e chips before them,
and waited.

"Your escort takes out his wallet, shows it to you empty, and shrugs his
shoulders. 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 some
bills, someone."

"Never mind, Mr. Henshaw; I already got some there." The pantomime was
done, the girl turned, stooped, withdrew flattened bills from one of the
salmon-pink stockings and flourished them at her escort who achieved
a transition from gloom to joy. Merton Gill, observing this shameless
procedure, plumbed the nether depths of disgust for Broadway's night
life.

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

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

Merton Gill lost no time in relinquishing his cigarette. He dropped it
into 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 he
was becoming screen wise. And Henshaw had remembered him. The cast of
The Blight of Broadway might not be jewelled with his name, but his work
would 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 the
elderly scoundrel who had long watched the beautiful girl as only the
Wolf of Wall Street could watch one so fair. He saw her leave upon
his arm, perhaps for further unwholesome adventure along Broadway. The
lights were out, the revelry done.

Merton Gill beyond a doubt preferred Western stuff, some heart-gripping
tale of the open spaces, or perhaps of the frozen north, where he could
be the hard-riding, straight-shooting, two-fisted wonder-man, and not
have to smoke so many cigarettes--only one now and then, which he would
roll himself and toss away after a few puffs. Still, he had shown above
the mob of extra people, he thought. Henshaw had noticed him. He was
coming on.

The Montague girl hailed him as he left the set. "Hullo, old trouper. I
caught you actin'