Gary spent a sleepless night wondering how he might with impunity commit the unforgivable sin. In spite of his anger at Patricia and his sense of her injustice, certain words of hers rankled in a way that would have pleased Patricia immensely, had she known it. He rode out to the studio one car earlier than usual, and went straight to the little cubbyhole of a dressing room to put on his make-up as Chief Eagle Eye. Such was the force of Patricia’s speech that Gary swore vaguely, at nothing in particular, while he painted his eyebrows, lashes and lips, and streaked the vermilion war paint down his cheeks. He scrubbed the copper-colored powder into the grease paint on his arms and chest, still swearing softly and steadily in a monotonous undertone that sounded, ten feet away, like a monk mumbling over his beads. With the help of a fellow actor he became a noble red man from the scalp lock to his waist, got into fringed buckskin leggings, lavishly feathered war bonnet, some imitation elk-tooth necklaces and beaded moccasins. Then, with his quiver full of arrows (poisoned in the sub-titles) slung over his painted shoulders, and the mighty bow of Chief Eagle Eye in his hand, Gary stalked out into the lot in search of the director, Mills. When one knows his director personally as a friend, one may, if he is a coming young star and not too insufferably aware of his starlike qualities, accomplish much in the way of emergency revisions of story and stringent rules. Wherefore, to the future amazement of the author, Chief Eagle Eye that day died three different deaths, close up in front of two grinding cameras; though Chief Eagle Eye had not been expected to die at all in the picture. The director stood just behind the camera, his megaphone under his arm, his hands on his hips, his hat on the back of his head and a grin on his perspiring face. “Thattaboy, Gary! Just sag at the knees and go down slowly, as you try to draw the bow. That’s it--try to get up--well, that’s good business, trying to shoot from the ground! Now try to heave yourself up again--just lift your body, like your legs is paralyzed--shot in the back, maybe. All right--that’s great stuff. Now rouse yourself with one last effort--lift your head and chant the death song! Gulp, man! “Run in there, Bill--you’re horrified. Try to lift him up and drag him back out of danger. Say! Wince, man, like you’re shot through the lungs--no, _I meant Gary_!--well, damn it, let it go--but how-the-hell-do-you-expect-to-drag-a-man-off-when-you’ve-got-a-slug-in-your-_lungs_? You acted like some one had stuck you with a pin! Git outa the scene--Gary’s doing the dying, you ain’t!---- _Cut_--we’ll have to do that over. A kid four years old would never stand for that damfool play.