Old Jack didn’t speak. His gloomy eyes were fixed upon the youth.
“What’s more, I don’t feel I can do myself justice with Miss Mendoza out of the cast,” said Reggie. “I really don’t! I feel most awfully, terribly nervous, and it’s difficult to express one’s personality when one’s awfully, terribly nervous. In fact,” he said recklessly, “I’m not inclined to go on with the picture unless Miss Mendoza returns.”
She shot a grateful glance at him, and then turned with a slow smile to the silent Jack.
“Would you like me to start to-day?”
“Not to-day, or any other day,” roared the old director, his eyes flaming. “As for you, you nut-fed chorus boy, if you try to let me down I’ll blacklist you at every studio in this country, and every time I meet you I’ll kick you from hell to Halifax!”
He came stamping into the office, where Michael had preceded him, a raging fury of a man.
“What do you think of that?” he asked when he had calmed down. “That’s the sort of stuff they try to get past you! He’s going to quit in the middle of a picture! Did you hear him? That cissy-boy! That mouse! Say, Brixan, would you like to play opposite this girl of mine? You can’t be worse than Connolly, and it would fill in your time whilst you’re looking for the Head-Hunter.”
Michael shook his head slowly.
“No, thank you,” he said. “That is not my job. And as for the Head-Hunter”—he lit a cigarette and sent a ring of smoke to the ceiling—“I know who he is and I can lay my hands on him just when I want.”