An energetic man in laced boots and a flannel shirt--Mr. Harcourt called him the director--peered angrily into the perspective of the scene and, waving a pasteboard megaphone in command, ordained that a distant mountain should come ten feet nearer to him. Alongside of this young man Mohammed was an amateur. For the mountain did obey, advancing ten feet, no more and no less. Half a score of young men in cowboy garb enshrouded themselves in flowing white draperies, took long, tasselled spears in their hands, and swung themselves upon the backs of horses--and, behold, a tribe of Bedouins trotted through the crowded, winding way, scattering mendicants, priests, camel drivers and peddlers from before their path. Upon the edge of all this Chester K. Pilkins hovered as one entranced. He had lost Mrs. Pilkins; he was separated from Mr. Harcourt. He became aware of three damsels of tender years who sat in a row upon a pile of rough lumber near at hand. They wore flowing robes of many colours; they were barefooted, their small toes showing pleasantly pink and white below the hems of their robes, and their arms were drawn primly behind them. He watched them. Although manifestly having no part in the scene then being rehearsed for filming, they continued to hold their arms in this restrained and presumably uncomfortable attitude, as though they might be practising some new form of a deep-breathing exercise. As he watched, one of the three, catching his eye, arose and came padding her little bare feet through the dust to where he stood. "Do me a favour?" she inquired archly. "Why--why, yes, certainly, if possible," answered Mr. Pilkins. "Sure, it's possible. See this?" She shook her head, and a wayward ringlet which dangled down against one cheek was agitated to and fro across her pert face. "Well, it's tickling my nose something fierce. Tuck it back up out of sight, will you?" "I'm--I'm afraid I don't understand," stammered Mr. Pilkins, jostled internally. She turned slowly round, and he saw then that her wrists were crossed behind her back and firmly bound together with a length of new cotton rope. "I'm one of the captive Armenians," she explained, facing him again. "More'n a hour ago Wagstaff--he's the assistant director--he tied us up. We gotta stay all tied up, just so, till our scene goes on. He's such a bug on all them little details--Wagstaff is! Go on--be a good fella and get this hair up out of my face, won't you? I'll be sneezing my head off in another minute. But say--mind the make-up." A brightish pink in colour, Mr. Pilkins extended a helping hand, tingling inside of himself. "Chester!" It was his master's voice, speaking with most decided masterfulness. As though the errant curl had been red-hot Mr. Pilkins jerked his outstretched fingers back. The Armenian maiden retired precipitately, her shoulders twitching. "Chester, come here!" Chester came, endeavouring, unsuccessfully, to avoid all outward semblance of guilt.