nto his coffee must
satisfy his craving for sweets. Stoically he awaited the end--some end.
The moving-picture business seemed to be still on the rocks, but things
must take a turn.

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

Later he tested the handful of silver that remained to him and prayed
earnestly that an increase of prosperity be granted to producers of the
motion picture. With the silver he eked out another barren week, only to
face a day the evening of which must witness another fiscal transaction
with Mrs. Patterson. And there was no longer a bill for this heartless
society creature. He took a long look at the pleasant little room as
he left it that morning. The day must bring something but it might not
bring him back that night.

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

He reached the Holden studios and loitered outside for half an hour
before daring the daily inquiry at the window. Yet, when at last he did
approach it, his waning faith in prayer was renewed, for here in his
direst hour was cheering news. It seemed even th