the stuff for truly
creative screen art--'"

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

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

He went out to pass an enlivening day, fairly free of misgiving. He
found an abundance of entertainment. On one stage he overlooked for
half an hour a fragment of the desert drama which he had assisted the
previous day. A covered incline led duskily down to the deserted tomb in
which the young man and the beautiful English girl were to take shelter
for 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 by
laying not so much as a finger upon the defenceless girl.

But this soon palled upon the watching connoisseur. The actual
shots were few and separated by barren intervals of waiting for that
mysterious something which photoplays in production seemed to need.
Being no longer identified with this drama he had lost much of his
concern over the fate in store for the girl, though he knew she would
emerge from the ordeal as pure as she was beautiful--a bit foolish at
moments, perhaps, but good.

He found that he was especially interested in bedroom scenes. On Stage
Four a sumptuous bedroom, vacant for the moment, enchained him for a
long period of contemplation. The bed was of some rare wood ornately
carved, with a silken canopy, spread with finest linen and quilts of
down, its pillows opulent in their embroidered cases. The hide of a
polar bear, its head mounted with open jaws, spread over the rich rug
beside the bed. He wondered about this interestingly. Probably the stage
would be locked at night. Still, at a suit