“Pa’s landed a part,” she explained through the little window. “It’s one of those we-uns mountaineer plays with revenooers and feuds; one of those plays where the city chap don’t treat our Nell right—you know. And they won’t stand for the crepe hair, so pop has got to raise a brush and he’s mad. But it ought to give him a month or so, and after that he may be able to peddle the brush again; you can never tell in this business, can you, Countess?”
“It’s most annoying,” the old gentleman explained to the bench occupants. “In the true art of the speaking stage an artificial beard was considered above reproach. Nowadays one must descend to mere physical means if one is to be thought worthy.”
CHAPTER V. A BREACH IN THE CITY WALLS
During these weeks of waiting outside the gate the little woman beyond the window had continued to be friendly but not encouraging to the aspirant for screen honours late of Simsbury, Illinois. For three weeks had he waited faithfully, always within call, struggling and sacrificing to give the public something better and finer, and not once had he so much as crossed the line that led to his goal.
Then on a Monday morning he found the waiting-room empty and his friend beyond the window suffering the pangs of headache. “It gets me something fierce right through here,” she confided to him, placing her finger-tips to her temples.
“Ever use Eezo Pain Wafers?” he demanded in quick sympathy. She looked at him hopefully.
“Never heard of ‘em.”
“Let me get you some.”
“You dear thing, fly to it!”