It is probable that lack of food conduced to this disparaging outlook; and he recovered presently, for he had been smitten with a quick vision of Beulah Baxter in one of her most daring exploits. She, at least, was real. Deaf to entreaty, she honestly braved her hazards. It was a comforting thought after this late exposure of a sham. In this slightly combative mood he retraced his steps and found himself outside the High Gear Dance Hall, fortified for another possible encounter with the inquiring and obviously sympathetic Montague girl. He entered and saw that she was not on the set. The bar-room dance-hall was for the moment deserted of its ribald crew while an honest inhabitant of the open spaces on a balcony was holding a large revolver to the shrinking back of one of the New York men who had lately arrived by the stage. He forced this man, who was plainly not honest, to descend the stairs and to sign, at a table, a certain paper. Then, with weapon still in hand, the honest Westerner forced the cowardly New Yorker in the direction of the front door until they had passed out of the picture. On this the bored director of the day before called loudly, “Now, boys, in your places. You’ve heard a shot--you’re running outside to see what’s the matter. On your toes, now--try it once.” From rear doors came the motley frequenters of the place, led by the elder Montague. They trooped to the front in two lines and passed from the picture. Here they milled about, waiting for further orders. “Rotten!” called the director. “Rotten and then some. Listen. You came like a lot of children marching out of a public school. Don’t come in lines, break it up, push each other, fight to get ahead, and you’re noisy, too. You’re shouting. You’re saying, ‘What’s this? What’s it all about? What’s the matter? Which way did he go?’ Say anything you want to, but keep shouting--anything at all. Say ‘Thar’s gold in them hills!’ if you can’t think of anything else. Go on, now, boys, do it again and pep it, see. Turn the juice on, open up the old mufflers.” The men went back through the rear doors. The late caller would here have left, being fed up with this sort of stuff, but at that moment he descried the Montague girl back behind a light-standard. She had not noted him, but was in close talk with a man he recognized as Jeff Baird, arch perpetrator of the infamous Buckeye comedies. They came toward him, still talking, as he looked. “We’ll finish here to-morrow afternoon, anyway,” the girl was saying. “Fine,” said Baird. “That makes everything jake. Get over on the set whenever you’re through. Come over tonight if they don’t shoot here, just to give us a look-in.”