Again Henshaw glanced up from his envelope with the light of inspiration. “Well, how about this? Call it Robinson Crusoe, Junior! There you are. We get the value of the name and do the story the way we want it, the young fellow being shaved every day by the valet, and he can invite the other party over to dine with him and receive them in evening dress and everything. Can’t you see it? If that story wouldn’t gross big then I don’t know a story. And all easy stuff. We can use the trims for the long shots, and use that inlet, toward the other end of Catalina for the hut and the beach; sure-fire stuff, Governor--and Robinson Crusoe, Junior is a cinch title.” “Well, give Belmore as much dope as you’ve got, and see what he can work out.” They arose and stood by the counter to pay their checks. “If you want to see the rushes of that stuff we shot this morning be over to the projection room at five,” said Henshaw as they went out. Neither had observed the rising young screen actor, Clifford Armytage, though he had coughed violently again as they left. He had coughed most plausibly, moreover, because of the cigarettes. At the cashier’s window, no longer obstructed, he received his money, another five-dollar bill adorned with the cheerfully prosperous face of Benjamin Harrison and half that amount in silver coin. Then, although loath to do this, he went to the dressing room and removed his make-up. That grease paint had given him a world of confidence. At the casting office he stopped to tell his friend of the day’s camera triumph, how the director had seemed to single him out from a hundred or so revellers to portray facially the deadly effect of Broadway’s night life. “Good work!” she applauded. “Before long you’ll be having jobs oftener. And don’t forget, you’re called again to-morrow morning for the gambling-house scene.” She was a funny woman; always afraid he would forget something he could not possibly forget. Once more in the Patterson kitchen he pressed his suit and dreamt of new eminences in his chosen art. The following morning he was again the first to reach the long dressing room, the first to be made up by the grumbling extra, the first to reach the big stage. The cabaret of yesterday had overnight been transformed into a palatial gambling hell. Along the sides of the room and at its centre were tables equipped for strange games of chance which only his picture knowledge enabled him to recognize. He might tarry at these tables, he thought, but he must remember to look bored in the near presence of Henshaw. The Spanish girl of yesterday appeared and he greeted her warmly. “I got some cigarettes this time,” he said, “so let me pay you back all those I smoked of yours yesterday.” Together they filled the golden case that hung from her girdle. “It’s swell, all right,” said the girl, gazing about the vast room now filling with richly clad gamblers.