They tried again, with greater success, and after the third rehearsal, when poor Reggie was in a state of exhaustion—
“Camera!” said Knebworth shortly, and then began the actual taking of the picture.
Whatever his other drawbacks were, and whatever his disadvantages, there was no doubt that Connolly was an artist. Racked with agony at this unusual exertion though he was, he could smile sweetly into the upturned face of the girl, whilst the camera, fixed upon a collapsible platform, clicked encouragingly as it was lowered to keep pace with the escaping lovers. They touched ground, and with one last languishing look at the girl, Connolly posed for the final three seconds.
“That’ll do,” said Jack.
Reggie sat down heavily.
“My heavens!” he wailed, feeling his arms painfully. “I’ll never do that again, I won’t really. I’ve had as much of that stuff as ever I’m going to have, Mr. Knebworth. It was terrible! I thought I should die!”
“Well, you didn’t,” said Jack good-humouredly. “Now have a rest, you boys and girls, and then we’ll shoot the escape.”
The camera was moved off twenty or thirty yards, and whilst Reggie Connolly writhed in agony on the ground, the girl walked over to Michael.
“I’m glad that’s over,” she said thankfully. “Poor Mr. Connolly! The awful language he was using inside nearly made me laugh, and that would have meant that we should have had to take it all over again. But it wasn’t easy,” she added.
Her own arm was bruised, and the rope had rubbed raw a little place on her wrist. Michael had an insane desire to kiss the raw skin, but restrained himself.