As he watched, one of the three, catching his eye, arose and came padding her little bare feet through the dust to where he stood.
“Do me a favour?” she inquired archly.
“Why—why, yes, certainly, if possible,” answered Mr. Pilkins.
“Sure, it’s possible. See this?” She shook her head, and a wayward ringlet which dangled down against one cheek was agitated to and fro across her pert face. “Well, it’s tickling my nose something fierce. Tuck it back up out of sight, will you?”
“I’m—I’m afraid I don’t understand,” stammered Mr. Pilkins, jostled internally.
She turned slowly round, and he saw then that her wrists were crossed behind her back and firmly bound together with a length of new cotton rope.
“I’m one of the captive Armenians,” she explained, facing him again. “More’n a hour ago Wagstaff—he’s the assistant director—he tied us up. We gotta stay all tied up, just so, till our scene goes on. He’s such a bug on all them little details—Wagstaff is! Go on—be a good fella and get this hair up out of my face, [189] won’t you? I’ll be sneezing my head off in another minute. But say—mind the make-up.”
A brightish pink in colour, Mr. Pilkins extended a helping hand, tingling inside of himself.
“Chester!”
It was his master’s voice, speaking with most decided masterfulness. As though the errant curl had been red-hot Mr. Pilkins jerked his outstretched fingers back. The Armenian maiden retired precipitately, her shoulders twitching.