. This was broken at the breech and the man was
blowing smoke from the barrels as he came on.

So that was it. The panic of the old horse had been but a simple
reaction to a couple of charges of--perhaps rock--salt. Merton Gill
hoped it had been nothing sterner. For the first time in his screen
career 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 vision
of Beulah Baxter in one of her most daring exploits. She, at least,
was real. Deaf to entreaty, she honestly braved her hazards. It was a
comforting thought after this late exposure of a sham.

In this slightly combative mood he retraced his steps and found himself
outside the High Gear Dance Hall, fortified for another possible
encounter with the inquiring and obviously sympathetic Montague girl. He
entered and saw that she was not on the set. The bar-room dance-hall was
for the moment deserted of its ribald crew while an honest inhabitant
of the open spaces on a balcony was holding a large revolver to the
shrinking back of one of the New York men who had lately arrived by the
stage. He forced this man, who was plainly not honest, to descend the
stairs and to sign, at a table, a certain paper. Then, with weapon still
in hand, the honest Westerner forced the cowardly New Yorker in the
direction 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 see
what's the matter. On your toes, now--try it once." From rear doors came
the motley frequenters of the place, led by the elder Montague.

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

"Rotten!" called the director. "Rotten and then some. Listen. You came
like a lot of children marching out of a public school. Don't come in
lines, break it up, push each other, fight to get ahead, and you're
noisy, too. You're shouting. You're saying, 'What's this? What's it all
about? What's the matter? Which way did he go?' Say anything you want
to, 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 and
pep it, see. Turn th