“Oh, are they _your_ woods?” He looked around him at the trees as though to see what kind of sylvan property this girl possessed. “A pretty spot,” he said with condescension, preparing to bait his hook. “I like pretty spots. It’s my business to hunt for them, too. Yes, and sometimes I hunt for dreary spots. Not that I like them, but it’s in my line----” He shoved a squirming worm onto the hook and wiped his hands on his trousers. “Yes, that’s my line--I’m in all kinds of lines--even fish-lines----” He dropped his hook into the pool and stood intent, evidently indifferent to any potential applause as tribute to his wit. He was sunburnt, fat, smooth-shaven. Thin hair partly covered his head in damp ringlets. Presently he glanced across at Eris out of little bluish, puffy eyes which sagged at the corners. He winked at her, not offensively: “Yes, that’s my best line, sister.... Spots! All kinds. Pretty, gloomy, lovely, dreary--oasis or desert, it doesn’t matter; I’m always in the market for spots.” “Are you looking for a farm?” inquired Eris. “Farm? Well, that’s in my line, too,--farms, mills, nice old stone bridges,--all that stuff is in my line,--in fact, everything is in my line,--and nothing _on_ my line----” He lifted a dripping bait, lowered it again, winked at Eris. “I suppose,” he said, “there isn’t a single thing in all the world that isn’t in my line. Why, even _you_ are!” he added, laughing fatly. “What do you think of that, now?” “What is your line?” she inquired, inclined to smile. “Can’t you guess, girlie?” “No, I can’t.” “Well, I come out this way on location. The bunch is over at Summit. I’m just scouting out the lay over here. To-day’s Sunday, so I’m fishing. I can’t hunt spots every minute.” “I don’t know what you mean,” said Eris. “Why, we’re shooting the sanitarium over at Summit,” he explained, gently testing his line. As there was nothing on it he looked over at Eris. “You don’t get me, sister,” he said. “It’s pictures. See?” “Moving pictures?” “Yeh, the Crystal Film outfit. We’re shooting the ‘Wild Girl.’ It’s all outside stuff now. We’re going to shoot ‘The Piker’ next. Nature stuff. That’s why.” Once more he drew out and examined his bait. “Say,” he demanded, “are there any fish in this stream?” “Trout.” “Well, they seem to be darned scarce----” “I want to ask you something,” interrupted the girl, breathlessly. “Shoot, sister.” “I want to know how people--how a girl----” “Sure. I get you. I’m glad you asked me. They all ask that. You want to know how to get into pictures.” “Yes----” “Of course. So does every living female in the United States. That’s what sixty million women, young and old, want to know----” He looked up, prepared to wink, but something in her flushed expression modified his jocose intention: “Say, sister,” he drawled, “_you_ don’t want to go into pictures.” “Yes, I do.” “What for?” “Why are _you_ in pictures?” she asked. “God knows----” “Will you please tell me why?”