Aunt Jane's Nieces Out West
Something went very wrong presently, for the director blew a shrill blast
on his whistle and suddenly everything stopped short. The camera man
threw a cloth over his lenses and calmly lighted a cigarette. The
procession halted in uncertainty and became a disordered rabble; but the
director sprang into the open space and shouted at his actors and
actresses in evident ill temper.
"There it is again!" he cried. "Five hundred feet of good film, ruined by
the stupidity of one person. Get out of that priest's robe, Higgins, and
let Jackson take your place. Where's Jackson, anyhow?"
"Here," answered a young man, stepping out from a group of spectators.
"Do you know the work? Can you lead that procession into the temple so
they will leave room for Delilah to enter, and not crowd her off the
platform?" asked the director.
Jackson merely nodded as he scrambled into the priest's robe which the
discomfited Higgins resigned to him. Evidently the bungling actor was in
disgrace, for he was told to go to the office and get his pay and then
"clear out."
So now the procession was sent back into the passage and rearranged in
proper order; the signal was given to begin and in an instant the camera
renewed its clicking as the operator slowly revolved the handle that
carried the long strip of film past the lenses. The musicians played, the
girls danced, the procession slowly emerged from the passage.
This time it advanced properly and came to a halt just at the head of the
staircase leading up to the entrance to the temple.
"Delilah!" shouted the director, and now appeared a beautiful girl who
made a low obeisance to the chief priest.
"Why--goodness me!" cried Patsy. "It's--it's Maud Stanton!"
"Nonsense!" returned Arthur, sharply; and then he looked again and drew a
long breath; for unless it were indeed the elder niece of Mrs. Montrose,
there must be two girls in the world identically alike.
Mr. Werner settled the question by quietly remarking: "Of course it's
Maud Stanton. She's our bright, particular star, you know, and the public
would resent it if she didn't appear as the heroine of all our best
pictures.
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There was once an honest journeyman tailor, by name Labakan, who learned his trade with an excellent master in Alexandria. It could not be said that Labakan was unhandy with the needle; on the contrary, he could make excellent work: moreover, one would have done him injustice to have called him lazy. Nevertheless, his companions knew not what to make of him, for he would often sew for hours together so rapidly that the needle would glow in his hand, and the thread smoke, and that none could equal him.
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