serious all the time, make no mistake there. He's no wise guy. And one thing, Jeff, he's asinnocent as a cup--custard, so you'll have to keep that bunch of Buckeyeroughnecks from riding him. I can tell you that much. Once they startedkidding him, it would be all off. "

"And, besides--" She hesitated briefly. "Somehow I don't want himkidded. I'm pretty hard-boiled, but he sort of made me feel like afifty-year-old mother watching her only boy go out into the rough world. See?"

"I'll watch out for that, " said Baird. 

CHAPTER XII. ALIAS HAROLD PARMALEE

Merton Gill awoke to the comforting realization that he was betweensheets instead of blankets, and that this morning he need not obscurelyleave his room by means of a window. As he dressed, however, certainmisgivings, to which he had been immune the day before, gnawed intohis optimism. He was sober now. The sheer intoxication of food afterfasting, of friendly concern after so long a period when no one hadspoken him kindly or otherwise, had evaporated. He felt the depressionfollowing success. 

He had been rescued from death by starvation, but had anything morethan this come about? Had he not fed upon the charity of a strange girl, taking her money without seeing ways to discharge the debt? How could heever discharge it? Probably before this she had begun to think of him asa cheat. She had asked him to come to the lot, but had been vague as tothe purpose. Probably his ordeal of struggle and sacrifice was not yetover. At any rate, he must find a job that would let him pay back theborrowed twenty-five dollars. 

He would meet her as she had requested, assure her of his honestintentions, and then seek for work. He would try all the emporiumsin Hollywood. They were numerous and some one of them would needthe services of an experienced assistant. This plan of endeavourcrystallized as he made his way to the Holden lot. He had brought hispackage of stills, but only because the girl had insisted on seeingthem. 

The Countess made nothing of letting him in. She had missed him, shesaid, for what seemed like months, and was glad to hear that he nowhad something definite in view, because the picture game was mightyuncertain and it was only the lucky few nowadays that could seesomething definite. He did not confide to her that the definitesomething now within his view would demand his presence at some distancefrom her friendly self. 

He approached the entrance to Stage Five with head bent in calculation, and not until he heard her voice did he glance up to observe thatthe Montague girl was dancing from pleasure, it would seem, at merelybeholding him. She seized both his hands in her strong grasp andrevolved him at the centre of a circle she danced. Then she held him offwhile her eyes took in the details of his restoration. 

"Well, well, well! That shows what a few ham and eggs and sleep willdo. Kid, you gross a million at this minute. New suit, new shoes, snappycravat right from the Men's Quality Shop, and all shaved and combedslick and everything! Say--and I was afraid maybe you wouldn't show. "

He regarded her earnestly. "Oh, I would have come back, all right; I'dnever forget that twenty-five dollars I owe you; and you'll get itall back, only it may take a little time. I thought I'd see you for aminute, then go out and find a job--you know, a regular job in a store. "

"Nothing of the sort, old Trouper!" She danced again about him, bothhis hands in hers, which annoyed him because it was rather loud publicbehaviour, though he forgave her in the light of youth and kindliness. "No regular job for you, old Pippin--nothing but acting all over theplace--real acting that people come miles to see. "

"Do you think I can really get a part?" Perhaps the creature hadsomething definite in view for him. 

"Sure you can get a part! Yesterday morning I simply walked into a partfor you. Come along over to the office with me. Goody--I see you broughtthe stills. I'll take a peek at 'em myself before Baird gets here. ""Baird? Not the Buckeye comedy man?" He was chilled by a sudden fear. 

"Yes, Jeff Baird. You see he is going to do some five--reelers and thisfirst one has a part that might do for you. At least, I told him somethings about you, and he thinks you can get away with it. "

He went moodily at her side, thinking swift thoughts. It seemedungracious to tell her of his loathing for the Buckeye comedies, thoseblasphemous caricatures of worth-while screen art. It would not be fair. And perhaps here was a quick way to discharge his debt and be free ofobligation to the girl. Of course he would always feel a warm gratitudefor her trusting kindness, but when he no longer owed her money he couldchoose his own line of work. Rather bondage to some Hollywood Gashwilerthan clowning in Baird's infamies!

"Well, I'll try anything he gives me, " he said at last, striving for theenthusiasm he could not feel. 

"You'll go big, too, " said the girl. "Believe, me Kid, you'll go grand. "

In Baird's offices he sat at the desk and excitedly undid the packageof stills. "We'll give 'em the once-over before he comes, " she said, and was presently exclaiming with delight at the art study of CliffordArmytage in evening dress, two straight fingers pressing the lefttemple, the face in three-quarter view. 

"Well, now, if that ain't Harold Parmalee to the life! If it wasn't forthat Clifford Armytage signed under it, you'd had me guessing. I knewyesterday you looked like him, but I didn't dream it would be as muchlike him as this picture is. Say, we won't show Baird this at first. We'll let him size you up and see if your face don't remind him ofParmalee right away. Then we'll show him this and it'll be a cinch. Andmy, look at these others--here you're a soldier, and here you're a-a-apolo player--that is polo, ain't it, or is it tennis? And will youlook at these stunning Westerns! These are simply the best of all--onhorseback, and throwing a rope, and the fighting face with the gundrawn, and rolling a cigarette--and, as I live, saying good-by to thehorse. Wouldn't that get you--Buck Benson to the life!"

Again and again she shuffled over the stills, dwelling on each withexcited admiration. Her excitement was pronounced. It seemed to be asort of nervous excitement. It had caused her face to flush deeply, and her manner, especially over the Western pictures, at moments oddlyapproached hysteria. Merton was deeply gratified. He had expected theart studies to produce no such impression as this. The Countess inthe casting office had certainly manifested nothing like hysteria atbeholding them. It must be that the Montague girl was a better judge ofart studies. 

"I always liked this one, after the Westerns, " he observed, indicatingthe Harold Parmalee pose. 

"It's stunning, " agreed the girl, still with her nervous manner. "I tellyou, sit over there in Jeff's chair and take the same pose, so I cancompare you with the photo. "

Merton obliged. He leaned an elbow on the chair-arm and a temple on thetwo straightened fingers. "Is the light right?" he asked, as he turnedhis face to the pictured angle. 

"Fine, " applauded the girl. "Hold it. " He held it until shocked byshrill laughter from the observer. Peal followed peal. She had seemedoddly threatened with hysteria; perhaps now it had come. She rocked onher heels and held her hands to her sides. Merton arose in some alarm, and was reassured when the victim betrayed signs of mastering herinfirmity. She wiped her eyes presently and explained her outbreak. 

"You looked so much like Parmalee I just couldn't help thinking howfunny it was--it just seemed to go over me like anything, like a spasmor something, when I got to thinking what Parmalee would say if he sawsomeone looking so much like him. See? That was why I laughed. "

He was sympathetic and delighted in equal parts. The girl had reallyseemed to suffer from her paroxysm, yet it was a splendid tribute to hisscreen worth. 

It was at this moment that Baird entered. He tossed his hat on a chairand turned to the couple. 

"Mr. Baird, shake hands with my friend Merton Gill. His stage name isClifford Armytage. "

"Very pleased to meet you, " said Merton, grasping the extended hand. He hoped he had not been too dignified, too condescending. Baird wouldsometime doubtless know that he did not approve of those so-calledcomedies, but for the present he must demean himself to pay back somemoney borrowed from a working girl. 

"Delighted, " said Baird; then he bent a suddenly troubled gaze upon theGill lineaments. He held this a long moment, breaking it only with asudden dramatic turning to Miss Montague. 

"What's this, my child? You're playing tricks on the old man. " Againhe incredulously scanned the face of Merton. "Who is this man?" hedemanded. 

"I told you, he's Merton Gill from Gushwomp, Ohio, " said the girl, looking pleased and expectant. 

"Simsbury, Illinois, " put in Merton quickly, wishing the girl could bebetter at remembering names. 

Baird at last seemed to be convinced. He heavily smote an open palm witha clenched fist. "Well, I'll be swoshed! I thought you must be kidding. If I'd seen him out on the lot I'd 'a' said he was the twin brother ofHarold Parmalee. "

"There!" exclaimed the girl triumphantly. "Didn't I say he'd see itright quick? You can't keep a thing from this old bey. Now you justcame over here to this desk and look at this fine batch of stills he hadtaken by a regular artist back in Cranberry. "

"Ah!" exclaimed Baird unctuously, "I bet they're good. Show me. " He wentto the desk. "Be seated, Mr. Gill, while I have a look at these. "

Merton Gill, under the eye of Baird which clung to him with somethingclose to fascination, sat down. He took the chair with fine dignity, a certain masterly deliberation. He sat easily, and seemed to await averdict confidently foreknown. Baird's eyes did not leave him for thestills until he had assumed a slightly Harold Parmalee pose. Then hishead with the girl's bent over the pictures, he began to examine them. 

Exclamations of delight came from the pair. Merton Gill listenedamiably. He was not greatly thrilled by an admiration which he hadlong believed to be his due. Had he not always supposed that things ofprecisely this sort would be said about those stills when at last theycame under the eyes of the right people?

Like the Montague girl, Baird was chiefly impressed with the Westerns. He looked a long time at them, especially at the one where Merton'sface was emotionally averted from his old pal, Pinto, at the moment offarewell. Regarding Baird, as he stood holding this art study up to thelight, Merton became aware for the first time that Baird suffered fromsome nervous affliction, a peculiar twitching of the lips, a tremblingof the chin, which he had sometimes observed in senile persons. Allat once Baird seemed quite overcome by this infirmity. He put ahandkerchief to his face and uttered a muffled excuse as he hastily leftthe room. Outside, the noise of his heavy tread died swiftly away downthe hall. 

The Montague girl remained at the desk. There was a strange light in hereyes and her face was still flushed. She shot a glance of encouragementat Merton. 

"Don't be nervous, old Kid; he likes 'em all right. " He reassured herlightly: "Oh, I'm not a bit nervous about him. It ain't as if he wasdoing something worth while, instead of mere comedies. "

The girl's colour seemed to heighten. "You be sure to tell him that;talk right up to him. Be sure to say 'mere comedies. ' It'll show himyou know what's what. And as a matter of fact, Kid, he's trying to dosomething worth while, right this minute, something serious. That's whyhe's so interested in you. "

"Well, of course, that's different. " He was glad to learn this ofBaird. He would take the man seriously if he tried to be serious, to dosomething fine and distinctive. 

Baird here returned, looking grave. The Montague girl seemed morestrangely intense. She beckoned the manager to her side. 

"Now, here, Jeff, here was something I just naturally had to laugh at. "

Baird had not wholly conquered those facial spasms, but he controlledhimself to say, "Show me!"

"Now, Merton, " directed the girl, "take that same pose again, like youdid for me, the way you are in this picture. "

As Merton adjusted himself to the Parmalee pose she handed the pictureto Baird. "Now, Jeff, I ask you--ain't that Harold to the life--ain't itso near him that you just have to laugh your head off?"

It was even so. Baird and the girl both laughed convulsively, the formerwith rumbling chuckles that shook his frame. When he had again composedhimself he said, "Well, Mr. Gill, I think you and I can do a littlebusiness. I don't know what your idea about a contract is, but--"

Merton Gill quickly interrupted. "Well, you see I'd hardly like tosign a contract with you, not for those mere comedies you do. I'll doanything to earn a little money right now so I can pay back thisyoung lady, but I wouldn't like to go on playing in such things, withcross-eyed people and waiters on roller skates, and all that. WhatI really would like to do is something fine and worth while, but notclowning in mere Buckeye comedies. "

Mr. Baird, who had devoted the best part of an active career to theproduction of Buckeye comedies, and who regarded them as at least oneexpression of the very highest art, did not even flinch at these coolwords. He had once been an actor himself. Taking the blow like a man, hebeamed upon his critic. "Exactly, my boy; don't you think I'll ever askyou to come down to clowning. You might work with me for years and I'dnever ask you to do a thing that wasn't serious. In fact, that's why I'mhoping to engage you now. I want to do a serious picture, I want to getout of all that slap-stick stuff, see? Something fine and worth while, like you say. And you're the very actor I need in this new piece. "

"Well, of course, in that case--" This was different; he made it plainthat in the case of a manager striving for higher things he was not oneto withhold a helping hand. He was beginning to feel a great sympathyfor Baird in his efforts for the worth while. He thawed somewhat fromthe reserve that Buckeye comedies had put upon him. He chatted amiably. Under promptings from the girl he spoke freely of his career, both inSimsbury and in Hollywood. It was twelve o'clock before they seemedwilling to let him go, and from time to time they would pause to gloatover the stills. 

At last Baird said cheerily, "Well, my lad, I need you in my new piece. How'll it be if I put you on my payroll, beginning to-day, at forty aweek? How about it, hey?"

"Well, I'd like that first rate, only I haven't worked any to-day; youshouldn't pay me for just coming here. "

The manager waved a hand airily. "That's all right, my boy; you'veearned a day's salary just coming here to cheer me up. These merecomedies get me so down in the dumps sometimes. And besides, you're notthrough yet. I'm going to use you some more. Listen, now--" The managerhad become coldly businesslike. "You go up to a little theatre onHollywood Boulevard--you can't miss it--where they're running a HaroldParmalee picture. I saw it last night and I want you to see it to-day, Better see it afternoon and evening both. "

"Yes, sir, " said Merton. 

"And watch Parmalee. Study him in this picture. You look like himalready, but see if you can pick up some of his tricks, see what I mean?Because it's a regular Parmalee part I'm going to have you do, see?Kind of a society part to start with, and then we work in some of yourWestern stuff at the finish. But get Parmalee as much as you can. That'sall now. Oh, yes, and can you leave these stills with me? Our publicityman may want to use them later. "

"All right, Mr. Baird, I'll do just what you say, and of course you cankeep the stills as long as I got an engagement with you, and I'm veryglad you're trying to do something really worth while. "

"Thanks, " said Baird, averting his face. 

The girl followed him into the hall. "Great work, boy, and take it fromme, you'll go over. Say, honest now, I'm glad clear down into my boots. "She had both his hands again, and he could see that her eyes were moist. She seemed to be an impressionable little thing, hysterical one minutewhile looking at a bunch of good stills, and sort of weepy the next. Buthe was beginning to like her, in spite of her funny talk and free ways. 

"And say, " she called after him when he had reached the top of thestairs, "you know you haven't had much experience yet with a bunch ofhard-boiled troupers; many a one will be jealous of you the minute youbegin to climb, and maybe they'll get fresh and try to kid you, see? Butdon't you mind it--give it right back to them. Or tell me if they gettoo raw. Just remember I got a mean right when I swing free. "

"All right, thank you, " he replied, but his bewilderment was plain. 

She stared a moment, danced up to him, and seized a hand in both ofhers. "What I mean son, if you feel bothered any time--by anything--justcome to me with it, see? I'm in this piece, and I'll look out for you. Don't forget that. " She dropped his hand, and was back in the officewhile he mumbled his thanks for what he knew she had meant as akindness. 

So she was to be in the Baird piece; she, too, would be trying to givethe public something better and finer. Still, he was puzzled at herbelieving he might need to be looked out for. An actor drawing fortydollars a week could surely look out for himself. He emerged into theopen of the Holden lot as one who had at last achieved success afterlong and gruelling privation. He walked briefly among the scenes of thisprivation, pausing in reminiscent mood before the Crystal Palace Hoteland other outstanding spots where he had so stoically suffered thetorments of hunger and discouragement. 

He remembered to be glad now that no letter of appeal had actually goneto Gashwiler. Suppose he had built up in the old gentleman's mind afalse hope that he might again employ Merton Gill? A good thing he hadheld out! Yesterday he was starving and penniless; to-day he was fedand on someone's payroll for probably as much money a week as Gashwilernetted from his entire business. From sheer force of association, as hethus meditated, he found himself hungry, and a few moments later he wasselecting from the food counter of the cafeteria whatever chanced toappeal to the eye--no weighing of prices now. 

Before he had finished his meal Henshaw and his so-called Governorbrought their trays to the adjoining table. Merton studied with newinterest the director who would some day be telling people that he hadbeen the first to observe the aptitude of this new star--had, infact, given him a lot of footage and close-ups and medium shots and"dramatics" in The Blight of Broadway when he was a mere extra--beforehe had made himself known to the public in Jeff Baird's firstworth-while piece. 

He was strongly moved, now, to bring himself to Henshaw's notice when heheard the latter say, "It's a regular Harold Parmalee part, good lightcomedy, plenty of heart interest, and that corking fight on the cliff. "

He wanted to tell Henshaw that he himself was already engaged to doa Harold Parmalee part, and had been told, not two hours ago, that hewould by most people be taken for Parmalee's twin brother. He restrainedthis impulse, however, as Henshaw went on to talk of the piece in hand. 

It proved to be Robinson Crusoe, which he had already discussed. Or, rather, not Robinson Crusoe any longer. Not even Robinson Crusoe, Junior. It was to have been called Island Passion, he learned, but thistitle had been amended to Island Love. 

"They're getting fed up on that word 'passion, '" Henshaw was saying, "and anyhow, 'love' seems to go better with 'island, ' don't you think, Governor? 'Desert Passion' was all right--there's something strong andintense about a desert. But 'island' is different. "

And it appeared that Island Love, though having begun as RobinsonCrusoe, would contain few of the outstanding features of that tale. Instead of Crusoe's wrecked sailing-ship, there was a wrecked steamyacht, a very expensive yacht stocked with all modern luxuries, norwould there be a native Friday and his supposed sister with the tattooedshoulder, but a wealthy young New Yorker and his valet who would be goodfor comedy on a desert island, and a beautiful girl, and a scoundrel whowould in the last reel be thrown over the cliffs. 

Henshaw was vivacious about the effects he would get. "I've beenwondering, Governor, " he continued, "if we're going to kill off theheavy, whether we shouldn't plant it early that besides wanting thisgirl who's on the island, he's the same scoundrel that wronged the youngsister of the lead that owns the yacht. See what I mean?-it would givemore conflict. "

"But here--" The Governor frowned and spoke after a moment's pause. "Your young New Yorker is rich, isn't he? Fine old family, and all that, how could he have a sister that would get wronged? You couldn't do it. If he's got a wronged sister, he'd have to be a workingman or a sailoror something. And she couldn't be a New York society girl; she'd haveto be working some place, in a store or office--don't you see? How couldyou have a swell young New Yorker with a wronged sister? Real societygirls never get wronged unless their father loses his money, and thenit's never anything serious enough to kill a heavy for. No--that's out. ""Wait, I have it. " Henshaw beamed with a new inspiration. "You justsaid a sailor could have his sister wronged, so why not have one on theyacht, a good strong type, you know, and his little sister was wrongedby the heavy, and he'd never known who it was, because the littlegirl wouldn't tell him, even on her death-bed, but he found the chap'sphotograph in her trunk, and on the yacht he sees that it was this sameheavy--and there you are. Revenge--see what I mean? He fights with theheavy on the cliff, after showing him the little sister's picture, and pushes him over to death on the rocks below--get it? And thelead doesn't have to kill him. How about that?" Henshaw regarded hiscompanion with pleasant anticipation. 

The Governor again debated before he spoke. He still doubted. "Say, whose show is this, the lead's or the sailor's that had the wrongedsister? You'd have to show the sailor and his sister, and show her beingwronged by the heavy--that'd take a big cabaret set, at least--and you'dhave to let the sailor begin his stuff on the yacht, and then by thetime he'd kept it up a bit after the wreck had pulled off the fight, where would your lead be? Can you see Parmalee playing second to thissailor? Why, the sailor'd run away with the piece. And that cabaret setwould cost money when we don't need it--just keep those things in mind alittle. "

"Well, " Henshaw submitted gracefully, "anyway, I think my suggestionof Island Love is better than Island Passion--kind of sounds moreattractive, don't you think?"

The Governor lighted a cigarette. "Say, Howard, it's a wonderfulbusiness, isn't it? We start with poor old Robinson Crusoe and his goatsand parrot and man Friday, and after dropping Friday's sister who wouldreally be the Countess of Kleig, we wind up with a steam-yacht and acomic butler and call it Island Love. Who said the art of the motionpicture is in its infancy? In this case it'll be plumb senile. Well, goahead with the boys and dope out your hogwash. Gosh! Sometimes I think Iwouldn't stay in the business if it wasn't for the money. And remember, don't you let a single solitary sailor on that yacht have a wrongedsister that can blame it on the heavy, or you'll never have Parmaleeplaying the lead. "

Again Merton Gill debated bringing himself to the notice of thesegentlemen. If Parmalee wouldn't play the part for any reason like asailor's wronged sister, he would. It would help him to be known inParmalee parts. Still, he couldn't tell how soon they might need him, nor how soon Baird would release him. He regretfully saw the two menleave, however. He might have missed a chance even better than Bairdwould give him. 

He suddenly remembered that he had still a professional duty to perform. He must that afternoon, and also that evening, watch a Harold Parmaleepicture. He left the cafeteria, swaggered by the watchman at the gate-hehad now the professional standing to silence that fellow-and made hisway to the theatre Baird had mentioned. 

In front he studied the billing of the Parmalee picture. It was "Object, Matrimony-a Smashing Comedy of Love and Laughter. " Harold Parmalee, witha gesture of mock dismay, seemed to repulse a bevy of beautiful maidenswho wooed him. Merton took his seat with a dismay that was not mock, for it now occurred to him that he had no experience in love scenes, and that an actor playing Parmalee parts would need a great deal of suchexperience. In Simsbury there had been no opportunity for an intendingactor to learn certain little niceties expected at sentimental moments. Even his private life had been almost barren of adventures that mightnow profit him. 

He had sometimes played kissing games at parties, and there had been themore serious affair with Edwina May Pulver-nights when he had escortedher from church or sociables to the Pulver gate and lingered in a sortof nervously worded ecstasy until he could summon courage to kiss thegirl. Twice this had actually happened, but the affair had come tonothing, because the Pulvers had moved away from Simsbury and he hadpractically forgotten Edwina May; forgotten even the scared haste ofthose embraces. He seemed to remember that he had grabbed her and kissedher, but was it on her cheek or nose?

Anyway, he was now quite certain that the mechanics of this dead amourwere not those approved of in the best screen circles. Never had hegathered a beauteous girl in his arms and very slowly, very accurately, very tenderly, done what Parmalee and other screen actors did in theirfinal fade-outs. Even when Beulah Baxter had been his screen ideal hehad never seen himself as doing more than save her from some dreadfulfate. Of course, later, if he had found out that she was unwed--

He resolved now to devote special study to Parmalee's methods of wooingthe fair creature who would be found in his arms at the close of thepresent film. Probably Baird would want some of that stuff from him. 

From the very beginning of "Object, Matrimony" it was apparent that thepicture drama would afford him excellent opportunities for studying theParmalee technique in what an early subtitle called "The Eternal Battleof the Sexes. " For Parmalee in the play was Hubert Throckmorton, popular screen idol and surfeited with the attentions of adoring women. Cunningly the dramatist made use of Parmalee's own personality, ofhis screen triumphs, and of the adulation lavished upon him bydiscriminating fair ones. His breakfast tray was shown piled withmissives amply attesting the truth of what the interviewer had said ofhis charm. All women seemed to adore Hubert Throckmorton in the drama, even as all women adored Harold Parmalee in private life. 

The screen revealed Throckmorton quite savagely ripping open theletters, glancing at their contents and flinging them from him withhumorous shudders. He seemed to be asking why these foolish creaturescouldn't let an artist alone. Yet he was kindly, in this half-humorous, half-savage mood. There was a blending of chagrin and amused toleranceon his face as the screen had him murmur, casting the letter aside, "Poor, Silly Little Girls!"

From this early scene Merton learned Parmalee's method of withdrawingthe gold cigarette case, of fastidiously selecting a cigarette, ofclosing the case and of absently--thinking of other matters--tampingthe gold-tipped thing against the cover. This was an item that he hadoverlooked. He should have done that in the cabaret scene. He alsomastered the Parmalee trick of withdrawing the handkerchief from thecuff of the perfectly fitting morning coat. That was something else heshould have done in The Blight of Broadway. Little things like that, done right, gave the actor his distinction. 

The drama progressed. Millionaire Jasper Gordon, "A Power in WallStreet, " was seen telephoning to Throckmorton. He was entreating theyoung actor to spend the week-end at his palatial Long Island countryhome to meet a few of his friends. The grim old Wall Street magnate wasperturbed by Throckmorton's refusal, and renewed his appeal. He wasone of those who always had his way in Wall Street, and he at lengthprevailed upon Throckmorton to accept his invitation. He than manifestedthe wildest delight, and he was excitedly kissed by his beautifuldaughter who had been standing by his side in the sumptuous librarywhile he telephoned. It could be seen that the daughter, even more thanher grim old father, wished Mr. Throckmorton to be at the Long Islandcountry home. 

Later Throckmorton was seen driving his high-powered roadster, accompanied only by his valet, to the Gordon country home on LongIsland, a splendid mansion surrounded by its landscaped grounds wherefountains played and roses bloomed against the feathery background ofgraceful eucalyptus trees. Merton Gill here saw that he must learn todrive a high-powered roadster. Probably Baird would want some of thatstuff, too. 

A round of country-house gaieties ensued, permitting Throckmorton toappear in a series of perfectly fitting sports costumes. He was seen onhis favourite hunter, on the tennis courts, on the first tee of the golfcourse, on a polo pony, and in the mazes of the dance. Very early it waslearned that the Gordon daughter had tired of mere social triumphsand wished to take up screen acting in a serious way. She audaciouslyrequested Throckmorton to give her a chance as leading lady in his nextgreat picture. 

He softened his refusal by explaining to her that acting was a difficultprofession and that suffering and sacrifice were necessary to round outthe artist. The beautiful girl replied that within ten days he would becompelled to admit her rare ability as an actress, and laughingly theywagered a kiss upon it. Merton felt that this was the sort of thing hemust know more about. 

Throckmorton was courteously gallant in the scene. Even when he said, "Shall we put up the stakes now, Miss Gordon?" it could be seen that hewas jesting. He carried this light manner through minor scenes with thebeautiful young girl friends of Miss Gordon who wooed him, lay inwait for him, ogled and sighed. Always he was the laughingly tolerantconqueror who had but a lazy scorn for his triumphs. 

He did not strike the graver note until it became suspected that therewere crooks in the house bent upon stealing the famous Gordon jewels. That it was Throckmorton who averted this catastrophe by sheer nerve andby use of his rare histrionic powers--as when he disguised himself inthe coat and hat of the arch crook whom he had felled with a single blowand left bound and gagged, in order to receive the casket of jewels fromthe thief who opened the safe in the library, and that he laughedaway the thanks of the grateful millionaire, astonished no one in theaudience, though it caused Merton Gill to wonder if he could fell acrook with one blow. He must practice up some blows. 

Throckmorton left the palatial country home wearied by the continuousadulation. The last to speed him was the Gordon daughter, who remindedhim of their wager; within ten days he would acknowledge her to be anactress fit to play as his leading woman. 

Throckmorton drove rapidly to a simple farm where he was not known andwould be no longer surfeited with attentions. He dressed plainly inshirts that opened wide at the neck and assisted in the farm labours, such as pitching hay and leading horses into the barn. It was the simpleexistence that he had been craving--away from it all! No one suspectedhim to be Hubert Throckmorton, least of all the simple country maiden, daughter of the farmer, in her neat print dress and heavy braid ofgolden hair that hung from beneath her sunbonnet. She knew him to beonly a man among men, a simple farm labourer, and Hubert Throckmorton, wearied by the adulation of his feminine public, was instantly charmedby her coy acceptance of his attentions. 

That this charm should ripen to love was to be expected. Here was achild, simple, innocent, of a wild-rose beauty in her print dress andsunbonnet, who would love him for himself alone. Beside a blossomingorange tree on the simple Long Island farm he declared his love, warningthe child that he had nothing to offer her but two strong arms and aheart full of devotion. 

The little girl shyly betrayed that she returned his love but told himthat he must first obtain the permission of her grandmother withoutwhich she would never consent to wed him. She hastened into the oldfarmhouse to prepare Grandmother for the interview. 

Throckmorton presently faced the old lady who sat huddled in anarmchair, her hands crooked over a cane, a ruffled cap above her silveryhair. He manfully voiced his request for the child's hand in marriage. The old lady seemed to mumble an assent. The happy lover looked aboutfor his fiance when, to his stupefaction, the old lady arose brisklyfrom her chair, threw off cap, silvery wig, gown of black, and stoodrevealed as the child herself, smiling roguishly up at him from beneaththe sunbonnet. With a glad cry he would have seized her, when she stayedhim with lifted hand. Once more she astounded him. Swiftly she threwoff sunbonnet, blonde wig, print dress, and stood before him revealed asnone other than the Gordon daughter. 

Hubert Throckmorton had lost his wager. Slowly, as the light ofrecognition dawned in his widening eyes, he gathered the beautiful girlinto his arms. "Now may I be your leading lady?" she asked. 

"My leading lady, not only in my next picture, but for life, " hereplied. 

There was a pretty little scene in which the wager was paid. Mertonstudied it. Twice again, that evening, he studied it. He was doubtful. It would seem queer to take a girl around the waist that way and kissher so slowly. Maybe he could learn. And he knew he could already dothat widening of the eyes. He could probably do it as well as Parmaleedid. 

* * * * * * *

Back in the Buckeye office, when the Montague girl had returned from herparting with Merton, Baird had said:

"Kid, you've brightened my whole day. "

"Didn't I tell you?"

"He's a lot better than you said. "

"But can you use him?"

"You can't tell. You can't tell till you try him out. He might be good, and he might blow up right at the start. "

"I bet he'll be good. I tell you. Jeff, that boy is just full of acting. All you got to do--keep his stuff straight, serious. He can't help butbe funny that way. "

"We'll see. To-morrow we'll kind of feel him out. He'll see thisParmalee film to-day--I caught it last night--and there's some stuffin it I want to play horse with, see? So I'll start him to-morrow ina quiet scene, and find out does he handle. If he does, we'll go rightinto some hokum drama stuff. The more serious he plays it the better. Itought to be good, but you can't ever tell in our trade. You know that aswell as I do. "

The girl was confident. "I can tell about this lad, " she insisted. 

CHAPTER XIII. GENIUS COMES INTO ITS OWN

Merton Gill, enacting the part of a popular screen idol, as in the playof yesterday, sat at breakfast in his apartments on Stage Number Five. Outwardly he was cool, wary, unperturbed, as he peeled the shell from ahard-boiled egg and sprinkled salt upon it. For the breakfast consistedof hard-boiled eggs and potato salad brought on in a wooden dish. 

He had been slightly disturbed by the items of this meal; it was not soelegant a breakfast as Hubert Throckmorton's, but he had been told byBaird that they must be a little different. 

He had been slightly disturbed, too, at discovering the faithful valetwho brought on the simple repast was the cross--eyed man. Still, thefellow had behaved respectfully, as a valet should. He had been quietlyobsequious of manner, revealing only a profound admiration for hismaster and a constant solicitude for his comfort. Probably he, likeBaird, was trying to do something distinctive and worth while. 

Having finished the last egg--glad they had given him no more thanthree--the popular screen idol at the prompting of Baird, back by thecameras, arose, withdrew a metal cigarette case, purchased that verymorning with this scene in view, and selected a cigarette. He stoodnegligently, as Parmalee had stood, tapped the end of the cigarette onthe side of the case, as Parmalee had done, lighted a match on the soleof his boot, and idly smoked in the Parmalee manner. 

Three times the day before he had studied Parmalee in this bit ofbusiness. Now he idly crossed to the centre-table upon which reposed alarge photograph album. He turned the pages of this, pausing to admirethe pictures there revealed. Baird had not only given him generalinstructions for this scene, but now prompted him in low, encouragingtones. 

"Turn over slowly; you like 'em all. Now lift the album up and hold itfor a better light on that one. It's one of the best, it pleases youa lot. Look even more pleased--smile! That's good. Put down the album;turn again, slowly; turn twice more, that's it; pick it up again. Thisone is fine--"

Baird took him through the album in this manner, had him close it whenall the leaves were turned, and stand a moment with one hand resting onit. The album had been empty. It had been deemed best not to informthe actor that later close-ups of the pages would show him to have beenrefreshed by studying photographs of himself--copies, in fact, of thestills of Clifford Armytage at that moment resting on Baird's desk. 

As he stood now, a hand affectionately upon the album, a trace of thefatuously admiring smile still lingering on his expressive face, a knocksounded upon the door. "Come in, " he called. 

The valet entered with the morning mail. This consisted entirely ofletters. There were hundreds of them, and the valet had heaped them in alarge clothes-basket which he now held respectfully in front of him. 

The actor motioned him, with an authentic Parmalee gesture, to placethem by the table. The valet obeyed, though spilling many lettersfrom the top of the overflowing basket. These, while his master seatedhimself, he briskly swept up with a broom. 

The chagrined amusement of Harold Parmalee, the half-savage, half-humorous tolerance for this perhaps excusable weakness of woman, was here accurately manifested. The actor yawned slightly, lightedanother cigarette with flawless Parmalee technique, withdrew ahandkerchief from his sleeve-cuff, lightly touched his forehead with it, and began to open the letters. He glanced at each one in a quick, boredmanner, and cast it aside. 

When a dozen or so had been thus treated he was aroused by anotherknock at the door. It opened to reveal the valet with another basketoverflowing with letters. Upon this the actor arose, spread his armswide in a gesture of humorous helplessness. He held this briefly, thendrooped in humorous despair. 

He lighted another cigarette, eyed the letters with that whimsical liftof the brows so characteristic of Parmalee, and lazily blew smoke towardthem. Then, regarding the smoke, he idly waved a hand through it. "Poor, silly little girls!" But there was a charming tolerance in his manner. One felt his generous recognition that they were not wholly withoutprovocation. 

This appeared to close the simple episode. The scenes, to be sure, hadnot been shot without delays and rehearsals, and a good two hours ofthe morning had elapsed before the actor was released from the glare oflight and the need to remember that he was Harold Parmalee. His peelingof an egg, for example, had not at first been dainty enough to pleasethe director, and the scene with the album had required many rehearsalsto secure the needed variety of expressions, but Baird had been helpfulin his promptings, and always kind. 

"Now, this one you've turned over--it's someone you love better thananybody. It might be your dear old mother that you haven't seen foryears. It makes you kind of solemn as you show how fond you were of her. You're affected deeply by her face. That's it, fine! Now the next one, you like it just as much, but it pleases you more. It's someone elseyou're fond of, but you're not so solemn. 

"Now turn over another, but very slow--slow--but don't let go of it. Stop a minute and turn back as if you had to have another peek at thelast one, see what I mean? Take plenty of time. This is a great treatfor you. It makes you feel kind of religious. Now you're gettingit--that's the boy! All right--"

The scene where he showed humorous dismay at the quantity of his mailhad needed but one rehearsal. He had here been Harold Parmalee withouteffort. Also he had not been asked to do again the Parmalee trick oflighting a cigarette nor of withdrawing the handkerchief from its cuffto twice touch his forehead in moments of amused perplexity. Baird hadmerely uttered a low "Fine!" at beholding these bits. 

He drew a long breath of relief when released from the set. Seeminglyhe had met the test. Baird had said that morning, "Now we'll just runa little kind of test to find out a few things about you, " and hadfollowed with a general description of the scenes. It was to be of nogreat importance--a minor detail of the picture. Perhaps this had beenwhy the wealthy actor breakfasted in rather a plainly furnished room onhard-boiled eggs and potato salad. Perhaps this had been why the costumegiven him had been not too well fitting, not too nice in detail. Perhapsthis was why they had allowed the cross-eyed man to appear as his valet. He was quite sure this man would not do as a valet in a high-classpicture. Anyway, however unimportant the scene, he felt that he hadacquitted himself with credit. 

The Montague girl, who had made him up that morning, with closeattention to his eyebrows, watched him from back of the cameras, and sheseized both his hands when he left the set. "You're going to land, " shewarmly assured him. "I can tell a trouper when I see one. "

She was in costume. She was apparently doing the part of a society girl, though slightly overdressed, he thought. 

"We're working on another set for this same picture, " she explained, "but I simply had to catch you acting. You'll probably be over with usto-morrow. But you're through for the day, so beat it and have a goodtime. "

"Couldn't I come over and watch you?"

"No, Baird doesn't like to have his actors watching things they ain'tin; he told me specially that you weren't to be around except whenyou're working. You see, he's using you in kind of a special part inthis multiple-reeler, and he's afraid you might get confused if youwatched the other parts. I guess he'll start you to-morrow. You're to bein a good, wholesome heart play. You'll have a great chance in it. "

"Well, I'll go see if I can find another Parmalee picture for thisafternoon. Say, you don't think I was too much like him in that scene, do you? You know it's one thing if I look like him--I can't helpthat--but I shouldn't try to imitate him too closely, should I? I got tothink about my own individuality, haven't I?"

"Sure, sure you have! But you were fine--your imitation wasn't a bit tooclose. You can think about your own individuality this afternoon whenyou're watching him. "

 Late that day in the projection room Baird and the Montague girlwatched the "rush" of that morning's episode. 

"The squirrel's done it, " whispered the girl after the opening scene. Itseemed to her that Merton Gill on the screen might overhear her comment. 

Even Baird was low-toned. "Looks so, " he agreed. 

"If that ain't Parmalee then I'll eat all the hard-boiled eggs on thelot. "

Baird rubbed his hands. "It's Parmalee plus, " he corrected. 

"Oh, Mother, Mother!" murmured the girl while the screen revealed theactor studying his photographs. 

"He handled all right in that spot, " observed Baird. 

"He'll handle right--don't worry. Ain't I told you he's a natural borntrouper?"

The mail was abandoned in humorous despair. The cigarette lighted ina flawless Parmalee manner, the smoke idly brushed aside. "Poor, sillylittle girls, " the actor was seen to say. The girl gripped Baird's armuntil he winced. "There, old Pippin! There's your million, picked rightup on the lot!"

"Maybe, " assented the cooler Baird, as they left the projection room. 

"And say, " asked the girl, "did you notice all morning how he didn'teven bat an eye when you spoke to him, if the camera was still turning?Not like a beginner that'll nearly always look up and get out of thepicture. "

"What I bet, " observed Baird, "I bet he'd 'a' done that album stuff evenbetter than he did if I'd actually put his own pictures in, the way I'mgoing to for the close-ups. I was afraid he'd see it was kidding ifI did, or if I told him what pictures they were going to be. But I'mdarned now if I don't think he'd have stood for it. I don't believeyou'll ever be able to peeve that boy by telling him he's good. "

The girl glanced up defensively as they walked. 

"Now don't get the idea he's conceited, because he ain't. Not one bit. "

"How do you know he ain't?"

She considered this, then explained brightly, "Because I wouldn't likehim if he was. No, no--now you listen here" as Baird had grinned. "Thislad believes in himself, that's all. That's different from conceit. You can believe a whole lot in yourself, and still be as modest as anew--hatched chicken. That's what he reminds me of, too. "

 The following morning Baird halted him outside the set on which hewould work that day. Again he had been made up by the Montague girl, with especial attention to the eyebrows so that they might show theParmalee lift. 

"I just want to give you the general dope of the piece before you goon, " said Baird, in the shelter of high canvas backing. "You're the onlyson of a widowed mother and both you and she are toiling to pay offthe mortgage on the little home. You're the cashier of this businessestablishment, and in love with the proprietor's daughter, only she's asociety girl and kind of looks down on you at first. Then, there's herbrother, the proprietor's only son. He's the clerk in this place. Hedoesn't want to work, but his father has made him learn the business, see? He's kind of a no-good; dissipated; wears flashy clothes and playsthe races and shoots craps and drinks. You try to reform him becausehe's idolized by his sister that you're in love with. 

"But you can't do a thing with him. He keeps on and gets in with a roughcrowd, and finally he steals a lot of money out of the safe, and justwhen they are about to discover that he's the thief you see it wouldbreak his sister's heart so you take the crime on your own shoulders. After that, just before you're going to be arrested, you make agetaway--because, after all, you're not guilty--and you go out West tostart all over again--"

"Out there in the big open spaces?" suggested Merton, who had listenedattentively. 

"Exactly, " assented Baird, with one of those nervous spasms that wouldnow and again twitch his lips and chin. "Out there in the big openspaces where men are men--that's the idea. And you build up a littlegray home in the West for yourself and your poor old mother who neverlost faith in you. There'll be a lot of good Western stuff in this--BuckBenson stuff, you know, that you can do so well--and the girl will getout there some way and tell you that her brother finally confessed hiscrime, and everything'll be Jake, see what I mean?"

"Yes, sir; it sounds fine, Mr. Baird. And I certainly will give the bestthat is in me to this part. " He had an impulse to tell the manager, too, how gratified he was that one who had been content with the low humourof the Buckeye comedies should at last have been won over to the betterform of photodrama. But Baird was leading him on to the set; there wasno time for this congratulatory episode. 

Indeed the impulse was swept from his mind in the novelty of the set nowexposed, and in the thought that his personality was to dominate it. Thescene of the little drama's unfolding was a delicatessen shop. Countersand shelves were arrayed with cooked foods, salads, cheeses, the latterunder glass or wire protectors. At the back was a cashier's desk, anopen safe beside it. He took his place there at Baird's direction andbegan to write in a ledger. 

"Now your old mother's coming to mop up the place, " called Baird. "Comeon, Mother! You look up and see her, and rush over to her. She puts downher bucket and mop, and takes you in her arms. She's weeping; you try tocomfort her; you want her to give up mopping, and tell her you can makeenough to support two, but she won't listen because there's the mortgageon the little flat to be paid off. So you go back to the desk, stoppingto give her a sad look as she gets down on the floor. Now, try it. "

A very old, bent, feeble woman with a pail of water and cloths totteredon. Her dress was ragged, her white hair hung about her sad old face indisorderly strands. She set down her bucket and raised her torn apron toher eyes. 

"Look up and see her, " called Baird. "A glad light comes into her eyes. Rush forward--say 'Mother' distinctly, so it'll show. Now the clench. You're crying on his shoulder, Mother, and he's looking down at youfirst, then off, about at me. He's near crying himself. Now he's tellingyou to give up mopping places, and you're telling him every littlehelps. 

"All right, break. Get to mopping, Mother, but keep on crying. He stopsfor a long look at you. He seems to be saying that some day he will takeyou out of such work. Now he's back at his desk. All right. But we'lldo it once more. And a little more pathos, Merton, when you take the oldlady in your arms. You can broaden it. You don't actually break down, but you nearly do. "

The scene was rehearsed again, to Baird's satisfaction, and the camerasground. Merton Gill gave the best that was in him. His glad look atfirst beholding the old lady, the yearning of his eyes when his armsopened to enfold her, the tenderness of his embrace as he murmuredsoothing words, the lingering touch of his hand as he left her, themanly determination of the last look in which he showed a fresh resolveto release her from this toil, all were eloquent of the deepest filialdevotion and earnestness of purpose. 

Back at his desk he was genuinely pitying the old lady. Very lately, itwas evident, she had been compelled to play in a cabaret scene, for shesmelled strongly of cigarettes, and he could not suppose that she, hereyes brimming with anguished mother love, could have relished these. He was glad when it presently developed that his own was not to be asmoking part. 

"Now the dissipated brother's coming on, " explained Baird. "He'll breezein, hang up his hat, offer you a cigarette, which you refuse, and showyou some money that he won on the third race yesterday. You follow him alittle way from the desk, telling him he shouldn't smoke cigarettes, andthat money he gets by gambling will never do him any good. He laughs atyou, but you don't mind. On your way back to the desk you stop by yourmother, and she gets up and embraces you again. 

"Take your time about it--she's your mother, remember. "

The brother entered. He was indeed dissipated appearing, loudly dressed, and already smoking a cigarette as he swaggered the length of the shopto offer Merton one. Merton refused in a kindly but firm manner. Theflashy brother now pulled a roll of bills from his pocket and pointedto his winning horse in a racing extra. The line in large type was therefor the close-up--"Pianola Romps Home in Third Race. "

Followed the scene in which Merton sought to show this youth thatcigarettes and gambling would harm him. The youth remained obdurate. Heseized a duster and, with ribald action, began to dust off the rowsof cooked food on the counters. Again the son stopped to embrace hismother, who again wept as she enfolded him. The scene was shot. 

Step by step, under the patient coaching of Baird, the simple dramaunfolded. It was hot beneath the lights, delays were frequent and therehearsals tedious, yet Merton Gill continued to give the best that wasin him. As the day wore on, the dissipated son went from bad to worse. He would leave the shop to place money on a horse race, and he wouldseek to induce the customers he waited on to play at dice with him. Afew of them consented, and one, a coloured man who had come to purchasepigs'-feet, won at this game all the bills which the youth had shown toMerton on entering. 

There were moments during this scene when Merton wondered if Baird werenot relapsing into Buckeye comedy depths, but he saw the inevitabletrend of the drama and the justification for this bit of gambling. Forthe son, now penniless, became desperate. He appealed to Merton for aloan, urging it on the ground that he had a sure thing thirty--to-oneshot at Latonia. At least these were the words of Baird, as he directedMerton to deny the request and to again try to save the youth from hisinevitable downfall. Whereupon the youth had sneered at Merton and leftthe place in deep anger. 

There followed the scene with the boy's sister, only daughter of therich delicatessen merchant, who Merton was pleased to discover wouldbe played by the Montague girl. She entered in a splendid evening gown, almost too splendid, Merton thought, for street wear in daylight, thoughit was partially concealed by a rich opera cloak. The brother being out, Merton came forward to wait upon her. 

"It's like this, " Baird explained. "She's just a simple New York societygirl, kind of shallow and heartless, because she has never been arousednor anything, see? You're the first one that's really touched her heart, but she hesitates because her father expects her to marry a count andshe's come to get the food for a swell banquet they're giving for him. She says where's her brother, and if anything happened to him it wouldbreak her heart. Then she orders what she wants and you do it up forher, looking at her all the time as if you thought she was the one girlin the world. 

"She kind of falls for you a little bit, still she is afraid of whather father would say. Then you get bolder, see? You come from behindthe counter and begin to make love, talking as you come out--so-and-so, so-and-so, so-and-so--Miss Hoffmeyer, I have loved you since the day Ifirst set eyes on you--so-and-so, so-and-so, so-and-so, I have nothingto offer but the love of an honest man--she's falling for it, see?So you get up close and grab her--cave-man stuff. Do a good hardclench--she's yours at last; she just naturally sags right down on toyou. You've got her. 

"Do a regular Parmalee. Take your time. You're going to kiss her andkiss her right. But just as you get down to it the father busts in andsays what's the meaning of this, so you fly apart and the father saysyou're discharged, because his daughter is the affianced wife of thisCount Aspirin, see? Then he goes back to the safe and finds all themoney has been taken, because the son has sneaked in and grabbed out thebundle and hid it in the ice-box on his way out, taking only a few billsto get down on a horse. So he says call the police--but that's enoughfor now. Go ahead and do that love scene for me. "

Slowly the scene was brought to Baird's liking. Slowly, because MertonGill at first proved to be diffident at the crisis. For three rehearsalsthe muscular arm of Miss Montague had most of the clenching to do. Hebelieved he was being rough and masterful, but Baird wished agreater show of violence. They had also to time this scene with thesurreptitious entrance of the brother, his theft of the money which hestuffed into a paper sack and placed in the ice-box, and his exit. 

The leading man having at last proved that he could be Harold Parmaleeeven in this crisis, the scene was extended to the entrance of theindignant father. He was one of those self-made men of wealth, Mertonthought, a short, stout gentleman with fiery whiskers, not at allfashionably dressed. He broke upon the embrace with a threatening stick. The pair separated, the young lover facing him, proud, erect, defiant, the girl drooping and confused. 

The father discharged Merton Gill with great brutality, then went to thesafe at the back of the room, returning to shout the news that he hadbeen robbed by the man who would have robbed him of his daughter. Itlooked black for Merton. Puzzled at first, he now saw that the idolizedbrother of the girl must have taken the money. He seemed about todeclare this when his nobler nature compelled him to a silence that mustbe taken for guilt. 

The erring brother returned, accompanied by several customers. "Bring adetective to arrest this man, " ordered the father. One of the customersstepped out to return with a detective. Again Merton was slightlydisquieted at perceiving that the detective was the cross-eyed man. This person bustled about the place, tapping the cooked meats and thecheeses, and at last placed his hand upon the shoulder of the supposedthief. Merton, at Baird's direction, drew back and threatened him witha blow. The detective cringed and said: "I will go out and call apoliceman. "

The others now turned their backs upon the guilty man. Even the girldrew away after one long, agonized look at the lover to whose embraceshe had so lately submitted. He raised his arms to her in mute appeal asshe moved away, then dropped them at his side. 

"Give her all you got in a look, " directed Baird. "You're saying: 'I goto a felon's cell, but I do it all for you. ' Dream your eyes at her. "Merton Gill obeyed. 

The action progressed. In this wait for the policeman the old mothercrept forward. She explained to Merton that the money was in the ice-boxwhere the real thief had placed it, and since he had taken the crime ofanother upon his shoulders he should also take the evidence, lest theunfortunate young man be later convicted by that; she also urged himto fly by the rear door while there was yet time. He did these things, pausing for a last embrace of the weeping old lady, even as the hand ofthe arriving policeman was upon the door. 

"All for to-day, except some close-ups, " announced Baird when this scenehad been shot. There was a breaking up of the group, a relaxation ofthat dramatic tension which the heart-values of the piece had imposed. Only once, while Merton was doing some of his best acting, had therebeen a kind of wheezy tittering from certain members of the cast and thegroup about the cameras. 

Baird had quickly suppressed this. "If there's any kidding in this pieceit's all in my part, " he announced in cold, clear tones, and there hadbeen no further signs of levity. Merton was pleased by this manner ofBaird's. It showed that he was finely in earnest in the effort for theworth-while things. And Baird now congratulated him, seconded by theMontague girl. He had, they told him, been all that could be expected. 

"I wasn't sure of myself, " he told them, "in one scene, and I wantedto ask you about it, Mr. Baird. It's where I take that money from theice-box and go out with it. I couldn't make myself feel right. Wouldn'tit look to other people as if I was actually stealing it myself? Whycouldn't I put it back in the safe?"

Baird listened respectfully, considering. "I think not, " he announcedat length. "You'd hardly have time for that, and you have a better plan. It'll be brought out in the subtitles, of course. You are going to leaveit at the residence of Mr. Hoffmeyer, where it will be safe. You see, ifyou put it back where it was, his son might steal it again. We thoughtthat out very carefully. "

"I see, " said Merton. "I wish I had been told that. I feel that I couldhave done that bit a lot better. I felt kind of guilty. "

"You did it perfectly, " Baird assured him. 

"Kid, you're a wonder, " declared the Montague girl. "I'm that tickledwith you I could give you a good hug, " and with that curious approachto hysteria she had shown while looking at his stills, she for a momentfrantically clasped him to her. He was somewhat embarrassed by thisexcess, but pardoned it in the reflection that he had indeed given thebest that was in him. "Bring all your Western stuff to the dressing roomtomorrow, " said Baird. 

Western stuff--the real thing at last! He was slightly amazed laterto observe the old mother outside the set. She was not only smoking acigarette with every sign of relish, but she was singing as she did alittle dance step. Still she had been under a strain all day, weeping, too, almost continuously. He remembered this, and did not judge herharshly as she smoked, danced, and lightly sang, Her mother's name was Cleo, Her father's name was Pat; They called her Cleopatra, And let it go at that. 

CHAPTER XIV. OUT THERE WHERE MEN ARE MEN

From the dressing room the following morning, arrayed in the Buck Bensonoutfit, unworn since that eventful day on the Gashwiler lot, Mertonaccompanied Baird to a new set where he would work that day. Bairdwas profuse in his admiration of the cowboy embellishments, the maroonchaps, the new boots, the hat, the checked shirt and gay neckerchief. 

"I'm mighty glad to see you so sincere in your work, " he assured Merton. "A lot of these hams I hire get to kidding on the set and spoil theatmosphere, but don't let it bother you. One earnest leading man, ifhe'll just stay earnest, will carry the piece. Remember that--you got aserious part. "

"I'll certainly remember, " Merton earnestly assured him. 

"Here we are; this is where we begin the Western stuff, " said Baird. Merton recognized the place. It was the High Gear Dance Hall where theMontague girl had worked. The name over the door was now "The ComeAll Ye, " and there was a hitching rack in front to which were tetheredhalf-a--dozen saddled horses. 

Inside, the scene was set as he remembered it. Tables for drinkingwere about the floor, and there was a roulette wheel at one side. Ared-shirted bartender, his hair plastered low over his brow, leanednegligently on the bar. Scattered around the room were dance-hall girlsin short skirts, and a number of cowboys. 

"First, I'll wise you up a little bit, " said Baird. "You've come outhere to work on a ranche in the great open spaces, and these cowboys alllove you and come to town with you every time, and they'll stand byyou when the detective from New York gets here. Now--let's see--I guessfirst we'll get your entrance. You come in the front door at the headof them. You've ridden in from the ranche. We get the horseback stufflater. You all come in yelling and so on, and the boys scatter, some tothe bar and some to the wheel, and some sit down to the tables to havetheir drinks and some dance with the girls. You distribute money to themfrom a paper sack. Here's the sack. " From a waiting property boy he tooka paper sack. "Put this in your pocket and take it out whenever you needmoney. 

"It's the same sack, see, that the kid put the stolen money in, andyou saved it after returning the money. It's just a kind of an idea ofmine, " he vaguely added, as Merton looked puzzled at this. 

"All right, sir. " He took the sack, observing it to contain a rudeimitation of bills, and stuffed it into his pocket. 

"Then, after the boys scatter around, you go stand at the end of thebar. You don't join in their sports and pastimes, see? You're serious;you have things on your mind. Just sort of look around the place as ifyou were holding yourself above such things, even if you do like to givethe boys a good time. Now we'll try the entrance. "

Cameras were put into place, and Merton Gill led through the front doorhis band of rollicking good fellows. He paused inside to give them billsfrom the paper sack. They scattered to their dissipations. Their leaderausterely posed at one end of the bar and regarded the scene withdisapproving eyes. Wine, women, and the dance were not for him. Heproduced again the disillusioned look that had won Henshaw. 

"Fine, " said Baird. "Gun it, boys. "

The scene was shot, and Baird spoke again: "Hold it, everybody; go onwith your music, and you boys keep up the dance until Mother's entrance, then you quit and back off. "

Merton was puzzled by this speech, but continued his superior look, breaking it with a very genuine shock of surprise when his old mothertottered in at the front door. She was still the disconsolate creatureof the day before, bedraggled, sad-eyed, feeble, very aged, and stillshe carried her bucket and the bundle of rags with which she had mopped. Baird came forward again. 

"Oh, I forgot to tell you. Of course you had your old mother follow youout here to the great open spaces, but the poor old thing has crackedunder the strain of her hard life, see what I mean? All her dear oneshave been leaving the old nest and going out over the hills one byone-you were the last to go-and now she isn't quite right, see?

"You have a good home on the ranche for her, but she won't stay put. Shefollows you around, and the only thing that keeps her quiet is mopping, so you humour her; you let her mop. It's the only way. But of course itmakes you sad. You look at her now, then go up and hug her the way youdid yesterday; you try to get her to give up mopping, but she won't, soyou let her go on. Try it. "

Merton went forward to embrace his old mother. Here was tragedy indeed, a bit of biting pathos from a humble life. He gave the best that was inhim as he enfolded the feeble old woman and strained her to his breast, murmuring to her that she must give it up-give it up. 

The old lady wept, but was stubborn. She tore herself from his armsand knelt on the floor. "I just got to mop, I just got to mop, " she wasrepeating in a cracked voice. "If I ain't let to mop I git rough tillI'm simply a scandal. "

It was an affecting scene, marred only by one explosive bit of coarselaughter from an observing cowboy at the close of the old mother'sspeech. Merton Gill glanced up in sharp annoyance at this offender. Baird was quick in rebuke. 

"The next guy that laughs at this pathos can get off the set, " heannounced, glaring at the assemblage. There was no further outbreak andthe scene was filmed. 

There followed a dramatic bit that again involved the demented mother. "This ought to be good if you can do it the right way, " began Baird. "Mother's mopping along there and slashes some water on this Mexican'sboot-where are you, Pedro? Come here and get this. The old lady slosheswater on you while you're playing monte here, so you yell Carramba orsomething, and kick at her. You don't land on her, of course, buther son rushes up and grabs your arm--here, do it this way. " Bairddemonstrated. "Grab his wrist with one hand and his elbow with the otherand make as if you broke his arm across your knee-you know, like youwere doing joojitsey. He slinks off with his broken arm, and you justdust your hands off and embrace your mother again. 

"Then you go back to the bar, not looking at Pedro at all. See? He'sinsulted your mother, and you've resented it in a nice, dignified, gentlemanly way. Try it. "

Pedro sat at the table and picked up his cards. He was a foul-lookingMexican and seemed capable even of the enormity he was about to commit. The scene was rehearsed to Baird's satisfaction, then shot. The weepingold lady, blinded by her tears, awkward with her mop, the brutalMexican, his prompt punishment. 

The old lady was especially pathetic as she glared at her insulter fromwhere she lay sprawled on the floor, and muttered, "Carramba, huh? Idare you to come outside and say that to me!"

"Good work, " applauded Baird when the scene was finished. "Now we'regetting into the swing of it. In about three days here we'll havesomething that exhibitors can clean up on, see if we don't. "

The three days passed in what for Merton Gill was a whirlwind ofdramatic intensity. If at times he was vaguely disquieted by a suspicionthat the piece was not wholly serious, he had only to remember theintense seriousness of his own part and the always serious manner ofBaird in directing his actors. And indeed there were but few momentswhen he was even faintly pricked by this suspicion. It seemed a bitincongruous that Hoffmeyer, the delicatessen merchant, should arrive ona bicycle, dressed in cowboy attire save for a badly dented derby hat, and carrying a bag of golf clubs; and it was a little puzzling howHoffmeyer should have been ruined by his son's mad act, when it wouldhave been shown that the money was returned to him. But Baird explainedcarefully that the old man had been ruined some other way, and wasdemented, like the poor old mother who had gone over the hills after herchildren had left the home nest. And assuredly in Merton's own actionhe found nothing that was not deeply earnest as well as strikinglydramatic. There was the tense moment when a faithful cowboy broke uponthe festivities with word that a New York detective was coming to searchfor the man who had robbed the Hoffmeyer establishment. His friendsgathered loyally about Merton and swore he would never be taken fromthem alive. He was induced to don a false mustache until the detectivehad gone. It was a long, heavy black mustache with curling tips, andin this disguise he stood aloof from his companions when the detectiveentered. 

The detective was the cross-eyed man, himself now disguised as SherlockHolmes, with a fore-and-aft cloth cap and drooping blond mustache. He smoked a pipe as he examined those present. Merton was unable tooverlook this scene, as he had been directed to stand with his backto the detective. Later it was shown that he observed in a mirror theMexican whom he had punished creeping forward to inform the detective ofhis man's whereabouts. The coward's treachery cost him dearly. The hero, still with his back turned, drew his revolver and took careful aim bymeans of the mirror. 

This had been a spot where for a moment he was troubled. Instead ofpointing the weapon over his shoulder, aiming by the mirror, he wasdirected to point it at the Mexican's reflection in the glass, and tofire at this reflection. "It's all right, " Baird assured him. "It'sa camera trick, see? It may look now as if you were shooting into themirror but it comes perfectly right on the film. You'll see. Go on, aim carefully, right smack at that looking-glass--fire!" Still somewhatdoubting, Merton fired. The mirror was shattered, but a dozen feet backof him the treacherous Mexican threw up his arms and fell lifeless, abullet through his cowardly heart. It was a puzzling bit of trick-work, he thought, but Baird of course would know what was right, so thepuzzle was dismissed. Buck Benson, silent man of the open, had got thescoundrel who would have played him false. 

A thrilling struggle ensued between Merton and the hellhound of justice. Perceiving who had slain his would-be informant, the detective came toconfront Merton. Snatching off his cap and mustache he stood revealed asthe man who had not dared to arrest him at the scene of his crime. Withanother swift movement he snatched away the mustache that haddisguised his quarry. Buck Benson, at bay, sprang like a tiger upon hisantagonist. They struggled while the excited cowboys surged about them. The detective proved to be no match for Benson. He was borne to earth, then raised aloft and hurled over the adjacent tables. 

This bit of acting had involved a trick which was not obscure to Mertonlike his shot into the mirror that brought down a man back of him. Moreover, it was a trick of which he approved. When he bore thedetective to earth the cameras halted their grinding while a dummy inthe striking likeness of the detective was substituted. It was a lightaffair, and he easily raised it for the final toss of triumph. 

"Throw it high as you can over those tables and toward the bar, " calledBaird. The figure was thrown as directed. 

"Fine work! Now look up, as if he was still in the air, now down, nowbrush your left sleeve lightly with your right hand, now brush yourright sleeve lightly with your left hand. 

"All right--cut. Great, Merton! If that don't get you a hand I don'tknow what will. Now all outside for the horseback stuff!"

Outside, the faithful cowboys leaped into their saddles and urged theirbeloved leader to do the same. But he lingered beside his own horse, pleading with them to go ahead. He must remain in the place of dangeryet awhile for he had forgotten to bring out his old mother. Theybesought him to let them bring her out, but he would not listen. Hisalone was the task. 

Reluctantly the cowboys galloped off. As he turned to re-enter thedance-hall he was confronted by the detective, who held two frowningweapons upon him. Benson was at last a prisoner. 

The detective brutally ordered his quarry inside. Benson, seeing he wasbeaten, made a manly plea that he might be let to bid his horse good-by. The detective seemed moved. He relented. Benson went to his good oldpal. 

"Here's your chance for a fine bit, " called Baird. "Give it to us nowthe way you did in that still. Broaden it all you want to. Go to it. "

Well did Merton Gill know that here was his chance for a fine bit. Thehorse was strangely like Dexter upon whom he had so often rehearsedthis bit. He was a bony, drooping, sad horse with a thin neck. "They'retakin' ye frum me, old pal--takin' ye frum me. You an' me has seensome tough times an' I sort o' figgered we'd keep on together till thelast--an' now they got me, old pal, takin' me far away where ye won'tsee me no more--"

"Go to it, cowboy--take all the footage you want!" called Baird in acuriously choked voice. 

The actor took some more footage. "But we got to keep a stiff upper lip, old pal, you and me both. No cryin', no bustin' down. We had out lastgallop together, an' we're at the forkin' of th' trail. So we got to bebrave--we got to stand the gaff. "

Benson released his old pal, stood erect, dashed a bit of moisture fromhis eyes, and turned to the waiting detective who, it seemed, had alsobeen strangely moved during this affecting farewell. Yet he had notforgotten his duty. Benson was forced to march back into the Come All YeDance Hall. As he went he was wishing that Baird would have him escapeand flee on his old pal. 

And Baird was a man who seemed to think of everything, or perhaps hehad often seen the real Buck Benson's play, for it now appeared thateverything was going to be as Merton Gill wished. Baird had evencontrived an escape that was highly spectacular. 

Locked by the detective in an upper room, the prisoner went to thewindow and glanced out to find that his loyal horse was directlybeneath him. He would leap from the window, alight in the saddle after atwenty-foot drop, and be off over the border. The window scene was shot, including a flash of the horse below. The mechanics of the leap itselfrequired more time. Indeed, it took the better part of a morning tosatisfy Baird that this thrilling exploit had been properly achieved. From a lower window, quite like the high one, Merton leaped, but only tothe ground a few feet below. 

"That's where we get your take-off, " Baird explained. 

"Now we get you lighting in the saddle. " This proved to be a moredelicate bit of work. From a platform built out just above the faithfulhorse Merton precariously scrambled down into the saddle. He glancedanxiously at Baird, fearing he had not alighted properly after thesupposed twenty-foot drop, but the manager appeared to be delighted withhis prowess after the one rehearsal, and the scene was shot. 

"It's all jake, " Baird assured him. "Don't feel worried. Of coursewe'll trick the bit where you hit the saddle; the camera'll look out forthat. "

One detail only troubled Merton. After doing the leap from the highwindow, and before doing its finish where he reached the saddle, Bairddirected certain changes in his costume. He was again to don the falsemustache, to put his hat on, and also a heavy jacket lined with sheep'swool worn by one of the cowboys in the dance-hall. Merton was pleasedto believe he had caught the manager napping here. "But Mr. Baird, if Ileap from the window without the hat or mustache or jacket and landon my horse in them, wouldn't it look as if I had put them on as I wasfalling?"

Baird was instantly overcome with confusion. "Now, that's so! I swear Inever thought of that, Merton. I'm glad you spoke about it in time. Yousure have shown me up as a director. You see I wanted you to disguiseyourself again--I'll tell you; get the things on, and after we shoot youlighting in the saddle we'll retake the window scene. That'll fix it. "

Not until long afterward, on a certain dread night when the earth was torock beneath him, did he recall that Baird had never retaken that windowscene. At present the young actor was too engrossed by the details ofhis daring leap to remember small things. The leap was achieved at last. He was in the saddle after a twenty-foot drop. He gathered up the reins, the horse beneath him coughed plaintively, and Merton rode him out ofthe picture. Baird took a load off his mind as to this bit of riding. 

"Will you want me to gallop?" he asked, recalling the unhappy experiencewith Dexter. 

"No; just walk him beyond the camera line. The camera'll trick it up allright. " So, safely, confidently, he had ridden his steed beyond thelens range at a curious shuffling amble, and his work at the Come All YeDance Hall was done. 

Then came some adventurous days in the open. In motor cars the companyof artists was transported to a sunny nook in the foothills beyondthe city, and here in the wild, rough, open spaces, the drama ofmother-love, sacrifice, and thrills was further unfolded. 

First to be done here was the continuation of the hero's escape from thedance-hall. Upon his faithful horse he ambled along a quiet road untilhe reached the shelter of an oak tree. Here he halted at the roadside. 

"You know the detective is following you, " explained Baird, "and you'regoing to get him. Take your nag over a little so the tree won't maskhim too much. That's it. Now, you look back, lean forward in the saddle, listen! You hear him coming. Your face sets--look as grim as you can. That's the stuff--the real Buck Benson stuff when they're after him. That's fine. Now you get an idea. Unlash your rope, let the nooseout, give it a couple of whirls to see is everything all right. That'sit--only you still look grim--not so worried about whether the rope isgoing to act right. We'll attend to that. When the detective comes insight give about three good whirls and let her fly. Try it once. Good!Now coil her up again and go through the whole thing. Never mind aboutwhether you're going to get him or not. Remember, Buck Benson nevermisses. We'll have a later shot that shows the rope falling over hishead. "

Thereupon the grim-faced Benson, strong, silent man of the open, whilethe cameras ground, waited the coming of one who hounded him for acrime of which he was innocent. His iron face was relentless. He leanedforward, listening. He uncoiled the rope, expertly ran out the noose, and grimly waited. Far up the road appeared the detective on a gallopinghorse. Benson twirled the rope as he sat in his saddle. It left hishand, to sail gracefully in the general direction of his pursuer. 

"Cut!" called Baird. "That was bully. Now you got him. Ride out intothe road. You're dragging him off his horse, see? Keep on up the road;you're still dragging the hound. Look back over your shoulder and lightyour face up just a little--that's it, use Benson's other expression. You got it fine. You're treating the skunk rough, but look what he wasdoing to you, trying to pinch you for something you never did. That'sfine--go ahead. Don't look back any more. "

Merton was chiefly troubled at this moment by the thought that someonewould have to double for him in the actual casting of the rope thatwould settle upon the detective's shoulders. Well, he must practiseroping. Perhaps, by the next picture, he could do this stuff himself. Itwas exciting work, though sometimes tedious. It had required almostan entire morning to enact this one simple scene, with the numerousclose-ups that Baird demanded. 

The afternoon was taken up largely in becoming accustomed to a pair ofold Spanish spurs that Baird now provided him with. Baird said theywere very rare old spurs which he had obtained at a fancy price from animpoverished Spanish family who had treasured them as heirlooms. He saidhe was sure that Buck Benson in all his vast collection did not possessa pair of spurs like these. He would doubtless, after seeing them wornby Merton Gill in this picture, have a pair made like them. 

The distinguishing feature of these spurs was their size. They wereenormous, and their rowels extended a good twelve inches from Merton'sheels after he had donned them. 

"They may bother you a little at first, " said Baird, "but you'll getused to them, and they're worth a little trouble because they'll standout. "

The first effort to walk in them proved bothersome indeed, for it wasmade over ground covered with a low-growing vine and the spurs caughtin this. Baird was very earnest in supervising this progress, and evendemanded the presence of two cameras to record it. 

"Of course I'm not using this stuff, " he said, "but I want to make acareful study of it. These are genuine hidalgo spurs. Mighty few men inthis line of parts could get away with them. I bet Benson himself wouldhave a lot of trouble. Now, try it once more. "

Merton tried once more, stumbling as the spurs caught in theundergrowth. The cameras closely recorded his efforts, and Bairdapplauded them. "You're getting it--keep on. That's better. Now try torun a few steps--go right toward that left-hand camera. "

He ran the few steps, but fell headlong. He picked himself up, anexpression of chagrin on his face. 

"Never mind, " urged Baird. "Try it again. We must get this right. " Hetried again to run; was again thrown. But he was determined to pleasethe manager, and he earnestly continued his efforts. Benson himselfwould see the picture and probably marvel that a new man should havemastered, apparently with ease, a pair of genuine hidalgos. 

"Maybe we better try smoother ground, " Baird at last suggested afterrepeated falls had shown that the undergrowth was difficult. So thecameras were moved on to the front of a ranche house now in use for thedrama, and the spur lessons continued. But on smooth ground it appearedthat the spurs were still troublesome. After the first mishap hereMerton discovered the cause. The long shanks were curved inward so thatin walking their ends clashed. He pointed this out to Baird, who wasamazed at the discovery. 

"Well, well, that's so! They're bound to interfere. I never knew thatabout hidalgo spurs before. "

"We might straighten them, " suggested the actor. 

"No, no, " Baird insisted, "I wouldn't dare try that. They cost too muchmoney, and it might break 'em. I tell you what you do, stand up andtry this: just toe in a little when you walk--that'll bring the pointsapart. There--that's it; that's fine. "

The cameras were again recording so that Baird could later make hisstudy of the difficulties to be mastered by the wearer of genuinehidalgos. By toeing in Merton now succeeded in walking without disaster, though he could not feel that he was taking the free stride of men outthere in the open spaces. 

"Now try running. " directed Baird, and he tried running; but again thespurs caught and he was thrown full in the eyes of the grinding camera. He had forgotten to toe in. But he would not give up. His face was setin Buck Benson grimness. Each time he picked himself up and earnestlyresumed the effort. The rowels were now catching in the long hair of hischaps. 

He worked on, directed and cheered by the patient Baird, while the twocamera men, with curiously strained faces, recorded his failures. Bairdhad given strict orders that other members of the company should remainat a distance during the spur lessons, but now he seemed to believe thata few other people might encourage the learner. Merton was directed torun to his old mother who, bucket at her side and mop in hand, knelt onthe ground at a little distance. He was also directed to run towardthe Montague girl, now in frontier attire of fringed buckskin. He madeearnest efforts to keep his feet during these essays, but the spursstill proved treacherous. 

"Just pick yourself up and go on, " ordered Baird, and had the camerassecure close shots of Merton picking himself up and going carefully on, toeing in now, to embrace his weeping old mother and the breathless girlwho had awaited him with open arms. 

He was tired that night, but the actual contusions he had suffered inhis falls where forgotten in the fear that he might fail to master thehidalgos. Baird himself seemed confident that his pupil would yet excitethe jealousy of Buck Benson in this hazardous detail of the screen art. He seemed, indeed, to be curiously satisfied with his afternoon's work. He said that he would study the film carefully and try to discover justhow the spurs could be mastered. 

"You'll show 'em yet how to take a joke, " he declared when the puzzlingimplements were at last doffed. The young actor felt repaid for hisearnest efforts. No one could put on a pair of genuine hidalgos for thefirst time and expect to handle them correctly. 

There were many days in the hills. Until this time the simple drama hadbeen fairly coherent in Merton Gill's mind. So consecutively were thescenes shot that the story had not been hard to follow. But now camerather a jumble of scenes, not only at times bewildering in themselves, but apparently unrelated. 

First it appeared that the Montague girl, as Miss Rebecca Hoffmeyer, hadtired of being a mere New York society butterfly, had come out into thebig open spaces to do something real, something worth while. The ruinof her father, still unexplained, had seemed to call out unsuspectedreserves in the girl. She was stern and businesslike in such scenes asMerton was permitted to observe. And she had not only brought her ruinedfather out to the open spaces but the dissipated brother, who was stillseen to play at dice whenever opportunity offered. He played with thejolly cowboys and invariably won. 

Off in the hills there were many scenes which Merton did not overlook. "I want you to have just your own part in mind, " Baird told him. And, although he was puzzled later, he knew that Baird was somehow makingit right in the drama when he became again the successful actor of thatfirst scene, which he had almost forgotten. He was no longer the BuckBenson of the open spaces, but the foremost idol of the shadowed stage, and in Harold Parmalee's best manner he informed the aspiring Montaguegirl that he could not accept her as leading lady in his next picturebecause she lacked experience. The wager of a kiss was laughingly madeas she promised that within ten days she would convince him of hertalent. 

Later she herself, in an effective scene, became the grimfaced BuckBenson and held the actor up at the point of her two guns. Then, when she had convinced him that she was Benson, she appeared after aninterval as her own father; the fiery beard, the derby hat with itsdents, the chaps, the bicycle, and golf bag. In this scene she seemed todemand the actor's intentions toward the daughter, and again overwhelmedhim with confusion, as Parmalee had been overwhelmed when she revealedher true self under the baffling disguise. The wager of a kiss wasprettily paid. This much of the drama he knew. And there was anaffecting final scene on a hillside. 

The actor, arrayed in chaps, spurs, and boots below the waist was, abovethis, in faultless evening dress. "You see, it's a masquerade party atthe ranche, " Baird explained, "and you've thought up this costume tosort of puzzle the little lady. "

The girl herself was in the short, fringed buckskin skirt, with knifeand revolvers in her belt. Off in the hills day after day she had wornthis costume in those active scenes he had not witnessed. Now she wasmerely coy. He followed her out on the hillside with only a littletrouble from the spurs--indeed he fell but once as he approachedher--and the little drama of the lovers, at last united, was touchinglyshown. 

In the background, as they stood entwined, the poor demented old motherwas seen. With mop and bucket she was cleansing the side of a cliff, butthere was a happier look on the worn old face. 

"Glance around and see her, " railed Baird. "Then explain to the girlthat you will always protect your mother, no matter what happens. That'sit. Now the clench--kiss her--slow! That's it. Cut!"

Merton's part in the drama was ended. He knew that the company workedin the hills another week and there were more close-ups to take in thedance-hall, but he was not needed in these. Baird congratulated himwarmly. 

"Fine work, my boy! You've done your first picture, and with MissMontague as your leading lady I feel that you're going to land ace-highwith your public. Now all you got to do for a couple of weeks is to takeit easy while we finish up some rough ends of this piece. Then we'll beready to start on the new one. It's pretty well doped out, and there'sa big part in it for you--big things to be done in a big way, see what Imean. "

"Well, I'm glad I suited you, " Merton replied. "I tried to give the bestthat was in me to a sincere interpretation of that fine part. And itwas a great surprise to me. I never thought I'd be working for you, Mr. Baird, and of course I wouldn't have been if you had kept on doing thosecomedies. I never would have wanted to work in one of them. " "Of coursenot, " agreed Baird cordially. "I realized that you were a seriousartist, and you came in the nick of time, just when I was wanting to beserious myself, to get away from that slap-stick stuff into somethingbetter and finer. You came when I needed you. And, look here, Merton, Isigned you on at forty a week--"

"Yes, sir: I was glad to get it. "

"Well, I'm going to give you more. From the beginning of the new pictureyou're on the payroll at seventy-five a week. No, no, not a word--" asMerton would have thanked him. "You're earning the money. And for thepicture after that--well, if you keep on giving the best that's in you, it will be a whole lot more. Now take a good rest till we're ready foryou. "

At last he had won. Suffering and sacrifice had told. And Baird hadspoken of the Montague girl as his leading lady--quite as if he were astar. And seventy-five dollars a week! A sum Gashwiler had made him workfive weeks for. Now he had something big to write to his old friend, Tessie Kearns. She might spread the news in Simsbury, he thought. Hecontrived a close-up of Gashwiler hearing it, of Mrs. Gashwiler hearingit, of Metta Judson hearing it. 

They would all be incredulous until a certain picture was shown at theBijou Palace, a gripping drama of mother-love, of a clean-limbed youngAmerican type wrongfully accused of a crime and taking the burden of itupon his own shoulders for the sake of the girl he had come to love; ofthe tense play of elemental forces in the great West, the regenerationof a shallow society girl when brought to adversity by the ruin of herold father; of the lovers reunited in that West they both loved. 

And somehow--this was still a puzzle--the very effective weaving inand out of the drama of the world's most popular screen idol, played soexpertly by Clifford Armytage who looked enough like him to be his twinbrother. 

Fresh from joyous moments in the projection room, the Montague girlgazed at Baird across the latter's desk, Baird spoke. 

"Sis, he's a wonder. "

"Jeff, you're a wonder. How'd you ever keep him from getting wise?"

Baird shrugged. "Easy! We caught him fresh. "

"How'd you ever win him to do all those falls on the trick spurs, andget the close-ups of them? Didn't he know you were shooting?"

"Oh!" Baird shrugged again. "A little talk made that all jake. But whatbothers me--how's he going to act when he's seen the picture?"

The girl became grave. "I'm scared stiff every time I think of it. Maybehe'll murder you, Jeff. "

"Maybe he'll murder both of us. You got him into it. "

She did not smile, but considered gravely, absently. 

"There's something else might happen, " she said at last. "That boy's gotat least a couple of sides to him. I'd rather he'd be crazy mad thanbe what I'm thinking of now, and that's that all this stuff might justfairly break his heart. Think of it--to see his fine honest actingturned into good old Buckeye slap-stick! Can't you get that? How'd youlike to think you were playing Romeo, and act your heart out at it, andthen find out they'd slipped in a cross-eyed Juliet in a comedy make-upon you? Well, you can laugh, but maybe it won't be funny to him. Honest, Jeff, that kid gets me under the ribs kind of. I hope he takes itstanding up, and goes good and crazy mad. "

"I'll know what to say to him if he does that. If he takes it the otherway, lying down, I'll be too ashamed ever to look him in the eye again. Say, it'll be like going up to a friendly baby and soaking it with apotato masher or something. "

"Don't worry about it, Kid. Anyway, it won't be your fault so much asmine. And you think there's only two ways for him to take it, mad orheart broken? Well, let me tell you something about that lad--he mightfool you both ways. I don't know just how, but I tell you he's an actor, a born one. What he did is going to get over big. And I never yet saw aborn actor that would take applause lying down, even if it does comefor what he didn't know he was doing. Maybe he'll be mad--that's naturalenough. But maybe he'll fool us both. So cheerio, old Pippin! and let'sfly into the new piece. I'll play safe by shooting the most of thatbefore the other one is released. And he'll still be playing straight ina serious heart drama. Fancy that, Armand!"

CHAPTER XV. A NEW TRAIL

One genial morning a few days later the sun shone in across the desk ofBaird while he talked to Merton Gill of the new piece. It was a sun offairest promise. Mr. Gill's late work was again lavishly commended, and confidence was expressed that he would surpass himself in the dramashortly to be produced. 

Mr. Baird spoke in enthusiastic terms of this, declaring that if it didnot prove to be a knock-out--a clean-up picture--then he, Jeff Baird, could safely be called a Chinaman. And during the time that would elapsebefore shooting on the new piece could begin he specified a certainstudy in which he wished his actor to engage. 

"You've watched the Edgar Wayne pictures, haven't you?"

"Yes, I've seen a number of them. "

"Like his work?--that honestcountry-boy-loving-his--mother-and-little-sister stuff, wearing overallsand tousled hair in the first part, and coming out in city clothes andeight dollar neckties at the last, with his hair slicked back same as aseal?"

"Oh, yes, I like it. He's fine. He has a great appeal. "

"Good! That's the kind of a part you're going to get in this new piece. Lots of managers in my place would say 'No-he's a capable young chap andhas plenty of talent, but he lacks the experience to play an Edgar Waynepart. ' That's what a lot of these Wisenheimers would say. But me--notso. I believe you can get away with this part, and I'm going to give youyour chance. "

"I'm sure I don't know how to thank you, Mr. Baird, and I'll try to giveyou the very best that is in me--"

"I'm sure of that, my boy; you needn't tell me. But now--what I want youto do while you got this lay-off between pieces, chase out and watch allthe Edgar Wayne pictures you can find. There was one up on the Boulevardlast week I'd like you to watch half-a-dozen times. It may be at anotherhouse down this way, or it may be out in one of the suburbs. I'll havesomeone outside call up and find where it is to-day and they'll let youknow. It's called Happy Homestead or something snappy like that, and itkind of suggests a layout for this new piece of mine, see what I mean?It'll suggest things to you. 

"Edgar and his mother and little sister live on this farm and Edgarmixes in with a swell dame down at the summer hotel, and a villain triesto get his old mother's farm and another villain takes his little sisteroff up to the wicked city, and Edgar has more trouble than would patchHell a mile, see? But it all comes right in the end, and the city girlfalls for him when she sees him in his stepping-out clothes. 

"It's a pretty little thing, but to my way of thinking it lacksstrength; not enough punch to it. So we're sort of building up on thatgeneral idea, only we'll put in the pep that this piece lacked. If Idon't miss my guess, you'll be able to show Wayne a few things aboutserious acting--especially after you've studied his methods a little bitin this piece. "

"Well, if you think I can do it, " began Merton, then broke off in answerto a sudden thought. "Will my mother be the same actress that played itbefore, the one that mopped all the time?"

"Yes, the same actress, but a different sort of mother. She--she's moreenterprising; she's a sort of chemist, in a way; puts up preserves andjellies for the hotel. She never touches a mop in the whole piece anddresses neat from start to finish. "

"And does the cross-eyed man play in it? Sometimes, in scenes with him, I'd get the idea I wasn't really doing my best. "

"Yes, yes, I know. " Baird waved a sympathetic hand. "Poor old Jack. He'strying hard to do something worth while, but he's played in those cheapcomedy things so long it's sort of hard for him to get out of it andplay serious stuff, if you know what I mean. "

"I know what you mean, " said Merton. 

"And he's been with me so long I kind of hate to discharge him. You see, on account of those eyes of his, it would be hard for him to get a jobas a serious actor, so I did think I'd give him another part inthis piece if you didn't object, just to sort of work him into theworth-while things. He's so eager for the chance. It was quite pathetichow grateful he looked when I told him I'd try him once more in one ofthe better and finer things. And a promise is a promise. "

"Still, Merton, you're the man I must suit in this cast; if you say theword I'll tell Jack he must go, though I know what a blow it will be tohim--"

"Oh, no, Mr. Baird, " Merton interrupted fervently, "I wouldn't thinkof such a thing. Let the poor fellow have a chance to learn somethingbetter than the buffoonery he's been doing. I'll do everything I canto help him. I think it is very pathetic, his wanting to do the betterthings; it's fine of him. And maybe some day he could save up enough tohave a good surgeon fix his eyes right. It might be done, you know. "

"Now that's nice of you, my boy. It's kind and generous. Not every actorof your talent would want Jack working in the same scene with him. Andperhaps, as you say, some day he can save up enough from his wagesto have his eyes fixed. I'll mention it to him. And this reminds me, speaking of the cast, there's another member who might bother some ofthese fussy actors. She's the girl who will take the part of your citysweetheart. As a matter of fact, she isn't exactly the type I'd havepicked for the part, because she's rather a large, hearty girl, if youknow what I mean. I could have found a lot who were better lookers; butthe poor thing has a bedridden father and mother and a little crippledbrother and a little sister that isn't well, and she's working hard tosend them all to school--I mean the children, not her parents; so I sawthe chance to do her a good turn, and I hope you'll feel that you canwork harmoniously with her. I know I'm too darned human to be in thisbusiness--" Baird looked aside to conceal his emotion. 

"I'm sure, Mr. Baird, I'll get along fine with the young lady, and Ithink it's fine of you to give these people jobs when you could getbetter folks in their places. "

"Well, well, we'll say no more about that, " replied Baird gruffly, asone who had again hidden his too-impressionable heart. "Now ask in theouter office where that Wayne film is to-day and catch it as often asyou feel you're getting any of the Edgar Wayne stuff. We'll call you upwhen work begins. "

He saw the Edgar Wayne film, a touching story in which the timid, diffident country boy triumphed over difficulties and won the love ofa pure New York society girl, meantime protecting his mother from theinsulting sneers of the idle rich and being made to suffer intensely bythe apparent moral wreck of his dear little sister whom a rich scoundrellured to the great city with false promises that he would make a finelady of her. Never before had he studied the acting method of Waynewith a definite aim in view. Now he watched until he himself became theawkward country boy. He was primed with the Wayne manner, the appealingingenuousness, the simple embarrassments; the manly regard for the oldmother, when word came that Baird was ready for him in the new piece. 

This drama was strikingly like the Wayne piece he had watched, at leastin its beginning. Baird, in his striving for the better things, seemedat first to have copied his model almost too faithfully. Not only wasMerton to be the awkward country boy in the little hillside farmhouse, but his mother and sister were like the other mother and sister. 

Still, he began to observe differences. The little sister--played by theMontague girl--was a simple farm maiden as in the other piece, but themother was more energetic. She had silvery hair and wore a neat blackdress, with a white lace collar and a cameo brooch at her neck, andshe embraced her son tearfully at frequent intervals, as had the othermother; but she carried on in her kitchen an active business in canningfruits and putting up jellies, which, sold to the rich people atthe hotel, would swell the little fund that must be saved to pay themortgage. Also, in the present piece, the country boy was to become agreat inventor, and this was different. Merton felt that this was a goodtouch; it gave him dignity. 

He appeared ready for work on the morning designated. He was now able tomake up himself, and he dressed in the country-boy costume that had beenprovided. It was perhaps not so attractive a costume as Edgar Waynehad worn, consisting of loose-fitting overalls that came well above hiswaist and were fastened by straps that went over the shoulders; but, asBaird remarked, the contrast would be greater when he dressed in richcity clothes at the last. His hair, too, was no longer the slicked-backhair of Parmalee, but tousled in country disorder. 

For much of the action of the new piece they would require an outsidelocation, but there were some interiors to be shot on the lot. He forgotthe ill-fitting overalls when shown his attic laboratory where, as anambitious young inventor, sustained by the unfaltering trust of motherand sister, he would perfect certain mechanical devices that would bringhim fame, fortune, and the love of a pure New York society girl. It wasa humble little room containing a work-bench that held his tools and atable littered with drawings over which he bent until late hours of thenight. 

At this table, simple, unaffected, deeply earnest, he was shown as thedreaming young inventor, perplexed at moments, then, with brighteningeyes, making some needful change in the drawings. He felt in thesescenes that he was revealing a world of personality. And he muststruggle to give a sincere interpretation in later scenes that wouldrequire more action. He would show Baird that he had not watched EdgarWayne without profit. 

Another interior was of the neat living room of the humble home. Herewere scenes of happy family life with the little sister and the fondold mother. The Montague girl was a charming picture in her simple printdress and sunbonnet beneath which hung her braid of golden hair. Themother was a sweet old dear, dressed as Baird had promised. She earlyconfided to Merton that she was glad her part was not to be a moppingpart. In that case she would have had to wear knee-pads, whereas now shewas merely, she said, to be a tired business woman. 

Still another interior was of her kitchen where she busily carried onher fruit-canning activities. Pots boiled on the stove and glass jarswere filled with her product. One of the pots, Merton noticed, thelargest, had a tightly closed top from which a slender tube of copperwent across one corner of the little room to where it coiled in a bucketfilled with water, whence it discharged its contents into bottles. 

This, it seemed, was his mother's improved grape juice, a cooling drinkto tempt the jaded palates of the city folks up at the big hotel. 

The laboratory of the young inventor was abundantly filmed while theearnest country boy dreamed hopefully above his drawings or tinkered atmetal devices on the work-bench. The kitchen in which his mother toiledwas repeatedly shot, including close-ups of the old mother's ingeniouscontrivances--especially of the closed boiler with its coil of coppertubing--by which she was helping to save the humble home. 

And a scene in the neat living room with its old-fashioned furnituremade it all too clear that every effort would be required to savethe little home. The cruel money-lender, a lawyer with mean-lookingwhiskers, confronted the three shrinking inmates to warn them thathe must have his money by a certain day or out they would go into thestreets. The old mother wept at this, and the earnest boy took her inhis arms. The little sister, terrified by the man's rough words, alsoflew to this shelter, and thus he defied the intruder, calm, fearless, dignified. The money would be paid and the intruder would now pleaseremember that, until the day named, this little home was their very own. 

The scoundrel left with a final menacing wave of his gnarled hand; leftthe group facing ruin unless the invention could be perfected, unlessMother could sell an extraordinary quantity of fruit or improved grapejuice to the city folks, or, indeed, unless the little sister could dosomething wonderful. 

She, it now seemed, was confident she also could help. She stood apartfrom them and prettily promised to do something wonderful. She askedthem to remember that she was no longer a mere girl, but a woman with awoman's determination. They both patted the little thing encouraginglyon the back. 

The interiors possible on the Holden lot having been finished, theymotored each day to a remote edge of the city where outside locationshad been found for the humble farmhouse and the grand hotel. Thefarmhouse was excellently chosen, Merton thought, being the neat, unpretentious abode of honest, hard-working people; but the hotel, somedistance off, was not so grand, he thought, as Baird's new play seemedto demand. It was plainly a hotel, a wooden structure with balconies;but it seemed hardly to afford those attractions that would drawwealthier element from New York. He forebore to warn Baird of this, however, fearing to discourage a manager who was honestly striving forthe serious in photodrama. 

His first exterior scene saw him, with the help of Mother and littlesister, loading the one poor motor car which the family possessed withMother's products. These were then driven to the hotel. The Montaguegirl drove the car, and scenes of it in motion were shot from a car thatpreceded them. 

They arrived before the hotel; Merton was directed to take from the caran iron weight attached to a rope and running to a connection forwardon the hood. He was to throw the weight to the ground, plainly with thenotion that he would thus prevent the car from running away. The simpledevice was, in fact, similar to that used, at Gashwiler's strict orders, on the delivery wagon back in Simsbury, for Gashwiler had believed thatDexter would run away if untethered. But of course it was absurd, Mertonsaw, to anchor a motor car in such a manner, and he was somewhat takenaback when Baird directed this action. 

"It's all right, " Baird assured him. "You're a simple country boy, anddon't know any better, so do it plumb serious. You'll be smart enoughbefore the show's over. Go ahead, get out, grab the weight, throw itdown, and don't look at it again, as if you did this every time. That'sit. You're not being funny; just a simple country boy like Wayne wasat first. " He performed the action, still with some slight misgiving. Followed scenes of brother and sister offering Mother's wares to thecity folks idling on the porch of the hotel. Each bearing a basket theywere caught submitting the jellies and jams. The brother was laughed at, even sneered at, by the supercilious rich, the handsomely gowned womenand the dissipated looking men. No one appeared to wish his jellies. 

The little sister had better luck. The women turned from her, but themen gathered about her and quickly bought out the stock. She went tothe car for more and the men followed her. To Merton, who watched thesescenes, the dramatist's intention was plain. These men did not reallycare for jellies and jams, they were attracted solely by the wild-rosebeauty of the little country girl. And they were plainly the sort of menwhose attentions could mean no good to such as she. 

Left on the porch, he was now directed to approach a distinguishedlooking old gentleman, probably a banker and a power in Wall Street, whoread his morning papers. Timidly he stood before this person, thrustingforward his basket. The old gentleman glanced up in annoyance andbrutally rebuffed the country boy with an angry flourish of the paper heread. 

"You're hurt by this treatment, " called Baird, "and almost discouraged. You look back over your shoulder to where sister is doing a goodbusiness with her stuff, and you see the old mother back in her kitchen, working her fingers to the bone--we'll have a flash of that, see?--andyou try again. Take out that bottle in the corner of the basket, uncorkit, and try again. The old man looks up-he's smelled something. You holdthe bottle toward him and you're saying so-and-so, so-and-so, so-and-so, 'Oh, Mister, if you knew how hard my poor old mother works to make thisstuff! Won't you please take a little taste of her improved grape juiceand see if you don't want to buy a few shillings' worth'--so-and-so, so-and-so, so-and-so--see what I mean? That's it, look pleading. Thinkhow the little home depends on it. "

The old gentleman, first so rude, consented to taste the improved grapejuice. He put the bottle to his lips and tilted it. A camera was broughtup to record closely the look of pleased astonishment that enlivened hisface. He arose to his feet, tilted the bottle again, this time drinkingabundantly. He smacked his lips with relish, glanced furtively at thegroup of women in the background, caught the country boy by a sleeve anddrew him farther along the porch. 

"He's telling you what fine stuff this grape juice is, " explained Baird;"saying that your mother must be a wonderful old lady, and he'll dropover to meet her; and in the meantime he wants you to bring him all thisgrape juice she has. He'll take it; she can name her own price. Hehands you a ten dollar bill for the bottle he has and for another in thebasket--that's it, give it to him. The rest of the bottles are jamsor something. You want him to take them, but he pushes them back. He'ssaying he wants the improved grape juice or nothing. He shows a big wadof bills to show he can pay for it. You look glad now--the little homemay be saved after all. "

The scene was shot. Merton felt that he carried it acceptably. Hehad shown the diffident pleading of the country boy that his mother'sproduct should be at least tasted, his frank rejoicing when the oldgentleman approved of it. He was not so well satisfied with the work ofthe Montague girl as his innocent little sister. In her sale of Mother'sjellies to the city men, in her acceptance of their attentions, sheappeared to be just the least bit bold. It seemed almost as if shewished to attract their notice. He hesitated to admit it, for heprofoundly esteemed the girl, but there were even moments when, intechnical language, she actually seemed to "vamp" these creatures whothronged about her to profess for her jams and jellies an interest hewas sure they did not feel. 

He wondered if Baird had made it plain to her that she was a veryinnocent little country girl who should be unpleasantly affected bythese advances. The scene he watched shot where the little sisterclimbed back into the motor car, leered at by the four New Yorkclub-men, he thought especially distasteful. Surely the skirt of herprint dress was already short enough. She needed not to lift it underthis evil regard as she put her foot up to the step. 

It was on the porch of the hotel, too, that he was to have his firstscene with the New York society girl whose hand he won. She proved to bethe daughter of the old gentleman who liked the improved grape juice. As Baird had intimated, she was a large girl; not only tall and stoutlybuilt, but somewhat heavy of face. Baird's heart must have been touchedindeed when he consented to employ her, but Merton remembered herbedridden father and mother, the little crippled brother, the littlesister who was also in poor health, and resolved to make their scenestogether as easy for her as he could. 

At their first encounter she appeared in a mannish coat and ridingbreeches, though she looked every inch a woman in this attire. 

"She sees you, and it's a case of love at first sight on her part, "explained Baird. "And you love her, too, only you're a bashful countryboy and can't show it the way she can. Try out a little first scenenow. "

Merton stood, his basket on his arm, as the girl approached him. "Lookdown, " called Baird, and Merton lowered his gaze under the ardent regardof the social butterfly. She tossed away her cigarette and came nearer. Then she mischievously pinched his cheek as the New York men had pinchedhis little sister's. Having done this, she placed her hand beneath hischin and raised his face to hers. 

"Now look up at her, " called Baird. "But she frightens you. Rememberyour country raising. You never saw a society girl before. That'sit--look frightened while she's admiring you in that bold way. Now turna little and look down again. Pinch his cheek once more, Lulu. Now, Merton, look up and smile, but kind of scared--you're still afraid ofher--and offer her a bottle of Ma's preserves. Step back a little as youdo it, because you're kind of afraid of what she might do next. That'sfine. Good work, both of you. "

He was glad for the girl's sake that Baird had approved the work ofboth. He had been afraid she was overdoing the New York society mannerin the boldness of her advances to him, but of course Baird would know. 

His conscience hurt him a little when the Montague girl added her praiseto Baird's for his own work. "Kid, you certainly stepped neat and lookednice in that love scene, " she warmly told him. He would have liked topraise her own work, but could not bring himself to. Perhaps she wouldgrow more shrinking and modest as the drama progressed. 

A part of the play now developed as he had foreseen it would, in thatthe city men at the hotel pursued the little sister to her own door-stepwith attentions that she should have found unwelcome. But even now shebehaved in a way he could not approve. She seemed determined to meetthe city men halfway. "I'm to be the sunlight arc of this hovel, " sheannounced when the city men came, one at a time, to shower gifts uponthe little wild rose. 

Later it became apparent that she must in the end pay dearly for hertoo-ready acceptance of these favours. One after another the four citymen, whose very appearance would have been sufficient warning to mostgirls, endeavoured to lure her up to the great city where they promisedto make a lady of her. It was a situation notoriously involving dangerto the simple country girl, yet not even her mother frowned upon it. 

The mother, indeed, frankly urged the child to let all of these kindgentlemen make a lady of her. The brother should have warned her in thisextremity; but the brother was not permitted any share in these scenes. Only Merton Gill, in his proper person, seemed to feel the little girlwas all too cordially inviting trouble. 

He became confused, ultimately, by reason of the scenes not being takenconsecutively. It appeared that the little sister actually left herhumble home at the insistence of one of the villains, yet she did not, apparently, creep back months later broken in body and soul. As nearlyas he could gather, she was back the next day. And it almost seemed asif later, at brief intervals, she allowed herself to start for the greatcity with each of the other three scoundrels who were bent upon herdestruction. But always she appeared to return safely and to bring largesums of money with which to delight the old mother. 

It was puzzling to Merton. He decided at last--he did not like to askthe Montague girl--that Baird had tried the same scene four times, andwould choose the best of these for his drama. 

Brother and sister made further trips to the hotel with their offerings, only the sister now took jams and jellies exclusively, which she soldto the male guests, while the brother took only the improved grape juicewhich the rich old New Yorker bought and generously paid for. 

There were other scenes at the hotel between the country boy and theheavy-faced New York society girl, in which the latter was an ardentwooer. Once she was made to snatch a kiss from him as he stood by her, his basket on his arm. He struggled in her embrace, then turned to flee. 

She was shown looking after him, laughing, carelessly slapping one legwith her riding crop. 

"You're still timid, " Baird told him. "You can hardly believe you havewon her love. "

In some following scenes at the little farmhouse it became impossiblefor him longer to doubt this, for the girl frankly told her love as shelingered with him at the gate. 

"She's one of these new women, " said Baird. "She's living her own life. You listen--it's wonderful that this great love should have come to you. Let us see the great joy dawning in your eyes. "

He endeavoured to show this. The New York girl became more ardent. Sheput an arm about him, drew him to her. Slowly, almost in the manner ofHarold Parmalee, as it seemed to him, she bent down and imprinted a longkiss upon his lips. He had been somewhat difficult to rehearse in thisscene, but Baird made it all plain. He was still the bashful countryboy, though now he would be awakened by love. 

The girl drew him from the gate to her waiting automobile. Here sheovercame a last reluctance and induced him to enter. She followed anddrove rapidly off. 

It was only now that Baird let him into the very heart of the drama. 

"You see, " he told Merton, "you've watched these city folks; you'vewanted city life and fine clothes for yourself; so, in a moment ofweakness, you've gone up to town with this girl to have a look at theplace, and it sort of took hold of you. In fact, you hit up quite a pacefor awhile; but at last you go stale on it--" "The blight of Broadway, "suggested Merton, wondering if there could be a cabaret scene. 

"Exactly, " said Baird. "And you get to thinking of the poor old motherand little sister back here at home, working away to pay off themortgage, and you decide to come back. You get back on a stormy night;lots of snow and wind; you're pretty weak. We'll show you sort offainting as you reach the door. You have no overcoat nor hat, and yourcity suit is practically ruined. You got a great chance for some goodacting here, especially after you get inside to face the folks. It'll bethe strongest thing you've done, so far. "

It was indeed an opportunity for strong acting. He could see that. He stayed late with Baird and his staff one night and a scene of theprodigal's return to the door of the little home was shot in a blindingsnow-storm. Baird warmly congratulated the mechanics who contrived thestorm, and was enthusiastic over the acting of the hero. Through thewintry blast he staggered, half falling, to reach the door where hecollapsed. The light caught the agony on his pale face. He lay a moment, half-fainting, then reached up a feeble hand to the knob of the door. 

It was one of the annoyances incident to screen art that he could not goin at that moment to finish his great scene. But this must be done backon the lot, and the scene could not be secured until the next day. 

Once more he became the pitiful victim of a great city, crawling backto the home shelter on a wintry night. It was Christmas eve, he nowlearned. He pushed open the door of the little home and staggered in toface his old mother and the little sister. They sprang forward at hisentrance; the sister ran to support him to the homely old sofa. He wasweak, emaciated, his face an agony of repentance, as he mutely pledforgiveness for his flight. 

His old mother had risen, had seemed about to embrace him fondly whenhe knelt at her feet, but then had drawn herself sternly up and pointedcommandingly to the door. The prodigal, anguished anew at this repulse, fell weakly back upon the couch with a cry of despair. The little sisterplaced a pillow under his head and ran to plead with the mother. A longtime she remained obdurate, but at last relented. Then she, too, came tofall upon her knees before the wreck who had returned to her. 

Not many rehearsals were required for this scene, difficult thoughit was. Merton Gill had seized his opportunity. His study of agonyexpressions in the film course was here rewarded. The scene closed withthe departure of the little sister. Resolutely, showing the light ofsome fierce determination, she put on hat and wraps, spoke words ofpromise to the stricken mother and son, and darted out into the night. The snow whirled in as she opened the door. 

"Good work, " said Baird to Merton. "If you don't hear from that littlebit you can call me a Swede. "

Some later scenes were shot in the same little home, which seemed tobring the drama to a close. While the returned prodigal lay on thecouch, nursed by the forgiving mother, the sister returned in companywith the New York society girl who seemed aghast at the wreck of himshe had once wooed. Slowly she approached the couch of the sufferer, tenderly she reached down to enfold him. In some manner, which Mertoncould not divine, the lovers had been reunited. 

The New York girl was followed by her father--it would seem they hadboth come from the hotel--and the father, after giving an order formore of Mother's grape juice, examined the son's patents. Two of themhe exclaimed with delight over, and at once paid the boy a huge roll ofbills for a tenth interest in them. 

Now came the grasping man who held the mortgage and who had counted upondriving the family into the streets this stormy Christmas eve. He wasoverwhelmed with confusion when his money was paid from an ample hoard, and slunk, shame-faced, out into the night. It could be seen thatChristmas day would dawn bright and happy for the little group. 

To Merton's eye there was but one discord in this finale. He had knownthat the cross-eyed man was playing the part of hotel clerk at theneighbouring resort, but he had watched few scenes in which the poorfellow acted; and he surely had not known that this man was the littlesister's future husband. It was with real dismay that he averted hisgaze from the embrace that occurred between these two, as the clerkentered the now happy home. 

One other detail had puzzled him. This was the bundle to which he hadclung as he blindly plunged through the storm. He had still fiercelyclutched it after entering the little room, clasping it to his breasteven as he sank at his mother's feet in physical exhaustion and mentalanguish, to implore her forgiveness. Later the bundle was placed besidehim as he lay, pale and wan, on the couch. 

He supposed this bundle to contain one of his patents; a question toBaird when the scene was over proved him to be correct. "Sure, " saidBaird, "that's one of your patents. " Yet he still wished the littlesister had not been made to marry the cross-eyed hotel clerk. 

And another detail lingered in his memory to bother him. The actressplaying his mother was wont to smoke cigarettes when not engaged inacting. He had long known it. But he now seemed to recall, in thattouching last scene of reconciliation, that she had smoked one whilethe camera actually turned. He hoped this was not so. It would meana mistake. And Baird would be justly annoyed by the old mother'scarelessness. 

CHAPTER XVI. OF SARAH NEVADA MONTAGUE

They were six long weeks doing the new piece. The weeks seemed long toMerton Gill because there were so many hours, even days, of enforcedidleness. To pass an entire day, his face stiff with the make-up, without once confronting a camera in action, seemed to him a waste ofhis own time and a waste of Baird's money. Yet this appeared to be oneof the unavoidable penalties incurred by those who engaged in the art ofphotodrama. Time was needed to create that world of painted shadows, so swift, so nicely consecutive when revealed, but so incoherent, sobrokenly inconsequent, so meaningless in the recording. 

How little an audience could suspect the vexatious delays ensuingbetween, say, a knock at a door and the admission of a visitor to a neatlittle home where a fond old mother was trying to pay off a mortgagewith the help of her little ones. How could an audience divine that await of two hours had been caused because a polished city villain hadforgotten his spats? Or that other long waits had been caused by otherforgotten trifles, while an expensive company of artists lounged aboutin bored apathy, or smoked, gossiped, bantered?

Yet no one ever seemed to express concern about these waits. Rarely weretheir causes known, except by some frenzied assistant director, and he, after a little, would cease to be frenzied and fall to loafingcalmly with the others. Merton Gill's education in his chosen art wasprogressing. He came to loaf with the unconcern, the vacuous boredom, the practised nonchalance, of more seasoned artists. 

Sometimes when exteriors were being taken the sky would overcloud andthe sun be denied them for a whole day. The Montague girl would thenask Merton how he liked Sunny Cafeteria. He knew this was a jesting termthat would stand for sunny California, and never failed to laugh. 

The girl kept rather closely by him during these periods of waiting. Sheseemed to show little interest in other members of the company, and herassociation with them, Merton noted, was marked by a certain restraint. With them she seemed no longer to be the girl of free ways and speech. She might occasionally join a group of the men who indulged in athleticsports on the grass before the little farmhouse--for the actors of Mr. Baird's company would all betray acrobatic tendencies in their idlemoments--and he watched one day while the simple little country sisterturned a series of hand-springs and cart-wheels that evoked sincereapplause from the four New York villains who had been thus solacingtheir ennui. 

But oftener she would sit with Merton on the back seat of one of thewaiting automobiles. She not only kept herself rather aloof from othermembers of the company, but she curiously seemed to bring it about thatMerton himself would have little contact with them. Especially did sheseem to hover between him and the company's feminine members. Amongthose impersonating guests at the hotel were several young women of rarebeauty with whom he would have been not unwilling to fraternize in thateasy comradeship which seemed to mark studio life. These were farmore alluring than the New York society girl who wooed him and whohad secured the part solely through Baird's sympathy for her familymisfortunes. 

They were richly arrayed and charmingly mannered in the scenes hewatched; moreover, they not too subtly betrayed a pleasant consciousnessof Merton's existence. But the Montague girl noticeably monopolized himwhen a better acquaintance with the beauties might have come about. Sherather brazenly seemed to be guarding him. She was always there. 

This very apparent solicitude of hers left him feeling pleasantlyimportant, despite the social contacts it doubtless deprived him of. Hewondered if the Montague girl could be jealous, and cautiously one day, as they lolled in the motor car, he sounded her. 

"Those girls in the hotel scenes--I suppose they're all nice girls ofgood family?" he casually observed. 

"Huh?" demanded Miss Montague, engaged with a pencil at the moment inediting her left eyebrow. "Oh, that bunch? Sure, they all come fromgood old Southern families--Virginia and Indiana and those places. " Shetightened her lips before the little mirror she held and renewed theirscarlet. Then she spoke more seriously. "Sure, Kid, those girls are allright enough. They work like dogs and do the best they can when theyain't got jobs. I'm strong for 'em. But then, I'm a wise old trouper. Iunderstand things. You don't. You're the real country wild rose of thispiece. It's a good thing you got me to ride herd on you. You're far tooinnocent to be turned loose on a comedy lot. 

"Listen, boy--" She turned a sober face to him--"the straight lots arefairly decent, but get this: a comedy lot is the toughest place thisside of the bad one. Any comedy lot. "

"But this isn't a comedy lot. Mr. Baird isn't doing comedies any more, and these people all seem to be nice people. Of course some of theladies smoke cigarettes--"

The girl had averted her face briefly, but now turned to him again. "Ofcourse that's so; Jeff is trying for the better things; but he's stillusing lots of his old people. They're all right for me, but not foryou. You wouldn't last long if mother here didn't look out for you. I'mplaying your dear little sister, but I'm playing your mother, too. Ifit hadn't been for me this bunch would have taught you a lot of thingsyou'd better learn some other way. Just for one thing, long before thisyou'd probably been hopping up your reindeers and driving all over in aChinese sleigh. "

He tried to make something of this, but found the words meaningless. They merely suggested to him a snowy winter scene of Santa Claus and hisinnocent equipage. But he would intimate that he understood. 

"Oh, I guess not, " he said knowingly. The girl appeared not to haveheard this bit of pretense. 

"On a comedy lot, " she said, again becoming the oracle, "you can domurder if you wipe up the blood. Remember that. "

He did not again refer to the beautiful young women who came from fineold Southern homes. The Montague girl was too emphatic about them. 

At other times during the long waits, perhaps while they ate lunchbrought from the cafeteria, she would tell him of herself. His oldtroubling visions of his wonder-woman, of Beulah Baxter the daring, had well-nigh faded, but now and then they would recur as if from longhabit, and he would question the girl about her life as a double. 

"Yeah, I could see that Baxter business was a blow to you, Kid. You'dkind of worshiped her, hadn't you?"

"Well, I--yes, in a sort of way--"

"Of course you did; it was very nice of you--" She reached over to pathis hand. "Mother understands just how you felt, watching the films backthere in Gooseberry "--He had quit trying to correct her as to Gashwilerand Simsbury. She had hit upon Gooseberry as a working composite of bothnames, and he had wearily come to accept it--"and I know just how youfelt"--Again she patted his hand--"that night when you found me doingher stuff. "

"It did kind of upset me. "

"Sure it would! But you ought to have known that all these people usedoubles when they can--men and women both. It not only saves 'em work, but even where they could do the stuff if they had to--and that ain't sooften--it saves 'em broken bones, and holding up a big production two orthree months. Fine business that would be. So when you see a woman, ora man either, doing something that someone else could do, you can betsomeone else is doing it. What would you expect? Would you expect ahigh-priced star to go out and break his leg?

"And at that, most of the doubles are men, even for the women stars, like Kitty Carson always carries one who used to be a circus acrobat. She couldn't hardly do one of the things you see her doing, but when oldDan gets on her blonde transformation and a few of her clothes, he'sher to the life in a long shot, or even in mediums, if he keeps his mapcovered. 

"Yeah, most of the doublers have to be men. I'll hand that to myself. I'm about the only girl that's been doing it, and that's out with mehereafter, I guess, the way I seem to be making good with Jeff. Maybeafter this I won't have to do stunts, except of course some ridingstuff, prob'ly, or a row of flips or something light. Anything heavycomes up--me for a double of my own. " She glanced sidewise at herlistener. "Then you won't like me any more, hey, Kid, after you find outI'm using a double?"

He had listened attentively, absorbed in her talk, and seemed startledby this unforeseen finish. He turned anxious eyes on her. It occurredto him for the first time that he did not wish the Montague girl to dodangerous things any more. "Say, " he said quickly, amazed at his owndiscovery, "I wish you'd quit doing all those--stunts, do you call 'em?"

"Why?" she demanded. There were those puzzling lights back in her eyesas he met them. He was confused. 

"Well, you might get hurt. "

"Oh!"

"You might get killed sometime. And it wouldn't make the leastdifference to me, your using a double. I'd like you just the same. "

"I see; it wouldn't be the way it was with Baxter when you found itout. "

"No; you--you're different. I don't want you to get killed, " he added, rather blankly. He was still amazed at this discovery. 

"All right, Kid. I won't, " she replied soothingly. 

"I'll like you just as much, " he again assured her, "no matter how manydoubles you have. "

"Well, you'll be having doubles yourself, sooner or later--and I'll likeyou, too. " She reached over to his hand, but this time she held it. He returned her strong clasp. He had not liked to think of her beingmangled perhaps by a fall into a quarry when the cable gave way--and thecamera men would probably keep on turning!

"I always been funny about men, " she presently spoke again, stillgripping his hand. "Lord knows I've seen enough of all kinds, bad andgood, but I always been kind of afraid even of the good ones. Any onemight not think it, but I guess I'm just natural-born shy. Man-shy, anyway. "

He glowed with a confession of his own. "You know, I'm that way, too. Girl-shy. I felt awful awkward when I had to kiss you in the otherpiece. I never did, really--" He floundered a moment, but was presentlyblurting out the meagre details of that early amour with Edwina MayPulver. He stopped this recital in a sudden panic fear that the girlwould make fun of him. He was immensely relieved when she merely renewedthe strength of the handclasp. 

"I know. That's the way with me. Of course I can put over the actingstuff, even vamping, but I'm afraid of men off-stage. Say, would youbelieve it, I ain't ever had but one beau. That was Bert Stacy. Poor oldBert! He was lots older than me; about thirty, I guess. He was white allthrough. You always kind of remind me of him. Sort of a feckless dub hewas, too; kind of honest and awkward--you know. He was the one got medoing stunts. He wasn't afraid of anything. Didn't know it was evenin the dictionary. That old scout would go out night or day and breakeverything but his contract. I was twelve when I first knew him and hehad me doing twisters in no time. I caught on to the other stuff prettygood. I wasn't afraid, either, I'll say that for myself. First I wasafraid to show him I was afraid, but pretty soon I wasn't afraid at all. 

"We pulled off a lot of stuff for different people. And of course I gotto be a big girl and three years ago when I was eighteen Bert wantedus to be married and I thought I might as well. He was the only one Ihadn't been afraid of. So we got engaged. I was still kind of afraid tomarry any one, but being engaged was all right. I know we'd got alongtogether, too, but then he got his with a motorcycle. 

"Kind of funny. He'd do anything on that machine. He'd jump clean overan auto and he'd leap a thirty-foot ditch and he was all set to pull anew one for Jeff Baird when it happened. Jeff was going to have himride his motorcycle through a plate-glass window. The set was built andeverything ready and then the merry old sun don't shine for three days. Every morning Bert would go over to the lot and wait around in the fog. And this third day, when it got too late in the afternoon to shoot evenif the sun did show, he says to me, 'c'mon, hop up and let's take a ridedown to the beach. ' So I hop to the back seat and off we start and on aninety-foot paved boulevard what does Bert do but get caught in a jam?It was an ice wagon that finally bumped us over. I was shook up andscraped here and there. But Bert was finished. That's the funny part. He'd got it on this boulevard, but back on the lot he'd have rodethrough that plate-glass window probably without a scratch. And justbecause the sun didn't shine that day, I wasn't engaged any more. Bertwas kind of like some old sea-captain that comes back to shore afterrisking his life on the ocean in all kinds of storms, and falls into aduck-pond and gets drowned. "

She sat a long time staring out over the landscape, still holdinghis hand. Inside the fence before the farmhouse three of the New Yorkvillains were again engaged in athletic sports, but she seemed obliviousof these. At last she turned to him again with an illumining smile. 

"But I was dead in love once before that, and that's how I know justhow you feel about Baxter. He was the preacher where we used to go tochurch. He was a good one. Pa copied a lot of his stuff that he usesto this day if he happens to get a preacher part. He was the loveliestthing. Not so young, but dark, with wonderful eyes and black hair, andhis voice would go all through you. I had an awful case on him. I wastwelve, and all week I used to think how I'd see him the next Sunday. Say, when I'd get there and he'd be working--doing pulpit stuff--he'dhave me in kind of a trance. 

"Sometimes after the pulpit scene he'd come down right into the audienceand shake hands with people. I'd almost keel over if he'd notice me. I'dbe afraid if he would and afraid if he wouldn't. If he said 'And howis the little lady this morning?' I wouldn't have a speck of voice toanswer him. I'd just tremble all over. I used to dream I'd get a jobworkin' for him as extra, blacking his shoes or fetching his breakfastand things. 

"It was the real thing, all right. I used to try to pray the way hedid--asking the Lord to let me do a character bit or something with him. He had me going all right. You must 'a' been that way about Baxter. Sure you were. When you found she was married and used a double andeverything, it was like I'd found this preacher shooting hop or using adouble in his pulpit stuff. "

She was still again, looking back upon this tremendous episode. 

"Yes, that's about the way I felt, " he told her. Already his affairwith Mrs. Rosenblatt seemed a thing of his childhood. He was wondering, rather, if the preacher could have been the perfect creature the girlwas now picturing him. It would not have displeased him to learn thatthis refulgent being had actually used a double in his big scenes, orhad been guilty of mere human behaviour at odd moments. Probably, afterall, he had been just a preacher. "Uncle Sylvester used to want me to bea preacher, " he said, with apparent irrelevance, "even if he was his ownworst enemy. " He added presently, as the girl remained silent, "I alwayssay my prayers at night. " He felt vaguely that this might raise him tothe place of the other who had been adored. He was wishing to be thoughtwell of by this girl. 

She was aroused from her musing by his confession. "You do? Now ain'tthat just like you? I'd have bet you did that. Well, keep on, son. It'sgood stuff. "

Her serious mood seemed to pass. She was presently exchanging tartrepartee with the New York villains who had perched in a row on thefence to be funny about that long--continued holding of hands in themotor car. She was quite unembarrassed, however, as she dropped the handwith a final pat and vaulted to the ground over the side of the car. 

"Get busy, there!" she ordered. "Where's your understander--where's yourtop-mounter?" She became a circus ringmaster. "Three up and a roll foryours, " she commanded. The three villains aligned themselves on thelawn. One climbed to the shoulders of the other and a third foundfooting on the second. They balanced there, presently to lean forwardfrom the summit. The girl played upon an imaginary snare drum with aguttural, throaty imitation of its roll, culminating in the "boom!" ofa bass-drum as the tower toppled to earth. Its units, completing theirturn with somersaults, again stood in line, bowing and smirking theiracknowledgments for imagined applause. 

The girl, a moment later, was turning hand-springs. Merton had neverknown that actors were so versatile. It was an astounding profession, hethought, remembering his own registration card that he had filled outat the Holden office. His age, height, weight, hair, eyes, and hischest and waist measures; these had been specified, and then he had beenobliged to write the short "No" after ride, drive, swim, dance--to write"No" after "Ride?" even in the artistically photographed presence ofBuck Benson on horseback!

Yet in spite of these disabilities he was now a successful actor atan enormous salary. Baird was already saying that he would soon have acontract for him to sign at a still larger figure. Seemingly it was aprofession in which you could rise even if you were not able to turnhand-springs or were more or less terrified by horses and deep water anddance music. 

And the Montague girl, who, he now fervently hoped, would not be killedwhile doubling for Mrs. Rosenblatt, was a puzzling creature. He thoughthis hand must still be warm from her enfolding of it, even when work wasresumed and he saw her, with sunbonnet pushed back, stand at the gate ofthe little farmhouse and behave in an utterly brazen manner toward oneof the New York clubmen who was luring her up to the great city. She, who had just confided to him that she was afraid of men, was nowpractically daring an undoubted scoundrel to lure her up to the greatcity and make a lady of her. And she had been afraid of all but aclergyman and a stunt actor! He wondered interestingly if she wereafraid of Merton Gill. She seemed not to be. 

On another day of long waits they ate their lunch from the cafeteria boxon the steps of the little home and discussed stage names. "I guesswe better can that 'Clifford Armytage' stuff, " she told him as sheseriously munched a sandwich. "We don't need it. That's out. Merton Gillis a lot better name. " She had used "we" quite as if it were a communityname. 

"Well, if you think so--" he began regretfully, for Clifford Armytagestill seemed superior to the indistinction of Merton Gill. 

"Sure, it's a lot better, " she went on. "That 'Clifford Armytage'--say, it reminds me of just another such feckless dub as you that acted withus one time when we all trouped in a rep show, playing East Lynne andsuch things. He was just as wise as you are, and when he joined out atKansas City they gave him a whole book of the piece instead of just hissides. He was a quick study, at that, only he learned everybody's partas well as his own, and that slowed him. They put him on in Waco, andthe manager was laid up, so they told him that after the third act hewas to go out and announce the bill for the next night, and he learnedthat speech, too. 

"He got on fine till the big scene in the third act. Then he went bloodybecause that was as far as he'd learned, so he just left the scene coldand walked down to the foots and bowed and said, 'Ladies and gentlemen, we thank you for your attendance here this evening and to-morrow nightwe shall have the honour of presenting Lady Audley's Secret. '

"With that he gave a cold look to the actors back of him that weregasping like fish, and walked off. And he was like you in another waybecause his real name was Eddie Duffy, and the lovely stage name he'dpicked out was Clyde Maltravers. "

"Well, Clifford Armytage is out, then, " Merton announced, feelingthat he had now buried a part of his dead self in a grave where BeulahBaxter, the wonder-woman, already lay interred. Still, he was consciousof a certain relief. The stage name had been bothersome. 

"It ain't as if you had a name like mine, " the girl went on. "I simplyhad to have help. "

He wondered what her own name was. He had never heard her calledanything but the absurd and undignified "Flips. " She caught the questionhe had looked. 

"Well, my honest-to-God name is Sarah Nevada Montague; Sarah for Maand Nevada for Reno where Ma had to stop off for me--she was out of thecompany two weeks--and if you ever tell a soul I'll have the law on you. That was a fine way to abuse a helpless baby, wasn't it?"

"But Sarah is all right. I like Sarah. "

"Do you, Kid?" She patted his hand. "All right, then, but it's only foryour personal use. "

"Of course the Nevada--" he hesitated. "It does sound kind of like ageography lesson or something. But I think I'll call you Sarah, I meanwhen we're alone. " "Well, that's more than Ma ever does, and you betit'll never get into my press notices. But go ahead if you want to. "

"I will, Sarah. It sounds more like a true woman than 'Flips. '"

"Bless the child's heart, " she murmured, and reached across the lunchbox to pat his hand again. 

"You're a great little patter, Sarah, " he observed with one of hisinfrequent attempts at humour. 

On still another day, while they idled between scenes, she talked to himabout salaries and contracts, again with her important air of motheringhim. 

"After this picture, " she told him, "Jeff was going to sew you up witha long-time contract, probably at a hundred and fifty per. But I'vetold him plain I won't stand for it. No five-year contract, and not anycontract at that figure. Maybe three years at two hundred and fifty, Ihaven't decided yet. I'll wait and see--" she broke off to regard himwith that old puzzling light far back in her eyes--"wait and see how youget over in these two pieces. "

"But I know you'll go big, and so does Jeff. We've caught you in therushes enough to know that. And Jeff's a good fellow, but naturallyhe'll get you for as little as he can. He knows all about money evenif he don't keep Yom Kippur. So I'm watching over you, son--I'm yourmanager, see? And I've told him so, plain. He knows he'll have to giveyou just what you're worth. Of course he's entitled to consideration fordigging you up and developing you, but a three-year contract will payhim out for that. Trust mother. "

"I do, " he told her. "I'd be helpless without you. It kind of scares meto think of getting all that money. I won't know what to do with it. "

"I will; you always listen to me, and you won't be camping on the lotany more. And don't shoot dice with these rough-necks on the lot. " "Iwon't, " he assured her. "I don't believe in gambling. " He wondered aboutSarah's own salary, and was surprised to learn that it was now doublehis own. It was surprising, because her acting seemed not so importantto the piece as his. "It seems like a lot of money for what you have todo, " he said. 

"There, " she smiled warmly, "didn't I always say you were a natural-borntrouper? Well, it is a lot of money for me, but you see I've helped Jeffdope out both of these pieces. I'm not so bad at gags--I mean the kindof stuff he needs in these serious dramas. This big scene of yours, where you go off to the city and come back a wreck on Christmasnight--that's mine. I doped it out after the piece was started--afterI'd had a good look at the truck driver that plays opposite you. "

Truck driver? It appeared that Miss Montague was actually applying thisterm to the New York society girl who in private life was burdened withan ailing family. He explained now that Mr. Baird had not considered herideal for the part, but had chosen her out of kindness. 

Again there flickered far back in her eyes those lights that baffledhim. There was incredulity in her look, but she seemed to master it. 

"But I think it was wonderful of you, " he continued, "to write thatbeautiful scene. It's a strong scene, Sarah. I didn't know you couldwrite, too. It's as good as anything Tessie Kearns ever did, and she'swritten a lot of strong scenes. "

Miss Montague seemed to struggle with some unidentified emotion. After along, puzzling gaze she suddenly said: "Merton Gill, you come right herewith all that make-up on and give mother a good big kiss!"

Astonishingly to himself, he did so in the full light of day and underthe eyes of one of the New York villains who had been pretending that hewalked a tight-rope across the yard. After he had kissed the girl, sheseized him by both arms and shook him. "I'd ought to have been using myown face in that scene, " she said. Then she patted his shoulder and toldhim that he was a good boy. 

The pretending tight-rope walker had paused to applaud. "Your act'sflopping, Bo, " said Miss Montague. "Work fast. " Then she again addressedthe good boy: "Wait till you've watched that scene before you thank me, "she said shortly. 

"But it's a strong scene, " he insisted. 

"Yes, " she agreed. "It's strong. "

He told her of the other instance of Baird's kindness of heart. 

"You know I was a little afraid of playing scenes with the cross-eyedman, but Mr. Baird said he was trying so hard to do serious work, so Iwouldn't have him discharged. But shouldn't you think he'd save up andhave his eyes straightened? Does he get a very small salary?"

The girl seemed again to be harassed by conflicting emotions, butmastered them to say, "I don't know exactly what it is, but I guess hedraws down about twelve fifty a week. "

"Only twelve dollars and fifty cents a week!"

"Twelve hundred and fifty, " said the girl firmly. 

"Twelve hundred and fifty dollars a week!" This was monstrous, incredible. "But then why doesn't he have his eyes--"

Miss Montague drew him to her with both her capable arms. "My boy, myboy!" she murmured, and upon his painted forehead she now imprinteda kiss of deep reverence. "Run along and play, " she ordered. "You'regetting me all nervous. " Forthwith she moved to the centre of the yardwhere the tight-rope walker still endangered his life above the heads ofa vast audience. 

She joined him. She became a performer on the slack wire. With a parasolto balance her, she ran to the centre of an imaginary wire that swayedperilously, and she swung there, cunningly maintaining a precariousbalance. Then she sped back to safety at the wire's end, threw down herparasol, caught the handkerchief thrown to her by the first performer, and daintily touched her face with it, breathing deeply the while andbowing. 

He thought Sarah was a strange child--"One minute one thing and the nextminute something else. "

CHAPTER XVII. MISS MONTAGUE USES HER OWN FACE

Work on the piece dragged slowly to an end. In these latter days theearnest young leading man suffered spells of concern for his employer. He was afraid that Mr. Baird in his effort to struggle out of the sloughof low comedy was not going to be wholly successful. He had begun tonote that the actors employed for this purpose were not invariablyserious even when the cameras turned. Or, if serious, they seemedperhaps from the earnestness of their striving for the worth-whiledrama, to be a shade too serious. They were often, he felt, over-emphatic in their methods. Still, they were, he was certain, goodactors. One could always tell what they meant. 

It was at these times that he especially wished he might be allowed toview the "rushes. " He not only wished to assure himself for Baird's sakethat the piece would be acceptably serious, but he wished, with a quiteseemly curiosity, to view his own acting on the screen. It occurred tohim that he had been acting a long time without a glimpse of himself. But Baird had been singularly firm in this matter, and the Montague girlhad sided with him. It was best, they said, for a beginning actor notto see himself at first. It might affect his method before this hadcrystallized; make them self-conscious, artificial. 

He was obliged to believe that these well-wishers of his knew best. Hemust not, then, trifle with a screen success that seemed assured. Hetried to be content with this decision. But always the misgivings wouldreturn. He would not be really content until he had watched his owntriumph. Soon this would be so securely his privilege that not evenBaird could deny it, for the first piece in which he had worked wasabout to be shown. He looked forward to that. 

It was toward the end of the picture that his intimacy with the Montaguegirl grew to a point where, returning from location to the studio late, they would dine together. "Hurry and get ungreased, Son, " she wouldsay, "and you can take an actress out to dinner. " Sometimes theywould patronize the cafeteria on the lot, but oftener, in a spirit ofadventure, they would search out exotic restaurants. A picture mightfollow, after which by street-car he would escort her to the Montaguehome in a remote, flat region of palm-lined avenues sparsely set withnew bungalows. 

She would disquiet him at these times by insisting that she pay hershare of the expense, and she proved to have no mean talent for pettyfinance, for she remembered every item down to the street-car fares. Even to Merton Gill she seemed very much a child once she stepped fromthe domain of her trade. She would stare into shop windows wonderingly, and never failed to evince the most childish delight when they venturedto dine at an establishment other than a cafeteria. 

At times when they waited for a car after these dissipations he suffereda not unpleasant alarm at sight of a large-worded advertisement alongthe back of a bench on which they would sit. "You furnish the Girl, We furnish the House, " screamed the bench to him above the name of anenterprising tradesman that came in time to bite itself deeply into hismemory. 

Of course it would be absurd, but stranger things, he thought, hadhappened. He wondered if the girl was as afraid of him as of other men. She seemed not to be, but you couldn't tell much about her. She hadkissed him one day with a strange warmth of manner, but it had beenquite publicly in the presence of other people. When he left her at herdoor now it was after the least sentimental of partings, perhaps ashake of her hard little hand, or perhaps only a "S'long--see you at theshow-shop!"

It was on one of these nights that she first invited him to dine withthe Montague family. "I tried last night to get you on the telephone, "she explained, "but they kept giving me someone else, or maybe I calledwrong. Ain't these six-figured Los Angeles telephone numbers the limit?When you call 208972 or something, it sounds like paging a box-car. Iwas going to ask you over. Ma had cooked a lovely mess of corned beefand cabbage. Anyway, you come eat with us to-morrow night, will you?She'll have something else cooked up that will stick to the merry oldslats. You can come home with me when we get in from work. "

So it was that on the following night he enjoyed a home evening with theMontagues. Mrs. Montague had indeed cooked up something else, and haddone it well; while Mr. Montague offered at the sideboard a choiceof amateur distillations and brews which he warmly recommended to theguest. While the guest timidly considered, having had but the slightestexperience with intoxicants, it developed that the confidence placedin his product by the hospitable old craftsman was not shared by hisdaughter. 

"Keep off it, " she warned, and then to her father, "Say, listen, Pa, have a heart; that boy's got to work to-morrow. " "So be it, my child, "replied Mr. Montague with a visible stiffening of manner. "SylvesterMontague is not the man to urge strong drink upon the reluctant or theover-cautious. I shall drink my aperatif alone. "

"Go to it, old Pippin, " rejoined his daughter as she vanished to thekitchen. 

"Still, a little dish of liquor at this hour, " continued the hostsuggestively when they were alone. 

"Well"--Merton wished the girl had stayed--"perhaps just a few drops. "

"Precisely, my boy, precisely. A mere dram. " He poured the mere dram andhis guest drank. It was a colourless, fiery stuff with an elusive tasteof metal. Merton contrived an expression of pleasure under the searchingglance of his host. "Ah, I knew you would relish it. I fancy I couldamaze you if I told you how recently it was made. Now here"--He graspedanother bottle purposely--"is something a full ten days older. It hasdeveloped quite a bouquet. Just a drop--"

The guest graciously yet firmly waved a negation. 

"Thanks, " he said, "but I want to enjoy the last--it--it has so muchflavour. "

"It has; it has, indeed. I'll not urge you, of course. Later you mustsee the simple mechanism by which I work these wonders. Alone, then, Idrink to you. "

Mr. Montague alone drank of two other fruits of his loom before theladies appeared with dinner. He was clean--shaven now and his fine faceglowed with hospitality as he carved roast chickens. The talk was ofthe shop: of what Mr. Montague scornfully called "grind shows" whenhis daughter led it, and of the legitimate hall-show when he gained theleadership. He believed that moving pictures had sounded the knell oftrue dramatic art and said so in many ways. 

He tried to imagine the sensations of Lawrence Barrett or Louis Jamescould they behold Sylvester Montague, whom both these gentlemen hadproclaimed to be no mean artist, enacting the role of a bar-roomrowdy five days on end by reclining upon a sawdust floor with his backsupported by a spirits barrel. The supposititious comments of thetwo placed upon the motion-picture industry the black guilt of havingdegraded a sterling artist to the level of a peep-show mountebank. Theywere frankly disgusted at the spectacle, and their present spokesmanthought it as well that they had not actually lived to witness it--eventhe happier phases of this so-called art in which a mere chit of a girlmight earn a living wage by falling downstairs for a so-called star, or the he-doll whippersnapper--Merton Gill flinched in spite ofhimself--could name his own salary for merely possessing a dimpled chin. 

Further, an artist in the so-called art received his payment as if hehad delivered groceries at one's back door. "You, I believe--"--Thespeaker addressed his guest--"are at present upon a pay-roll; but thereare others, your elders-possibly your betters, though I do not saythat--"

"You better not, " remarked his daughter, only to be ignored. 

"--others who must work a day and at the close of it receive a slip ofpaper emblazoned 'Talent Pay Check. ' How more effectively could theycheapen the good word 'talent'? And at the foot of this slip you aremade to sign, before receiving the pittance you have earned, a consentto the public exhibition for the purpose of trade or advertising, ofthe pictures for which you may have posed. Could tradesmen descend to alower level, I ask you?"

"I'll have one for twelve fifty to-morrow night, " said Mrs. Montague, not too dismally. "I got to do a duchess at a reception, and I certainlyhope my feet don't hurt me again. "

"Cheer up, old dears! Pretty soon you can both pick your parts, " chirpedtheir daughter. "Jeff's going to give me a contract, and then you canloaf forever for all I care. Only I know you won't, and you know youwon't. Both of you'd act for nothing if you couldn't do it for money. What's the use of pretending?"

"The chit may be right, she may be right, " conceded Mr. Montague sadly. 

Later, while the ladies were again in the kitchen, Mr. Montague, aftersuggesting, "Something in the nature of an after-dinner cordial, "quaffed one for himself and followed it with the one he had pouredout for a declining guest who still treasured the flavour of his oneaperitif. 

He then led the way to the small parlour where he placed in action onthe phonograph a record said to contain the ravings of John McCulloughin his last hours. He listened to this emotionally. 

"That's the sort of technique, " he said, "that the so--called silverscreen has made but a memory. " He lighted his pipe, and identifiedvarious framed photographs that enlivened the walls of the little room. Many of them were of himself at an earlier age. 

"My dear mother-in-law, " he said, pointing to another. "A sterlingartist, and in her time an ornament of the speaking stage. I was on tourwhen her last days came. She idolized me, and passed away with my nameon her lips. Her last request was that a photograph of me should beplaced in her casket before it went to its final resting place. "

He paused, his emotion threatening to overcome him. Presently he brusheda hand across his eyes and continued, "I discovered later that they hadpicked out the most wretched of all my photographs--an atrocious thing Ihad supposed was destroyed. Can you imagine it?"

Apparently it was but the entrance of his daughter that saved himfrom an affecting collapse. His daughter removed the record of JohnMcCullough's ravings, sniffed at it, and put a fox-trot in its place. 

"He's got to learn to dance, " she explained, laying hands upon theguest. 

"Dancing--dancing!" murmured Mr. Montague, as if the very word recalledbitter memories. 

With brimming eyes he sat beating time to the fox-trot measure whileMerton Gill proved to all observers that his mastery of this dancewould, if ever at all achieved, be only after long and discouragingeffort. 

"You forget all about your feet, " remarked the girl as they paused, swaying to the rhythm. "Remember the feet--they're important in a dance. Now!--" But it was hard to remember his feet or, when he did recallthem, to relate their movements even distantly to the music. When thishad died despairingly, the girl surveyed her pupil with friendly butdoubting eyes. 

"Say, Pa, don't he remind you of someone? Remember the squirrel thatjoined out with us one time in the rep show and left 'East Lynne' flatright in the middle of the third act while he went down and announcedthe next night's play--the one that his name was Eddie Duffy and hecalled himself Clyde Maltravers?"

"In a way, in a way, " agreed Mr. Montague dismally. "A certain lack offinish in the manner, perhaps. "

"Remember how Charlie Dickman, the manager, nearly murdered him for itin the wings? Not that Charlie didn't have a right to. Well, this boydances like Eddie Duffy would have danced. "

"He was undeniably awkward and forgetful, " said Mr. Montague. "Well doI recall a later night. We played Under the Gaslight; Charlie feared totrust him with a part, so he kept the young man off stage to help withthe train noise when the down express should dash across. But even inthis humble station he proved inefficient. When the train came on hebecame confused, seized the cocoanut shells instead of the sand-paper, and our train that night entered to the sound of a galloping horse. Theeffect must have been puzzling to the audience. Indeed, many of themseemed to consider it ludicrous. Charlie Dickman confided in me later. 'Syl, my boy, ' says he, 'this bird Duffy has caused my first grayhairs. ' It was little wonder that he persuaded young Duffy to abandonthe drama. He was not meant for the higher planes of our art. Now ouryoung friend here"--he pointed to the perspiring Merton Gill--"doesn'teven seem able to master a simple dance step. I might say that he seemsto out-Duffy Duffy--for Duffy could dance after a fashion. "

"He'll make the grade yet, " replied his daughter grimly, and againthe music sounded. Merton Gill continued unconscious of his feet, or, remembering them, he became deaf to the music. But the girl brightenedwith a sudden thought when next they rested. 

"I got it!" she announced. "We'll have about two hundred feet of thisfor the next picture--you trying to dance just the way you been doingwith me. If you don't close to a good hand I'll eat my last pay-check. "

The lessons ceased. She seemed no longer to think it desirable that herpupil should become proficient in the modern steps. He was puzzled byher decision. Why should one of Baird's serious plays need an actor whoforgot his feet in a dance?

There were more social evenings at the Montague home. Twice thegathering was enlarged by other members of the film colony, a supperwas served and poker played for inconsiderable stakes. In this game ofchance the Montague girl proved to be conservative, not to say miserly, and was made to suffer genuinely when Merton Gill displayed a recklessspirit in the betting. That he amassed winnings of ninety-eight centsone night did not reassure her. She pointed out that he might easilyhave lost this sum. 

She was indeed being a mother to the defenceless boy. It was after agambling session that she demanded to be told what he was doing withhis salary. His careless hazarding of poker-chips had caused her to befearful of his general money sense. 

Merton Gill had indeed been reckless. He was now, he felt, actually oneof the Hollywood set. He wondered how Tessie Kearns would regard hisprogress. Would she be alarmed to know he attended those gay partiesthat so often brought the film colony into unfavourable public notice?Jolly dinners, dancing, gambling, drinking with actresses--for Mr. Montague had at last turned out a beer that met with the approval notonly of his guests but of his own more exacting family. The vivaciousbrew would now and again behave unreasonably at the moment of beingreleased, but it was potable when subdued. 

It was a gay life, Merton felt. And as for the Montague girl's questionsand warnings about his money, he would show her! He had, of course, discharged his debt to her in the first two weeks of his work withBaird. Now he would show her what he really thought of money. 

He would buy her a gift whose presentation should mark a certain greatoccasion. It should occur on the eve of his screen debut, and wouldfittingly testify his gratitude. For the girl, after all, had made himwhat he was. And the first piece was close to its premiere. Already hehad seen advance notices in the newspapers. The piece was called HeartsOn Fire, and in it, so the notices said, the comedy manager had atlast realized an ambition long nourished. He had done something new andsomething big: a big thing done in a big way. The Montague girl wouldsee that the leading man who had done so much to insure the success ofBaird's striving for the worth-while drama was not unforgetful of herfavours and continuous solicitude. 

He thought first of a ring, but across the blank brick wall of thejewellery shop he elected to patronize was an enormous sign in white:The House of Lucky Wedding Rings. This staring announcement so alarmedhim that he not only abandoned the plan for a ring-any sort of ringmight be misconstrued, he saw-but in an excess of caution chose anotherestablishment not so outspoken. If it kept wedding rings at all, itwas decently reticent about them, and it did keep a profusion of othertrinkets about which a possible recipient could entertain no falsenotions. Wrist watches, for example. No one could find subtle or hiddenmeanings in a wrist watch. 

He chose a bauble that glittered prettily on its black silk bracelet, and was not shocked in the least when told by the engaging salesman thatits price was a sum for which in the old days Gashwiler had demanded agood ten weeks of his life. Indeed it seemed rather cheap to him whenhe remembered the event it should celebrate. Still, it was a pleasingtrifle and did not look cheap. 

"Do you warrant it to keep good time?" he sternly demanded. 

The salesman became diplomatic, though not without an effect of genialman-to-man frankness. "Well, I guess you and I both know what women'sbracelet-watches are. " He smiled a superior masculine smile that drewhis customer within the informed brotherhood. "Now here, there's aplatinum little thing that costs seven hundred and fifty, and this oneyou like will keep just as good time as that one that costs six hundredmore. What could be fairer than that?"

"All right, " said the customer. "I'll take it. " During the remainingformalities attending the purchase the salesman, observing that he dealtwith a tolerant man of the world, became even franker. "Of course noone, " he remarked pleasantly while couching the purchase in a chaste bedof white satin, "expects women's bracelet-watches to keep time. Not eventhe women. "

"Want 'em for looks, " said the customer. 

"You've hit it, you've hit it!" exclaimed the salesman delightedly, asif the customer had expertly probed the heart of a world-old mystery. 

He had now but to await his great moment. The final scenes of the newpiece were shot. Again he was resting between pictures. As the date forshowing the first piece drew near he was puzzled to notice that bothBaird and the Montague girl curiously avoided any mention of it. Severaltimes he referred to it in their presence, but they seemed resolutelydeaf to his "Well, I see the big show opens Monday night. "

He wondered if there could be some recondite bit of screen etiquettewhich he was infringing. Actors were superstitious, he knew. Perhaps itboded bad luck to talk of a forthcoming production. Baird and the girlnot only ignored his reference to Hearts on Fire, but they left Bairdlooking curiously secretive and the Montague girl looking curiouslyfrightened. It perplexed him. Once he was smitten with a quick fear thathis own work in this serious drama had not met the expectations of themanager. 

However, in this he must be wrong, for Baird not only continued cordialbut, as the girl had prophesied, he urged upon his new actor the signingof a long-time contract. The Montague girl had insisted upon beingpresent at this interview, after forbidding Merton to put his name toany contract of which she did not approve. "I told Jeff right out thatI was protecting you, " she said. "He understands he's got to bereasonable. "

It appeared, as they set about Baird's desk in the Buckeye office, thatshe had been right. Baird submitted rather gracefully, after butslight demur, to the terms which Miss Montague imposed in behalf ofher protege. Under her approving eye Merton Gill affixed his name to acontract by which Baird was to pay him a salary of two hundred and fiftydollars a week for three years. 

It seemed an incredible sum. As he blotted his signature he wasconscious of a sudden pity for the manager. The Montague girl had beenhard--hard as nails, he thought--and Baird, a victim to his own goodnature, would probably lose a great deal of money. He resolved never topress his advantage over a man who had been caught in a weak moment. 

"I just want to say, Mr. Baird, " he began, "that you needn't be afraidI'll hold you to this paper if you find it's too much money to pay me. Iwouldn't have taken it at all if it hadn't been for her. " He pointed analmost accusing finger at the girl. 

Baird grinned; the girl patted his hand. Even at grave moments she wasa patter. "That's all right, Son, " she said soothingly. "Jeff's got allthe best of it, and Jeff knows it, too. Don't you, Jeff?"

"Well--" Baird considered. "If his work keeps up I'm not getting any theworst of it. "

"You said it. You know very well what birds will be looking for this boynext week, and what money they'll have in their mitts. 

"Maybe, " said Baird. 

"Well, you got the best of it, and you deserve to have. I ain't everdenied that, have I? You've earned the best of it the way you've handledhim. All I'm here for, I didn't want you to have too much the best ofit, see? I think I treated you well. "

"You're all right, Flips. " "Well, everything's jake, then?"

"Everything's jake with me. "

"All right! And about his work keeping up--trust your old friend andwell-wisher. And say, Jeff--" Her eyes gleamed reminiscently. "You ain'tcaught him dancing yet. Well--wait, that's all. We'll put on a fox-trotin the next picture that will sure hog the footage. "

As this dialogue progressed, Merton had felt more and more like a childin the presence of grave and knowing elders. They had seemed to forgethim, to forget that the amazing contract just signed bore his name. He thought the Montague girl was taking a great deal upon herself. Herface, he noted, when she had stated terms to Baird, was the face shewore when risking a small bet at poker on a high hand. She seemed old, indeed. But he knew how he was going to make her feel younger. In hispocket was a gift of rare beauty, even if you couldn't run railwaytrains by it. And pretty things made a child of her. 

Baird shook hands with him warmly at parting. "It'll be a week yetbefore we start on the new piece. Have a good time. Oh, yes, and droparound some time next week if there's any little thing you want to talkover--or maybe you don't understand. "

He wondered if this were a veiled reference to the piece about to beshown. Certainly nothing more definite was said about it. Yet it was athing that must be of momentous interest to the manager, and the managermust know that it would be thrilling to the actor. 

He left with the Montague girl, who had become suddenly grave and quiet. But outside the Holden lot, with one of those quick transitions hehad so often remarked in her, she brightened with a desperate sort ofgaiety. 

"I'll tell you what!" she exclaimed. "Let's go straight down town--it'llbe six by the time we get there--and have the best dinner money can buy:lobster and chicken and vanilla ice-cream and everything, right in areal restaurant--none of this tray stuff--and I'll let you pay for itall by yourself. You got a right to, after that contract. And we'll begay, and all the extra people that's eating in the restaurant'll thinkwe're a couple o' prominent film actors. How about it?" She danced athis side. 

"We'll have soup, too, " he amended. "One of those thick ones that costsabout sixty cents. Sixty cents just for soup!" he repeated, putting ahand to the contract that now stiffened one side of his coat. 

"Well, just this once, " she agreed. "It might be for the last time. "

"Nothing like that, " he assured her. "More you spend, more youmake--that's my motto. "

They waited for a city-bound car, sitting again on the bench that was sooutspoken. "You furnish the girl, we furnish the home, " it shouted. He put his back against several of the bold words and felt of thebracelet-watch in his pocket. 

"It might be the last time for me, " insisted the girl. "I feel as if Imight die most any time. My health's breaking down under the strain. Ifeel kind of a fever coming on right this minute. "

"Maybe you shouldn't go out. "

"Yes, I should. "

They boarded the car and reached the real restaurant, a cozy anddiscreet resort up a flight of carpeted stairs. Side by side on a seatthat ran along the wall they sat at a table for two and the dinnerwas ordered. "Ruin yourself if you want to, " said the girl as her hostincluded celery and olives in the menu. "Go on and order prunes, too, for all I care. I'm reckless. Maybe I'll never have another dinner, theway this fever's coming on. Feel my hand. "

Under the table she wormed her hand into his, and kept it there untilfood came. "Do my eyes look very feverish?" she asked. 

"Not so very, " he assured her, covering an alarm he felt for the firsttime. She did appear to be feverish, and the anxiety of her mannerdeepened as the meal progressed. It developed quickly that she had butscant appetite for the choice food now being served. She could onlytaste bits here and there. Her plates were removed with their delicaciesalmost intact. Between courses her hand would seek his, gripping it asif in some nameless dread. He became worried about her state; his ownappetite suffered. 

Once she said as her hot hand clung to his, "I know where you'll beto-morrow night. " Her voice grew mournful, despairing. "And I knowperfectly well it's no good asking you to stay away. "

He let this pass. Could it be that the girl was already babbling indelirium?

"And all the time, " she presently went on, "I'll simply be sick a-bed, picking at the covers, all blue around the gills. That'll be me, whileyou're off to your old motion picture--'the so-called art of the motionpicture, '" she concluded with a careful imitation of her father'smanner. 

He tried to determine whether she were serious or jesting. You nevercould tell about this girl. Whatever it was, it made him uneasy. 

Outside he wished to take her home in a taxi-cab, but she would not hearto this. "We'll use the town-car, Gaston, " she announced with a flash ofher old manner as she waved to an on-coming street-car. During thelong ride that followed she was silent but restless, tapping her foot, shifting in her seat, darting her head about. The one thing she didsteadily was to clutch his arm. 

During the walk from the car to the Montague house she twice indulged inher little dance step, even as she clung to the arm, but each Lime sheseemed to think little of it and resumed a steady pace, her head down. The house was dark. Without speaking she unlocked the door and drew himinto the little parlour. 

"Stand right on that spot, " she ordered, with a final pat of hisshoulder, and made her way to the dining room beyond where she turned ona single light that faintly illumined the room in which he waited. Shecame back to him, removed the small cloth hat, tossed it to a chair, andfaced him silently. 

The light from the other room shone across her eyes and revealed them tohim shadowy and mysterious. Her face was set in some ominous control. At last she looked away from him and began in a strained voice, "Ifanything happens to me--"

He thought it time to end this nonsense. She might be feverish, but itcould be nothing so serious as she was intimating. He clutched the gift. "Sarah, " he said lightly, "I got a little something for you--see what Imean?" He thrust the package into her weakly yielding hands. 

She studied it in the dusk, turning it over and over. Then with no wordto him she took it to the dining room where under the light she openedit. He heard a smothered exclamation that seemed more of dismay thanthe delight he expected, though he saw that she was holding the watchagainst her wrist. She came back to the dusk of the parlour, beginningon the way one of her little skipping dance steps, which she quicklysuppressed. She was replacing the watch on its splendid couch of satinand closing the box. 

"I never saw such a man!" she exclaimed with an irritation that he feltto be artificial. "After all you've been through, I should think you'dhave learned the value of money. Anyway, it's too beautiful for me. And anyway, I couldn't take it--not to-night, anyway. And anyway--"Her voice had acquired a huskiness in this speech that now left herincoherent, and the light revealed a wetness in her eyes. She dabbed atthem with a handkerchief. "Of course you can take it to-night, " he saidin masterful tones, "after all you've done for me. "

"Now you listen, " she began. "You don't know all I've done for you. You don't know me at all. Suppose something came out about me that youdidn't think I'd 'a' been guilty of. You can't ever tell about people inthis business. You don't know me at all-not one little bit. I might 'a'done lots of things that would turn you against me. I tell you you gotto wait and find out about things. I haven't the nerve to tell you, butyou'll find out soon enough--"

The expert in photoplays suffered a sudden illumination. This was ascene he could identify--a scene in which the woman trembled upon theverge of revealing to the man certain sinister details of her past, spurred thereto by a scoundrel who blackmailed her. He studied the girlin a new light. Undoubtedly, from her words, he saw one panic-strickenby the threatened exposure of some dreadful complication in her ownpast. Certainly she was suffering. 

"I don't care if this fever does carry me off, " she went on. "I know youcould never feel the same toward me after you found out--"

Again she was dabbing at her eyes, this time with the sleeve of herjacket. A suffering woman stood before him. She who had always shownherself so competent to meet trouble with laughing looks was beingoverthrown by this nameless horror. Suddenly he knew that to him itdidn't matter so very much what crime she had been guilty of. 

"I don't care what you've done, " he said, his own voice husky. Shecontinued to weep. 

He felt himself grow hot. "Listen here, Kid"--He now spoke with morethan a touch of the bully in his tone--"stop this nonsense. You--youcome here and give me a good big kiss--see what I mean?"

She looked up at him from wet eyes, and amazingly through her anguishshe grinned. "You win!" she said, and came to him. 

He was now the masterful one. He took her protectingly in his arms. Hekissed her though with no trace of the Parmalee technique. His screenexperience might never have been. It was more like the dead days ofEdwina May Pulver. 

"Now you stop it, " he soothed--"all this nonsense!" His cheek wasagainst hers and his arms held her. "What do I care what you've done inyour past--what do I care? And listen here, Kid"--There was again thebrutal note of the bully in his voice--"don't ever do any more of thosestunts--see what I mean? None of that falling off streetcars or housesor anything. Do you hear?"

He felt that he was being masterful indeed. He had swept her off herfeet. Probably now she would weep violently and sob out her confession. But a moment later he was reflecting, as he had so many times beforereflected, that you never could tell about the girl. In his embrace shehad become astoundingly calm. That emotional crisis threatening to beatdown all her reserves had passed. She reached up and almost meditativelypushed back the hair from his forehead, regarding him with eyes thatwere still shadowed but dry. Then she gave him a quick little hug anddanced away. It was no time for dancing, he thought. 

"Now you sit down, " she ordered. She was almost gay again, yet witha nervous, desperate gaiety that would at moments die to a broodingsolemnity. "And listen, " she began, when he had seated himself inbewilderment at her sudden change of mood, "you'll be off to your oldmotion picture to-morrow night, and I'll be here sick in bed--"

"I won't go if you don't want me to, " he put in quickly. 

"That's no good; you'd have to go sometime. The quicker the better, Iguess. I'll go myself sometime, if I ever get over this disease that'scoming on me. Anyway, you go, and then if you ever see me again you cangive me this--" She quickly came to put the watch back in his hands. "Yes, yes, take it. I won't have it till you give it to me again, ifI'm still alive. " She held up repulsing hands. "Now we've had one grandlittle evening, and I'll let you go. " She went to stand by the door. 

He arose and stood by her. "All this nonsense!" he grumbled. "I--I won'tstand for it--see what I mean?" Very masterfully again he put his armsabout her. "Say, " he demanded, "are you afraid of me like you said you'dalways been afraid of men?"

"Yes, I am. I'm afraid of you a whole lot. I don't know how you'll takeit. " "Take what?"

"Oh, anything--anything you're going to get. "

"Well, you don't seem to be afraid of me. "

"I am, more than any one. "

"Well, Sarah, you needn't be--no matter what you've done. You justforget it and give me a good big--"

"I'm glad I'm using my own face in this scene, " murmured Sarah. 

Down at the corner, waiting for his car, he paced back and forth infront of the bench with its terse message--"You furnish the girl, we furnish the house"--Sarah was a funny little thing with all thatnonsense about what he would find out. Little he cared if she'd donesomething--forgery, murder, anything. 

He paused in his stride and addressed the vacant bench: "Well, I've donemy part. "

CHAPTER XVIII. "FIVE REELS-500 LAUGHS"

It occurred to him the next morning that he might have taken too lightlySarah's foreboding of illness. Reviewing her curious behaviour hethought it possible she might be in for something serious. 

But a midday telephone call at the Montague home brought assurances fromthe mother that quieted this fear. Sarah complained of not feelingwell, and was going to spend a quiet day at home. But Mrs. Montague wascertain it was nothing serious. No; she had no temperature. No feverat all. She was just having a spell of thinking about things, sort ofgrouchy like. She had been grouchy to both her parents. Probably becauseshe wasn't working. No, she said she wouldn't come to the telephone. Shealso said she was in a bad way and might pass out any minute. But thatwas just her kidding. It was kind of Mr. Gill to call up. He wasn't toworry. 

He continued to worry, however, until the nearness of his screendebut drove Sarah to the back of his mind. Undoubtedly it was just hernonsense. And in the meantime, that long--baffled wish to see himselfin a serious drama was about to be gratified in fullest measure. He wasglad the girl had not suggested that she be with him on this tremendousoccasion. He wanted to be quite alone, solitary in the crowd, free toenjoy his own acting without pretense of indifference. 

The Pattersons, of course, were another matter. He had told them ofhis approaching debut and they were making an event of it. They wouldattend, though he would not sit with them. Mr. Patterson in his blacksuit, his wife in society raiment, would sit downstairs and woulddoubtless applaud their lodger; but he would be remote from them; in afar corner of the topmost gallery, he first thought, for Hearts on Firewas to be shown in one of the big down-town theatres where a prominentmember of its cast could lose himself. 

He had told the Pattersons a little about the story. It was prettypathetic in spots, he said, but it all came right in the end, and therewere some good Western scenes. When the Pattersons said he must be verygood in it, he found himself unable to achieve the light fashion ofdenial and protestation that would have become him. He said he hadstruggled to give the world something better and finer. For a momenthe was moved to confess that Mrs. Patterson, in the course of hisstruggles, had come close to losing ten dollars, but he mastered thewild impulse. Some day, after a few more triumphs, he might laughinglyconfide this to her. 

The day was long. Slothfully it dragged hours that seemed endless acrossthe company of shining dreams that he captained. He was early at thetheatre, first of early comers, and entered quickly, foregoing even alook at the huge lithographs in front that would perhaps show his veryself in some gripping scene. 

With an empty auditorium to choose from, he compromised on a balconyseat. Down below would doubtless be other members of the company, probably Baird himself, and he did not wish to be recognized. He must bealone with his triumph. And the loftier gallery would be too far away. 

The house filled slowly. People sauntered to their seats as if theoccasion were ordinary; even when the seats were occupied and theorchestra had played, there ensued the annoying delays of an educationalfilm and a travelogue. Upon this young actor's memory would be foreverseared the information that the conger eel lays fifteen million eggsat one time and that the inhabitants of Upper Burmah have quaint nativepastimes. These things would stay with him, but they were unimportant. Even the prodigal fecundity of the conger eel left him cold. 

He gripped the arms of his seat when the cast of Hearts on Fire wasflung to the screen. He caught his own name instantly, and was puzzled. "Clifford Armytage--By Himself. " Someone had bungled that, but nomatter. Then at once he was seeing that first scene of his. As a popularscreen idol he breakfasted in his apartment, served by a valet who was ahero worshipper. 

He was momentarily disquieted by the frank adoration of the cross-eyedman in this part. While acting the scene, he remembered now that he hadnot always been able to observe his valet. There were moments when heseemed over-emphatic. The valet was laughed at. The watcher's sympathywent out to Baird, who must be seeing his serious effort taken toolightly. 

There came the scene where he looked at the photograph album. Butnow his turning of the pages was interspersed with close-ups of theportraits he regarded so admiringly. And these astonishingly provedto be enlarged stills of Clifford Armytage, the art studies of LowellHardy. It was puzzling. On the screen he capably beamed the fondestadmiration, almost reverent in its intensity--and there would appearthe still of Merton bidding an emotional farewell to his horse. The verynovelty of it held him for a moment--Gashwiler's Dexter actually on thescreen! He was aroused by the hearty laughter of an immense audience. 

"It's Parmalee, " announced a hoarse neighbour on his right. "He'simitatin' Harold! Say, the kid's clever!"

The laughter continued during the album scene. He thought of Baird, somewhere in that audience, suffering because his play was made fun of. He wished he could remind him that scenes were to follow which wouldsurely not be taken lightly. For himself, he was feeling that at leasthis strong likeness to Parmalee had been instantly admitted. They werelaughing, as the Montague girl had laughed that first morning, becausethe resemblance was so striking. But now on the screen, after theactor's long fond look at himself, came the words, "The Only Man He EverLoved. "

Laughter again. The watcher felt himself grow hot. Had Baird beenbetrayed by one of his staff?

The scene with the letters followed. Clothes baskets of letters. Hisown work, as he opened a few from the top, was all that he could havewished. He was finely Harold Parmalee, and again the hoarse neighbourwhispered, "Ain't he got Parmalee dead, though?"

"Poor, silly little girls!" the screen exclaimed, and the audiencebecame noisy. Undoubtedly it was a tribute to his perfection in theParmalee manner. But he was glad that now there would come acting atwhich no one could laugh. There was the delicatessen shop, the earnestyoung cashier and his poor old mother who mopped. He saw himself embraceher and murmur words of encouragement, but incredibly there were gigglesfrom the audience, doubtless from base souls who were impervious topathos. The giggles coalesced to a general laugh when the poor oldmother, again mopping on the floor, was seen to say, "I hate thesemopping mothers. You get took with house-maid's knee in the first reel. "

Again he was seized with a fear that one of Baird's staff had beenclumsy with subtitles. His eyes flew to his own serious face when thesilly words had gone. 

The drama moved. Indeed the action of the shadows was swifter than hesupposed it would be. The dissolute son of the proprietor came on todust the wares and to elicit a laugh when he performed a bit of businessthat had escaped Merton at the time. Against the wire screen thatcovered the largest cheese on the counter he placed a placard, "Dangerous. Do not Annoy. "

Probably Baird had not known of this clowning. And there came anothersubtitle that would dismay Baird when the serious young bookkeeperenacted his scene with the proprietor's lovely daughter, for she wasmade to say: "You love above your station. Ours is 125th Street; you getoff at 59th. "

He was beginning to feel confused. A sense of loss, of panic, smote him. His own part was the intensely serious thing he had played, but in somesubtle way even that was being made funny. He could not rush to embracehis old mother without exciting laughter. 

The robbery of the safe was effected by the dissolute son, the fatherbroke in upon the love scene, discovered the loss of his money, andaccused an innocent man. Merton felt that he here acted superbly. Hislong look at the girl for whom he was making the supreme sacrificebrought tears to his own eyes, but still the witless audiencesnickered. Unobserved by the others, the old mother now told her sonthe whereabouts of the stolen money, and he saw himself secure the papersack of bills from the ice-box. He detected the half-guilty look ofwhich he had spoken to Baird. Then he read his own incredible speech--"Ibetter take this cool million. It might get that poor lad into trouble!"Again the piece had been hurt by a wrong subtitle. But perhapsthe audience laughed because it was accustomed to laugh at Baird'sproductions. Perhaps it had not realized that he was now attempting oneof the worth-while things. This reasoning was refuted as he watched whatoccurred after he had made his escape. 

His flight was discovered, policemen entered, a rapid search behindcounters ensued. In the course of this the wire screen over the biggestcheese was knocked off the counter. The cheese leaped to the floor, andthe searchers, including the policemen, fled in panic through the frontdoor. The Montague girl, the last to escape, was seen to announce, "Thebig cheese is loose--it's eating all the little ones!"

A band of intrepid firemen, protected by masks and armed with axes, rushed in. A terrific struggle ensued. The delicatessen shop waswrecked. And through it all the old mother continued to mop the floor. Merton Gill, who had first grown hot, was now cold. Icy drops were onhis chilled brow. How had Hearts on Fire gone wrong?

Then they were in the great open spaces of the Come All Ye dance hall. There was the young actor in his Buck Benson costume, protecting hismother from the brutality of a Mexican, getting his man later by firingdirectly into a mirror--Baird had said it would come right in theexposure, but it hadn't. And the witless cackled. 

He saw his struggle with the detective. With a real thrill he sawhimself bear his opponent to the ground, then hurl him high and far intothe air, to be impaled upon the antlers of an elk's head suspended backof the bar. He saw himself lightly dust his sleeves after this feat, andturn aside with the words, "That's one Lodge he can join. "

Then followed a scene he had not been allowed to witness. There swungMarcel, the detective, played too emphatically by the cross-eyed man. Anantler point suspended him by the seat of his trousers. He hung limplya moment, then took from his pocket a saw with which he reached up tocontrive his release. He sawed through the antler and fell. He tried tostand erect, but appeared to find this impossible. A subtitle announced:"He had put a permanent wave in Marcel. "

This base fooling was continuously blown upon by gales of stupidlaughter. But not yet did Merton Gill know the worst. The merrimentpersisted through his most affecting bit, the farewell to his old paloutside--how could they have laughed at a simple bit of pathos likethat? But the watching detective was seen to weep bitterly. 

"Look a' him doin' Buck Benson, " urged the hoarse neighbour gleefully. "You got to hand it to that kid--say, who is he, anyway?"

Followed the thrilling leap from a second-story window to the back ofthe waiting pal. The leap began thrillingly, but not only was it shownthat the escaping man had donned a coat and a false mustache in thecourse of his fall, but at its end he was revealed slowly, very slowly, clambering into the saddle!

They had used here, he saw, one of those slow cameras that seem tosuspend all action interminably, a cruel device in this instance. Andfor his actual escape, when he had ridden the horse beyond camera rangeat a safe walk, they had used another camera that gave the effect ofintense speed. The old horse had walked, but with an air of swiftnessthat caused the audience intense delight. 

Entered Marcel, the detective, in another scene Merton had not watched. He emerged from the dance-hall to confront a horse that remained, anaged counterpart of the horse Merton had ridden off. Marcel staredintently into the beast's face, whereupon it reared and plunged as ifterrified by the spectacle of the cross-eyed man. 

Merton recalled the horse in the village that had seemed to act sointelligently. Probably a shot-gun had stimulated the present scene. Thedetective thereupon turned aside, hastily donned his false mustache andSherlock Holmes cap, and the deceived horse now permitted him to mount. He, too, walked off to the necromancy of a lens that multiplied his pacea thousandfold. And the audience rocked in its seats. 

One horse still remained before the dance-hall. The old mother emerged. With one anguished look after the detective, she gathered up herdisreputable skirts and left the platform in a flying leap to land inthe saddle. There was no trickery about the speed at which her horse, belaboured with the mop-pail, galloped in pursuit of the others. Asubtitle recited--"She has watched her dear ones leave the old nestflat. Now she must go out over the hills and mop the other side ofthem!"

Now came the sensational capture by lasso of the detective. But thecaptor had not known that, as he dragged his quarry at the rope's end, the latter had somehow possessed himself of a sign which he later walkedin with, a sign reading, "Join the Good Roads Movement!" nor that thefaithful old mother had ridden up to deposit her inverted mop-pail overhis head. 

Merton Gill had twice started to leave. He wanted to leave. But eachtime he found himself chained there by the evil fascination of thismonstrous parody. He remained to learn that the Montague girl had comeout to the great open spaces to lead a band of train-robbers from the"Q. T. Ranche. "

He saw her ride beside a train and cast her lasso over the stack of thelocomotive. He saw her pony settle back on its haunches while the ropegrew taut and the train was forced to a halt. He saw the passengerslined up by the wayside and forced to part with their valuables. Later, when the band returned to the ranche with their booty, he saw thedissolute brother, after the treasure was divided, winning it back tothe family coffers with his dice. He saw the stricken father playinggolf on his bicycle in grotesque imitation of a polo player. 

And still, so incredible the revealment, he had not in the first shockof it seemed to consider Baird in any way to blame. Baird had somehowbeen deceived by his actors. Yet a startling suspicion was forming amidhis mental flurries, a suspicion that bloomed to certainty when he sawhimself the ever-patient victim of the genuine hidalgo spurs. 

Baird had said he wanted the close-ups merely for use in determining howthe spurs could be mastered, yet here they were. Merton Gill caught thespurs in undergrowth and caught them in his own chaps, arising from eachfall with a look of gentle determination that appealed strongly to thethrong of lackwits. They shrieked at each of his failures, even when heran to greet his pictured sweetheart and fell headlong. They found thecomedy almost unbearable when at Baird's direction he had begun to toein as he walked. And he had fallen clumsily again when he flew tothat last glad rendezvous where the pair were irised out in a lovetriumphant, while the old mother mopped a large rock in the background. An intervening close-up of this rock revealed her tearful face as shecleansed the granite surface. Above her loomed a painted exhortation to"Use Wizard Spine Pills. " And of this pathetic old creature he was madeto say, even as he clasped the beloved in his arms--"Remember, she is mymother. I will not desert her now just because I am rich and grand!"

At last he was free. Amid applause that was long and sincere he gainedhis feet and pushed a way out. His hoarse neighbour was saying, "Who isthe kid, anyway? Ain't he a wonder!"

He pulled his hat down, dreading he might be recognized and shamedbefore these shallow fools. He froze with the horror of what he hadbeen unable to look away from. The ignominy of it! And now, after thosespurs, he knew full well that Baird had betrayed him. As the wordsshaped in his mind, a monstrous echo of them reverberated through itscaverns--the Montague girl had betrayed him!

He understood her now, and burned with memories of her uneasiness thenight before. She had been suffering acutely from remorse; she hadsought to cover it with pleas of physical illness. At the moment he wasconscious of no feeling toward her save wonder that she could so coollyhave played him false. But the thing was not to be questioned. She--andBaird--had made a fool of him. 

As he left the theatre, the crowd about him commented approvingly on thepicture: "Who's this new comedian?" he heard a voice inquire. But "Ain'the a wonder!" seemed to be the sole reply. 

He flushed darkly. So they thought him a comedian. Well, Baird wouldn'tthink so--not after to-morrow. He paused outside the theatre now tostudy the lithograph in colours. There he hurled Marcel to the antlersof the elk. The announcement was "Hearts on Fire! A Jeff Baird Comedy. Five Reels-500 Laughs. "

Baird, he sneeringly reflected, had kept faith with his patrons if notwith one of his actors. But how he had profaned the sunlit gloriesof the great open West and its virile drama! And the spurs, as he hadpromised the unsuspecting wearer, had stood out! The horror of it, blinding, desolating!

And he had as good as stolen that money himself, taking it out to thegreat open spaces to spend in a bar-room. Baird's serious effort hadturned out to be a wild, inconsequent farrago of the most painfulnonsense. 

But it was over for Merton Gill. The golden bowl was broken, the silvercord was loosed. To-morrow he would tear up Baird's contract and hurlthe pieces in Baird's face. As to the Montague girl, that deceiving jadewas hopeless. Never again could he trust her. 

In a whirling daze of resentment he boarded a car for the journey home. A group seated near him still laughed about Hearts on Fire. "I thoughthe'd kill me with those spurs, " declared an otherwise sanely behavingyoung woman--"that hurt, embarrassed look on his face every time he'dget up!"

He cowered in his seat. And he remembered another ordeal he mustprobably face when he reached home. He hoped the Pattersons would be inbed, and walked up and down before the gate when he saw the housestill alight. But the light stayed, and at last he nerved himself for apossible encounter. He let himself in softly, still hoping he could gainhis room undiscovered; but Mrs. Patterson framed herself in the lighteddoor of the living room and became exclamatory at sight of him. 

And he who had thought to stand before these people in shame to receivetheir condolences now perceived that his trial would be of another buthardly less-distressing sort. For somehow, so dense were these goodfolks, that he must seem to be not displeased with his own performance. Amazingly they congratulated him, struggling with reminiscent laughteras they did so. 

"And you never told us you was one of them funny comedians, " chided Mrs. Patterson. "We thought you was just a beginner, and here you got thebiggest part in the picture! Say, the way you acted when you'd pickyourself up after them spurs threw you--I'll wake up in the nightlaughing at that. "

"And the way he kept his face so straight when them other funny ones wascutting their capers all around him, " observed Mr. Patterson. 

"Yes! wasn't it wonderful, Jed, the way he never let on, keeping hisface as serious as if he'd been in a serious play?"

"I like to fell off my seat, " added Mr. Patterson. 

"I'll tell you something, Mr. Armytage, " began Mrs. Patterson with asuddenly serious manner of her own, "I never been one to flatter folksto their faces unless I felt it from the bottom of my heart--I neverbeen that kind; when I tell a person such-and-such about themselves theycan take it for the truth's own truth; so you can believe me now--I sawlots of times in that play to-night when you was even funnier than thecross-eyed man. "

The young actor was regarding her strangely; seemingly he wished toacknowledge this compliment but could find no suitable words. "Yes, youcan blush and hem and haw, " went on his critic, "but any one knows meI'll tell you I mean it when I talk that way--yes, sir, funnier than thecross-eyed man himself. My, I guess the neighbours'll be talkingsoon's they find out we got someone as important as you be in ourspare-room--and, Mr. Armytage, I want you to give me a signed photographof yourself, if you'll be so good. "

He escaped at last, dizzy from the maelstrom of conflicting emotionsthat had caught and whirled him. It had been impossible not to appear, and somehow difficult not to feel, gratified under this heartfeltpraise. He had been bound to appear pleased but incredulous, even whenshe pronounced him superior, at times, to the cross-eyed man--though theword she used was "funnier. "

Betrayed by his friends, stricken, disconsolate, in a panic of despair, he had yet seemed glad to hear that he had been "funny. " He flew to thesanctity of his room. Not again could he bear to be told that the actingwhich had been his soul's high vision was a thing for merriment. 

He paced his room a long time, a restless, defenceless victim torecurrent visions of his shame. Implacably they returned to torture him. Reel after reel of the ignoble stuff, spawned by the miscreant, Baird, flashed before him; a world of base painted shadows in which he had beenthe arch offender. 

Again and again he tried to make clear to himself just why his ownacting should have caused mirth. Surely he had been serious; he hadgiven the best that was in him. 

And the groundlings had guffawed!

Perhaps it was a puzzle he could never solve. And now he first thoughtof the new piece. 

This threw him into fresh panic. What awful things, with his high andserious acting, would he have been made to do in that? Patiently, one byone, he went over the scenes in which he had appeared. Dazed, confused, his recollection could bring to him little that was ambiguous in them. But also he had played through Hearts on Fire with little suspicion ofits low intentions. 

He went to bed at last, though to toss another hour in fruitless effortto solve this puzzle and to free his eyes of those flashing infamies ofthe night. Ever and again as he seemed to become composed, free at lastof tormenting visions, a mere subtitle would flash in his brain, aswhere the old mother, when he first punished her insulter, was made bythe screen to call out, "Kick him on the knee-cap, too!"

But the darkness refreshed his tired eyes, and sun at last brought him amerciful outlet from a world in which you could act your best and stillbe funnier than a cross-eyed man. 

He awakened long past his usual hour and occupied his first consciousmoments in convincing himself that the scandal of the night beforehad not been a bad dream. The shock was a little dulled now. He beganabsurdly to remember the comments of those who had appeared to enjoy theunworthy entertainment. Undoubtedly many people had mentioned him withwarm approval. But such praise was surely nothing to take comfort from. He was aroused from this retrospection by a knock on his door. It provedto be Mr. Patterson bearing a tray. "Mrs. P. Thought that you beingup so late last night mebbe would like a cup of coffee and a bite ofsomething before you went out. " The man's manner was newly respectful. In this house, at least, Merton Gill was still someone. 

He thanked his host, and consumed the coffee and toast with a novelsense of importance. The courtesy was unprecedented. Mrs. Pattersonhad indeed been sincere. And scarcely had he finished dressing when Mr. Patterson was again at the door. 

"A gentleman downstairs to see you, Mr. Armytage. He says his name isWalberg but you don't know him. He says it's a business matter. "

"Very well, I'll be down. " A business matter? He had no business matterswith any one except Baird. 

He was smitten with a quick and quite illogical fear. Perhaps he wouldnot have to tear up that contract and hurl it in the face of the managerwho had betrayed him. Perhaps the manager himself would do the tearing. Perhaps Baird, after seeing the picture, had decided that Merton Gillwould not do. Instantly he felt resentful. Hadn't he given the best thatwas in him? Was it his fault if other actors had turned into farce oneof the worth-while things?

He went to meet Mr. Walberg with this resentment so warm that hisgreeting of the strange gentleman was gruff and short. The caller, analert, businesslike man, came at once to his point. He was, it proved, not the representative of a possibly repenting Baird. He was, on thecontrary, representing a rival producer. He extended his card--TheBigart Comedies. 

"I got your address from the Holden office, Mr. Armytage. I guess Irouted you out of bed, eh? Well, it's like this, if you ain't sewed upwith Baird yet, the Bigart people would like to talk a little businessto you. How about it?"

"Business?" Mr. Armytage fairly exploded this. He was unhappy andpuzzled; in consequence, unamiable. 

"Sure, business, " confirmed Mr. Walberg. "I understand you just finishedanother five-reeler for the Buckeye outfit, but how about some stuff forus now? We can give you as good a company as that one last night and agood line of comedy. We got a gag man that simply never gets to the endof his string. He's doping out something right now that would fit youlike a glove--and say, it would be a great idea to kind a' specialize inthat spur act of yours. That got over big. We could work it in again. Anact like that's good for a million laughs. "

Mr. Armytage eyed Mr. Walberg coldly. Even Mr. Walberg felt an extensivearea of glaciation setting in. 

"I wouldn't think of it, " said the actor, still gruffly. 

"Do you mean that you can't come to the Bigart at all--on anyproposition?"

"That's what I mean, " confirmed Mr. Armytage. 

"Would three hundred and fifty a week interest you?"

"No, " said Mr. Armytage, though he gulped twice before achieving it. 

Mr. Walberg reported to his people that this Armytage lad was onehard-boiled proposition. He'd seen lots of 'em in his time, but thisbird was a wonder. 

Yet Mr. Armytage was not really so granitic of nature as the Bigartemissary had thought him. He had begun the interview with a smoulderingresentment due to a misapprehension; he had been outraged by asuggestion that the spurs be again put to their offensive use; and hehad been stunned by an offer of three hundred and fifty dollars a week. That was all. 

Here was a new angle to the puzzles that distracted him. He was notonly praised by the witless, but he had been found desirable by certaindiscerning overlords of filmdom. What could be the secret of a talentthat caused people, after viewing it but once, to make reckless offers?

And another thing--why had he allowed Baird to "sew him up"? TheMontague girl again occupied the foreground of his troubled musings. She, with her airs of wise importance, had helped to sew him up. She wasa helpless thing, after all, and false of nature. He would have mattersout with her this very day. But first he must confront Baird in a sceneof scorn and reprobation. 

On the car he became aware that far back in remote caverns of his mindthere ran a teasing memory of some book on the shelves of the Simsburypublic library. He was sure it was not a book he had read. It was merelythe title that hid itself. Only this had ever interested him, and itbut momentarily. So much he knew. A book's title had lodged in his mind, remained there, and was now curiously stirring in some direct relationto his present perplexities. 

But it kept its face averted. He could not read it. Vaguely heidentified the nameless book with Tessie Kearns; he could not divinehow, because it was not her book and he had never seen it except on thelibrary shelf. 

The nameless book persistently danced before him. He was glad of this. It kept him at moments from thinking of the loathly Baird. 

CHAPTER XIX. THE TRAGIC COMEDIAN

Penetrating the Holden lot he was relieved to find that he created noimmediate sensation. People did not halt to point derisive fingers athim; he had half feared they would. As he approached the office buildinghe was almost certain he saw Baird turn in ahead of him. Yet when heentered the outer room of the Buckeye offices a young woman looked upfrom her typewriter to tell him that Mr. Baird was not in. 

She was a serious-eyed young woman of a sincere manner; she spoke withcertainty of tone. Mr. Baird was not only out, but he would not be infor several days. His physician had ordered him to a sanitarium. 

The young woman resumed her typing; she did not again, glance up. The caller seemed to consider waiting on a chance that she had beenmisinformed. He was now sure he had seen Baird enter the building, andthe door of his private office was closed. The caller idled outside therailing, absently regarding stills of past Buckeye atrocities that hadbeen hung upon the walls of the office by someone with primitive tastesin decoration. He was debating a direct challenge of the young woman'sveracity. 

What would she say if told that the caller meant to wait rightthere until Mr. Baird should convalesce? He managed some appraisingside-glances at her as she bent over her machine. She seemed to believehe had already gone. 

Then he did go. No good talking that way to a girl. If it had been aman, now--"You tell Mr. Baird that Mr. Gill's got to see him as soon aspossible about something important, " he directed from the open door. 

The young woman raised her serious eyes to his and nodded. She resumedher work. The door closed. Upon its closing the door of Baird's privateoffice opened noiselessly to a crack that sufficed for the speakingvoice at very moderate pitch to issue. 

"Get Miss Montague on the 'phone, " directed the voice. The door closednoiselessly. Beyond it Mr. Baird was presently speaking in low, sweettones. 

"'Lo, Sister! Listen; that squirrel just boiled in here, and I duckedhim. I told the girl I wasn't to be in unless he was laughing all over, and he wasn't doing the least little thing that was anywheres nearlaughing. See what I mean? It's up to you now. You started it; you gotto finish it. I've irised out. Get me?"

On the steps outside the rebuffed Merton Gill glanced at his own nattywrist-watch, bought with some of the later wages of his shame. It wasthe luncheon hour; mechanically he made his way to the cafeteria. Hehad ceased to rehearse the speech a doughtier Baird would now have beenhearing. 

Instead he roughly drafted one that Sarah Nevada Montague could notlong evade. Even on her dying bed she would be compelled to listen. Thepractising orator with bent head mumbled as he walked. He still mumbledas he indicated a choice of foods at the cafeteria counter; he continuedto be thus absorbed as he found a table near the centre of the room. 

He arranged his assortment of viands. "You led me on, that's whatyou did, " he continued to the absent culprit. "Led me on to make alaughing-stock of myself, that's what you did. Made a fool of me, that'swhat you did. "

"All the same, I can't help thinking he's a harm to the industry, "came the crisp tones of Henshaw from an adjoining table. The rehearsingorator glanced up to discover that the director and the sunny-facedbrown and gray man he called Governor were smoking above the plates oftheir finished luncheon. 

"I wouldn't worry too much, " suggested the cheerful governor. 

"But see what he does: he takes the good old reliable, sure-fire stuffand makes fun of it. I admit it's funny to start with, but what'llhappen to us if the picture public ever finds that out? What'll we dothen for drama--after they've learned to laugh at the old stuff?"

"Tush, tush, my boy!" The Governor waved a half--consumed cigaretteuntil its ash fell. "Never fear. Do you think a thousand Jeff Bairdscould make the picture public laugh at the old stuff when it's playedstraight? They laughed last night, yes; but not so much at the reallyfine burlesque; they guffawed at the slap-stick stuff that went with it. Baird's shrewd. He knows if he played straight burlesque he'd never makea dollar, so notice how he'll give a bit of straight that is genuineart, then a bit of slap-stick that any one can get. The slap-stick iswhat carries the show. Real burlesque is criticism, my boy; sometimesthe very high-browest sort. It demands sophistication, a pretty highintelligence in the man that gets it. 

"All right. Now take your picture public. Twenty million people everyday; not the same ones every day, but with same average cranial index, which is low for all but about seven out of every hundred. That'snatural because there aren't twenty million people in the world withtaste or real intelligence--probably not five million. Well, you takethis twenty million bunch that we sell to every day, and suppose theysaw that lovely thing last night--don't you know they'd all be backto-night to see a real mopping mother with a real son falsely accused ofcrime--sure they'd be back, their heads bloody but unbowed. Don't worry;that reliable field marshal, old General Hokum, leads an unbeatablearmy. "

Merton Gill had listened to the beginning of this harangue, but now hesavagely devoured food. He thought this so--called Governor was too muchlike Baird. 

"Well, Governor, I hope you're right. But that was pretty keen stufflast night. That first bit won't do Parmalee any good, and that BuckBenson stuff--you can't tell me a little more of that wouldn't makeBenson look around for a new play. "

"But I do tell you just that. It won't hurt Parmalee a bit; andBenson can go on Bensoning to the end of time--to big money. You keepforgetting this twenty-million audience. Go out and buy a picturemagazine and read it through, just to remind you. They want hokum, andpay for it. Even this thing of Baird's, with all the saving slapstick, is over the heads of a good half of them. I'll make a bet with you now, anything you name, that it won't gross two thirds as much as Benson'snext Western, and in that they'll cry their eyes out when he kisses hishorse good-bye. See if they don't. Or see if they don't bawl at the nextold gray-haired mother with a mop and a son that gets in bad. 

"Why, if you give 'em hokum they don't even demand acting. Look at ourown star, Mercer. You know as well as I do that she not only can't act, but she's merely a beautiful moron. In a world where right prevailedshe'd be crowned queen of the morons without question. She may have anidea that two and two make four, but if she has it's only because shebelieves everything she hears. And look at the mail she gets. Every lastone of the twenty million has written to tell her what a noble actressshe is. She even believes that. 

"Baird can keep on with the burlesque stuff, but his little oldtwo-reelers'll probably have to pay for it, especially if he keeps thosehigh-priced people. I'll bet that one new man of his sets him back sevenhundred and fifty a week. The Lord knows he's worth every cent of it. Myboy, tell me, did you ever in all your life see a lovelier imitation ofa perfectly rotten actor? There's an artist for you. Who is he, anyway?Where'd he come from?" Merton Gill again listened; he was merelyaffecting to busy himself with a fork. It was good acting. 

"I don't know, " replied Henshaw. "Some of the crowd last night said hewas just an extra that Baird dug up on the lot here. And, on the subjectof burlesque, they also said Baird was having him do some Edgar Waynestuff in a new one. "

"Fine!" The Governor beamed. "Can't you see him as the honest, likablecountry boy? I bet he'll be good to his old mother in this one, too, andget the best of the city slickers in the end. For heaven's sake don'tlet me miss it! This kid last night handed me laughs that were betterthan a month's vacation for this old carcass of mine. You say he wasjust an extra?"

"That's what I heard last night. Anyway, he's all you say he is as anartist. Where do you suppose he got it? Do you suppose he's just thecasual genius that comes along from time to time? And why didn't he stay'straight' instead of playing horse with the sacred traditions ofour art? That's what troubled me as I watched him. Even in that wildbusiness with the spurs he was the artist every second. He must havetricked those falls but I couldn't catch him at it. Why should such aman tie up with Baird?"

"Ask me something hard. I'd say this bird had been tried out in seriousstuff and couldn't make the grade. That's the way he struck me. Probablyhe once thought he could play Hamlet--one of those boys. Didn't you getthe real pathos he'd turn on now and then? He actually had me kind ofteary a couple of times. But I could see he'd also make me laugh my headoff any time he showed in a straight piece. 

"To begin with, look at that low-comedy face of his. And then--somethingpeculiar--even while he's imitating a bad actor you feel somehow that itisn't all imitation. It's art, I grant you, but you feel he'd still bea bad actor if he'd try to imitate a good one. Somehow he found out hislimits and decided to be what God meant him to be. Does that answer you?It gives you acting-plus, and if that isn't the plus in this case I missmy guess. "

"I suppose you're right--something like that. And of course the realpathos is there. It has to be. There never was a great comedian withoutit, and this one is great. I admit that, and I admit all you say aboutour audience. I suppose we can't ever sell to twenty million peoplea day pictures that make any demand on the human intelligence. Butcouldn't we sell something better to one million--or a few thousand?"

The Governor dropped his cigarette end into the dregs of his coffee. "Wemight, " he said, "if we were endowed. As it is, to make pictures we mustmake money. To make money we must sell to the mob. And the mob reachesfull mental bloom at the age of fifteen. It won't buy pictures theaverage child can't get. "

"Of course the art is in its infancy, " remarked Henshaw, discarding hisown cigarette. 

"Ours is the Peter Pan of the arts, " announced the Governor, as he rose. 

"The Peter Pan of the arts--"

"Yes. I trust you recall the outstanding biological freakishness ofPeter. "

"Oh!" replied Henshaw. 

When Merton Gill dared to glance up a moment later the men were matchingcoins at the counter. When they went out he left a half-eaten meal andpresently might have been observed on a swift-rolling street-car. Hemumbled as he blankly surveyed palm-bordered building sites along theway. He was again rehearsing a tense scene with the Montague girl. Inactor parlance he was giving himself all the best of it. But they werenew lines he mumbled over and over. And he was no longer eluded bythe title of that book he remembered on the library shelf at Simsbury. Sitting in the cafeteria listening to strange talk, lashed by cruelmemories, it had flashed upon his vision with the stark definition ofa screened subtitle. He rang the Montague bell twice before he hearda faint summons to enter. Upon the parlour couch, under blankets thatreached her pillowed head, lay Sarah. She was pale and seemed to suffer. She greeted him in a feeble voice, lids fluttering over the fires ofthat mysterious fever burning far back in her eyes. 

"Hullo, Kid, " he began brightly. "Here's your watch. " Her doubtingglance hovered over him as he smiled down at her. "You giving it to meagain, Merton?" She seemed unable to conquer a stubborn incredulity. 

"Of course I'm giving it to you again. What'd you think I was going todo?"

She still surveyed him with little veiled glances. "You look so brightyou give me Kleig eyes, " she said. She managed a wan smile at this. 

"Take it, " he insisted, extending the package. "Of course it won't keepWestern Union time, but it'll look good on you. "

She appeared to be gaining on her incredulity, but a vestige of itremained. "I won't touch it, " she declared with more spirit than couldhave been expected from the perishing, "I won't touch it till you giveme a good big kiss. "

"Sure, " he said, and leaned down to brush her pale cheek with his lips. He was cheerfully businesslike in this ceremony. 

"Not till you do it right, " she persisted. He knelt beside the couch anddid it right. He lingered with a hand upon her pale brow. 

"What you afraid of?" he demanded. 

"You, " she said, but now she again brought the watch to view, holdingit away from her, studying its glitter from various angles. At last sheturned her eyes up to his. They Were alive but unrevealing. "Well?"

"Well?" he repeated coolly. 

"Oh, stop it!" Again there was more energy than the moribund are wont tomanifest. There was even a vigorous impatience in her tone as she wenton, "You know well enough what I was afraid of. And you know well enoughwhat I want to hear right now. Shoot, can't you?"

He shot. He stood up, backed away from the couch to where he couldconveniently regard its stricken occupant, and shot gaily. 

"Well, it'll be a good lesson to you about me, this thing of yourthinking I was fooled over that piece. I s'pose you and Baird had itbetween you all the time, right down to the very last, that I thoughthe was doin' a serious play. Ho, ho!" He laughed gibingly. It was amasterful laugh. "A serious play with a cross-eyed man doing funny stuffall through. I thought it was serious, did I? Yes, I did!" Again thedry, scornful laugh of superiority. "Didn't you people know that Iknew what I could do and what I couldn't do? I should have thought thatlittle thing would of occurred to you all the time. Didn't you s'pose Iknew as well as any one that I got a low-comedy face and couldn't evermake the grade in a serious piece?

"Of course I know I got real pathos--look how I turned it on a couple o'times in that piece last night--but even when I'm imitating a bad actoryou can see it ain't all acting. You'd see soon enough I was a bad actorif I tried to imitate a good one. I guess you'd see that pretty quick. Didn't you and Baird even s'pose I'd found out my limits and decided tobe what God meant me to be?

"But I got the pathos all right, and you can't name one great comedianthat don't need pathos more'n he needs anything else. He just has tohave it--and I got it. I got acting-plus; that's what, I got. I knew itall the time; and a whole lot of other people knew it last night. Youcould hear fifty of 'em talking about it when I came out of the theatre, saying I was an artist and all like that, and a certain Los Angelessociety woman that you can bet never says things she don't mean, shetold me she saw lots of places in this piece that I was funnier than anycross-eyed man that ever lived. And what happens this morning?" Handsin pockets he swaggered to and fro past the couch. 

"Well, nothing happens this morning except people coming around to signme up for three hundred and fifty a week. One of 'em said not an hourago--he's a big producer, too--that Baird ought to be paying me sevenhundred and fifty because I earned every cent of it. Of course I didn'twant to say anything the other day, with you pretending to know so muchabout contracts and all that--I just thought I'd let you go on, seeingyou were so smart--and I signed what you told me to. But I know I shouldhave held off--with this Bamberger coming over from the Bigart whenI was hardly out of bed, and says will three hundred and fifty a weekinterest me and promising he'll give me a chance to do that spur actagain that was the hit of the piece--"

He broke off, conscious suddenly that the girl had for some timebeen holding a most peculiar stare rigidly upon him. She had at firstnarrowed her right eye at a calculating angle as she listened; but fora long time now the eyes had been widened to this inexplicable stareeloquent of many hidden things. 

As he stopped his speech, made ill at ease by the incessant pressing ofthe look, he was caught and held by it to a longer silence than hehad meant to permit. He could now read meanings. That unflinchinglook incurred by his smooth bluster was a telling blend of pity and ofwonder. 

"So you know, do you, " she demanded, "that you look just enough too muchlike Harold Parmalee so that you're funny? I mean. " she amended, seeinghim wince, "that you look the way Parmalee would look if he had brains?"

He faltered but made a desperate effort to recover his balance. 

"And besides, what difference does it make? If we did good pictures we'dhave to sell 'em to a mob. And what's a mob? It's fifteen years old andnothing but admirers, or something like that, like Muriel Mercer thatwouldn't know how much are two times two if the neighbours didn't get itto her--"

Again he had run down under her level look. As he stopped, the girl onthe couch who had lain with the blankets to her neck suddenly threw themaside and sat up. Surprisingly she was not garbed in sick-bed apparel. She seemed to be fully dressed. 

A long moment she sat thus, regarding him still with that slow look, unbelieving yet cherishing. His eyes fell at last. 

"Merton!" he heard her say. He looked up but she did not speak. Shemerely gave a little knowing nod of the head and opened her arms to him. Quickly he knelt beside her while the mothering arms enfolded him. Ahand pulled his head to her breast and held it there. Thus she rockedgently, the hand gliding up to smooth his hair. Without words shecherished him thus a long time. The gentle rocking back and forthcontinued. 

"It's--it's like that other time you found me--" His bluster had gone. He was not sure of his voice. Even these few words had been hard. He didnot try more. 

"There, there, there!" she whispered. "It's all right, everything's allright. Your mother's got you right here and she ain't ever going to letyou go--never going to let you go. "

She was patting his head in rhythm with her rocking as she snuggled andsoothed him. There was silence for another interval. Then she began tocroon a song above him as she rocked, though the lyric was plainly animprovisation. 

"Did he have his poor old mother going for a minute? Yes, he did. He hadher going for a minute, for a minute. Yes, he had her going good for aminute. 

"But oh, he won't ever fool her very long, very long, not very long, because he can't fool his dear old mother very long, very long; and hecan bet on that, bet on that, so he can, bet a lot of money on that, that, that!" Her charge had grown still again, but she did not relax hertightened arms. 

"Say, " he said at last. 

"Well, honey. "

"You know those benches where we wait for the cars?"

"Do I know them?" The imperative inference was that she did. 

"I looked at the store yesterday. The sign down there says 'Himebaugh'sdignified system of deferred payments. '"

"Yes, yes, I know. "

"Well, I saw another good place--it says 'The house of lucky rings'--youknow--rings!"

"Sure, I know. That's all right. "

"Well, " he threw off the arms and got to his feet. She stood up then. 

"Well, all right!"

They were both constrained now. Both affected an ease that neither felt. It seemed to be conceded without words that they must very lightly skirtthe edges of Merton Gill's screen art. They talked a long tune volublyof other things: of the girl's illness from which she now seemedmost happily to have recovered, of whether she was afraid of him--sheprofessed still to be--of the new watch whose beauties were newlyadmired when it had been adjusted to its owner's wrist; of finances theytalked, and even, quite simply, of accessible homes where two could liveas cheaply as one. 

It was not until he was about to go, when he stood at the door while thegirl readjusted his cravat, smoothed his hair, and administered a finalseries of pats where they seemed most needed, that he broke ever soslightly through the reserve which both had felt congealing about acertain topic. 

"You know, " he said, "I happened to remember the title of a book thismorning; a book I used to see back in the public library at home. Itwasn't one I ever read. Maybe Tessie Kearns read it. Anyway, she had apoem she likes a lot written by the same man. She used to read me goodparts of it. But I never read the book because the title sounded kind ofwild, like there couldn't be any such thing. The poem had just a plainname; it was called 'Lucile, ' but the book by the same man was called'The Tragic Comedians. ' You wouldn't think there could be a tragiccomedian would you?--well, look at me. "

She looked at him, with that elusive, remote flickering back in hereyes, but she only said, "Be sure and come take me out to dinner. To-night I can eat. And don't forget your overcoat. And listen--don'tyou dare go into Himebaugh's till I can go with you. "

One minute after he had gone the Montague girl was at the telephone. 

"Hello! Mr. Baird, please. Is this Mr. Baird? Well, Jeff, everything'sjake. Yeah. The poor thing was pretty wild when he got here. First hebegan to bluff. He'd got an earful from someone, probably over on thelot. And he put it over on me for a minute, too. But he didn't lastgood. He was awful broke up when the end came. Bless his heart. But youbet I kissed the hurt place and made it well. How about him now? Jeff, I'm darned if I can tell except he's right again. When he got here hewas some heart-broke and some mad and some set up on account of thingshe hears about himself. I guess he's that way still, except I mendedthe heart-break. I can't quite make him out--he's like a book where youcan't guess what's coming in the next chapter, so you keep on reading. I can see we ain't ever going to talk much about it--not if we livetogether twenty years. What's that? Yeah. Didn't I tell you he wasalways getting me, somehow? Well, now I'm got. Yeah. We're gonna do analtar walk. What? Oh, right away. Say, honest, Jeff, I'll never havean easy minute again while he's out of my sight. Helpless! You said it. Thanks, Jeff. I know that, old man. Good-by!"

CHAPTER XX. ONWARD AND UPWARD

At the first showing of the Buckeye company's new five-reel comedy--FiveReels-500 Laughs--entitled Brewing Trouble, two important members ofits cast occupied balcony seats and one of them throughout the piecebrazenly applauded the screen art of her husband. "I don't care who seesme, " she would reply ever and again to his whispered protests. 

The new piece proved to be a rather broadly stressed burlesque of thetype of picture drama that has done so much to endear the personality ofEdgar Wayne to his public. It was accorded a hearty reception. There wasnothing to which it might be compared save the company's previousHearts on Fire, and it seemed to be felt that the present offering hadsurpassed even that masterpiece of satire. 

The Gills, above referred to, watched the unwinding celluloid withvastly different emotions. Mrs. Gill was hearty in her enjoyment, ashas been indicated. Her husband, superficially, was not displeased. Butbeneath that surface of calm approval--beneath even the look of boredindifference he now and then managed--there still ran a complicationof emotions, not the least of which was honest bewilderment. Peoplelaughed, so it must be funny. And it was good to be known as an artistof worth, even if the effects of your art were unintended. 

It was no shock to him to learn now that the mechanical appliance in hisscreen-mother's kitchen was a still, and that the grape juice the honestcountry boy purveyed to the rich New Yorker had been improved in rankdefiance of a constitutional amendment. And even during the filming ofthe piece he had suspected that the little sister, so engagingly playedby the present Mrs. Gill, was being too bold. With slight surprise, therefore, as the drama unfolded, he saw that she had in the most brazenmanner invited the attentions of the city villains. 

She had, in truth, been only too eager to be lured to the great citywith all its pitfalls, and had bidden the old home farewell in hersimple country way while each of the villains in turn had awaited herin his motor-car. What Merton had not been privileged to watch were thelater developments of this villainy. For just beyond the little hamletat a lonely spot in the road each of the motor-cars had been stopped bya cross-eyed gentleman looking much like the clerk in the hotel, savethat he was profusely bewhiskered and bore side-arms in a menacingfashion. 

Declaring that no scoundrel could take his little daughter from him, hedeprived the villains of their valuables, so that for a time at leastthey should not bring other unsuspecting girls to grief. As a furtherprecaution he compelled them to abandon their motor-cars, in which hedrove off with the rescued daughter. He was later seen to sell the carsat a wayside garage, and, after dividing their spoils with his daughter, to hail a suburban trolley upon which they both returned to the homenest, where the little girl would again languish at the gate, a prey toany designing city man who might pass. 

She seemed so defenceless in her wild-rose beauty, her longing forpretty clothes and city ways, and yet so capably pro by this opportunefather who appeared to foresee the moment of her flights. 

He learned without a tremor that among the triumphs of his inventivegenius had been a machine for making ten--dollar bills, at which the NewYork capitalist had exclaimed that the state right for Iowa alone wouldbring one hundred thousand dollars. Even more remunerative, it wouldseem, had been his other patent--the folding boomerang. The manager ofthe largest boomerang factory in Australia stood ready to purchase thisdevice for ten million dollars. And there was a final view of the littlehome after prosperity had come to its inmates so long threatened withruin. A sign over the door read "Ye Olde Fashioned Gifte Shoppe, " andunder it, flaunted to the wayside, was the severely simple trade-deviceof a high boot. 

These things he now knew were to be expected among the deft infamiesof a Buckeye comedy. But the present piece held in store for him acomplication that, despite his already rich experience of Buckeyemethods, caused him distressing periods of heat and cold while hewatched its incredible unfolding. Early in the piece, indeed, he hadbegun to suspect in the luring of his little sister a grotesque parallelto the bold advances made him by the New York society girl. He at oncefeared some such interpretation when he saw himself coy and embarrassedbefore her down-right attack, and he was certain this was intended whenhe beheld himself embraced by this reckless young woman who behaved inthe manner of male screen idols during the last dozen feet of the lastreel. But how could he have suspected the lengths to which a pervertedspirit of satire would lead the Buckeye director?

For now he staggered through the blinding snow, a bundle clasped to hisbreast. He fell, half fainting, at the door of the old home. He gropedfor the knob and staggered in to kneel at his mother's feet. And shesternly repulsed him, a finger pointing to the still open door. 

Unbelievably the screen made her say, "He wears no ring. Back to thesnow with 'em both! Throw 'em Way Down East!"

And Baird had said the bundle would contain one of his patents!

Mrs. Gill watched this scene with tense absorption. When the mother'siron heart had relented she turned to her husband. "You dear thing, thatwas a beautiful piece of work. You're set now. That cinches your future. Only, dearest, never, never, never let it show on your face that youthink it's funny. That's all you'll ever have to be afraid of in yourwork. "

"I won't, " he said stoutly. 

He shivered--or did he shudder?--and quickly reached to take her hand. It was a simple, direct gesture, yet somehow it richly had the qualityof pleading. 

"Mother understands, " she whispered. "Only remember, you mustn't seem tothink it's funny. "

"I won't, " he said again. But in his torn heart he stubbornly cried, "Idon't, I don't!"

* * * * * * *

Some six months later that representative magazine, Silver Screenings, emblazoned upon its front cover a promise that in the succeeding numberwould appear a profusely illustrated interview by Augusta Blivens withthat rising young screen actor, Merton Gill. 

The promise was kept. The interview wandered amid photographicreproductions of the luxurious Hollywood bungalow, set among palms andclimbing roses, the actor and his wife in their high-powered roadster(Mrs. Gill at the wheel); the actor in his costume of chaps andsombrero, rolling a cigarette; the actor in evening dress, the actorin his famous scene of the Christmas eve return in Brewing Trouble; theactor regaining his feet in his equally famous scene of the malignantspurs; the actor and his young wife, on the lawn before the bungalow, and the young wife aproned, in her kitchen, earnestly busy with spoonand mixing bowl. 

"It is perhaps not generally known, " wrote Miss Blivens, "that thehonour of having discovered this latest luminary in the stellarfirmament should be credited to Director Howard Henshaw of the Victorforces. Indeed, I had not known this myself until the day I casuallymentioned the Gills in his presence. I lingered on a set of Island Love, at present being filmed by this master of the unspoken drama, having buta moment since left that dainty little reigning queen of the celluloiddynasty, Muriel Mercer. Seated with her in the tiny bijou boudoir of herbungalow dressing room on the great Holden lot, its walls lined with theworks of her favourite authors--for one never finds this soulful littlegirl far from the books that have developed her mentally as the art ofthe screen has developed her emotionally--she had referred me tothe director when I sought further details of her forthcoming greatproduction, an idyl of island romance and adventure. And presently, whenI had secured from him the information I needed concerning thisunique little drama of the great South Seas, I chanced to mention myapproaching encounter with the young star of the Buckeye forces, anencounter to which I looked forward with some dismay. 

"Mr. Henshaw, pausing in his task of effecting certain changes in theinterior of the island hut, reassured me. 'You need have no fear aboutyour meeting with Gill, ' he said. 'You will find him quite simpleand unaffected, an artist, and yet sanely human. ' It was now that herevealed his own part in the launching of this young star. 'I fancy itis not generally known, ' he continued, 'that to me should go the honourof having "discovered" Gill. It is a fact, however. He appeared asan extra one morning in the cabaret scene we used in Miss Mercer'stremendous hit, The Blight of Broadway. Instantly, as you may suppose, Iwas struck by the extraordinary distinction of his face and bearing. Inthat crowd composed of average extra people he stood out to my eye asone made for big things. After only a moment's chat with him I gave hima seat at the edge of the dancing floor and used him most effectivelyin portraying the basic idea of this profoundly stirring drama in whichMiss Mercer was to achieve one of her brightest triumphs. 

"'Watch that play to-day; you will discover young Gill in many of theclose-ups where, under my direction, he brought out the psychological, the symbolic--if I may use the term--values of the great idea underlyingour story. Even in these bits he revealed the fine artistry which he hassince demonstrated more broadly under another director. 

"'To my lasting regret the piece was then too far along to give him amore important part, though I intended to offer him something good inour next play for Muriel Mercer--you may recall her gorgeous success inHer Father's Wife--but I was never able to find the chap again. I madeinquiries, of course, and felt a really personal sense of loss when Icould get no trace of him. I knew then, as well as I know now, thathe was destined for eminence in our world of painted shadows. You mayimagine my chagrin later when I learned that another director was toreap the rewards of a discovery all my own. '

"And so, " continued Miss Blivens, "it was with the Henshaw words stillin my ears that I first came into the presence of Merton Gill, feelingthat he would-as he at once finely did--put me at my ease. Simple, unaffected, modest, he is one whom success has not spoiled. Both on theset where I presently found him--playing the part of a titled roue inthe new Buckeye comedy--to be called, one hears, 'Nearly Sweethearts orSomething'-and later in the luxurious but homelike nest which theyoung star has provided for his bride of a few months-she was 'Flips'Montague, one recalls, daughter of a long line of theatrical folk datingback to days of the merely spoken drama-he proved to be finely unspoiledand surprisingly unlike the killingly droll mime of the Buckeyeconstellation. Indeed one cannot but be struck at once by the deep veinof seriousness underlying the comedian's surface drollery. His sense ofhumour must be tremendous; and yet only in the briefest flashes of hiswhimsical manner can one divine it. 

"'Let us talk only of my work, ' he begged me. 'Only that can interest mypublic. ' And so, very seriously, we talked of his work. 

"'Have you ever thought of playing serious parts?' I asked, being nowwholly put at my ease by his friendly, unaffected ways. 

"He debated a moment, his face rigidly set, inscrutable to my glance. Then he relaxed into one of those whimsically appealing smiles thatsomehow are acutely eloquent of pathos. 'Serious parts--with thislow-comedy face of mine!' he responded. And my query had been answered. Yet he went on, 'No, I shall never play Hamlet. I can give a goodimitation of a bad actor but, doubtless, I should give a very badimitation of a good one. 

"Et vailet, Messieurs. " I remarked to myself. The man with a few simplestrokes of the brush had limned me his portrait. And I was struck againwith that pathetic appeal in face and voice as he spoke so confidingly. After all, is not pure pathos the hall-mark of great comedy? We laugh, but more poignantly because our hearts are tugged at. And here was amaster of the note pathetic. 

"Who that has roared over the Gill struggle with the dreadful spurs wasnot even at the climax of his merriment sympathetically aware of hisearnest persistence, the pained sincerity of his repeated strivings, the genuine anguish distorting his face as he senses the everlastingfutility of his efforts? Who that rocked with laughter at the fox-trotlesson in Object, Alimony, could be impervious to the facial agony abovethose incompetent, disobedient, heedless feet?

"Here was honest endeavour, an almost prayerful determination, againand again thwarted by feet that recked not of rhythm or even of baremechanical accuracy. Those feet, so apparently aimless, so little undercontrol, were perhaps the most mirthful feet the scored failure in thedance. But the face, conscious of their clumsiness, was a mask of finetragedy. 

"Such is the combination, it seems to me, that has produced the artistrynow so generally applauded, an artistry that perhaps achieved its fullflowering in that powerful bit toward the close of Brewing Trouble--thereturn of the erring son with his agony of appeal so markedly portrayedthat for the moment one almost forgot the wildly absurd burlesque ofwhich it formed the joyous yet truly emotional apex. I spoke of this. 

"'True burlesque is, after all, the highest criticism, don't youthink?' he asked me. 'Doesn't it make demands which only a sophisticatedaudience can meet-isn't it rather high-brow criticism?' And I saw thathe had thought deeply about his art. 

"'It is because of this, ' he went on, 'that we must resort to so much ofthe merely slap-stick stuff in our comedies. For after all, our pictureaudience, twenty million people a day--surely one can make no greatdemands upon their intelligence. ' He considered a moment, seeminglylost in memories of his work. 'I dare say, ' he concluded, 'there arenot twenty million people of taste and real intelligence in the wholeworld. '

"Yet it must not be thought that this young man would play the cynic. He is superbly the optimist, though now again he struck a note of almostcynic whimsicality. 'Of course our art is in its infancy--' He waitedfor my nod of agreement, then dryly added, 'We must, I think, considerit the Peter Pan of the arts. And I dare say you recall the outstandingbiological freakishness of Peter. ' But a smile--that slow, almostpuzzled smile of his--accompanied the words. 

"'You might, ' he told me at parting, 'call me the tragic comedian. ' Andagain I saw that this actor is set apart from the run of his brethrenby an almost uncanny gift for introspection. He has ruthlessly analysedhimself. He knows, as he put it, 'what God meant him to be. ' Was here ahint of poor Cyrano?

"I left after some brief reference to his devoted young wife, who, instudio or home, is never far from his side. "'It is true that I havestruggled and sacrificed to give the public something better and finer, 'he told me then; 'but I owe my real success all to her. ' He took theyoung wife's hand in both his own, and very simply, unaffectedly, raisedit to his cheek where he held it a moment, with that dreamy, rememberinglight in his eyes, as of one striving to recall bits of his past. 

"'I think that's all, ' he said at last. But on the instant of my goinghe checked me once more. 'No, it isn't either. ' He brightened. 'Iwant you to tell your readers that this little woman is more than mywife--she is my best pal; and, I may also add, my severest critic. '"