The girls who “did” Indians had the privacy of the one bathroom for their cleaning up. So they were usually “pretty” again, lounging in the hammocks or enjoying the porch rockers; a few would be over in the spring house freshening up on healthful spring water; a few at the General Store buying picture post-cards. And then came dinner and in ones, twos, and threes, the company strolled in--a hungry lot. Frail little Mrs. Predmore wondered would she ever get the actors fed up. It took her the week usually, she afterwards confided. When the cook would let her, she’d go into the kitchen and make us lemon meringue pies. The actors were always hoping the cook would leave, or get sick, or die, so Mrs. Predmore could cook all the dinner. Sometimes we were very merry at dinner. When Arthur Johnson would arrive bowing himself gallantly in, in a manner bred of youthful days as a Shakespearean actor with the Owen Dramatic Company, loud and hearty applause would greet him, which he’d accept with all the smiling, gracious salaams of the old-time ten, twenty, and thirty tragedian. * * * * * Evening at Cuddebackville! The biggest thrill would be an automobile ride to Middletown, nine miles away. If Mr. Predmore weren’t busy after dinner, he’d take us. It was a joyful ride over the mountains to Middletown, quite the most priceless fun of an evening. Every one was eager for it except the little groups of twos, who, sentimentally inclined, were paddling a canoe out on the basin or down the canal. There would be Mary Pickford and Owen Moore, and James Kirkwood and Gertrude Robinson, and Stanner E. V. Taylor and Marion Leonard, experiencing tense moments in the silence broken only by the drip, drip of the paddle beneath the mellow moon. Romance got well under way at Cuddebackville. The evening divertisements became more complex as we became better acquainted. “Wally” Walthall, Arthur Johnson, and Mack Sennett became our principal parlor entertainers. “Wally” rendered old southern ditties as only a true southern gentleman from Alabama could. Arthur Johnson and Mack Sennett did good team-work; they were our Van and Schenck. Arthur, who presided at the piano, had a sentimental turn; he liked “The Little Grey Home in the West” kind of song, but the future producer of movie comedies was not so sentimentally disposed. As long as harmony reigned in the camp of Johnson and Sennett, there were tuneful evenings for the musically inclined. But every now and then Sennett would get miffed about something and never a do-re-mi would be got out of him, and when Arthur’s nerves could stand the strain no longer, he’d burst forth to the assemblage, “I wouldn’t mind if he’d fuss with me, but this silence thing gets my goat.”