"That's exactly what it is—a play-factory," agreed Russ. "Come on in."
If Alice was surprised at the exterior appearance of the building the interior was more bewildering. They passed rapidly through the departments devoted to the mechanical end of the business—where the films were developed and printed. Russ promised to show her more of that later.
"We'll go right up to the theatre studio," he said.
Alice looked about the big room, that seemed filled with all sorts of scenery, parts of buildings, rustic bridges—in short, all sorts of "props." She had been behind the scenes often in some of the plays in which her father took part, so this was not startlingly new to her. Yet it was different from the usual theatre.
And such strange "business" seemed going on. There were men and women going through plays—Alice could tell that, but the odd part of it was that in one section of the room what seemed a tragedy in a mountain log cabin was being enacted; while, not ten feet away, was a parlor scene, showing men in evening dress, and women in ball costumes, gliding through the mazes of a waltz. Next to this was a scene representing a counterfeiter's den in some low cellar, with the police breaking through the door with drawn revolvers, to capture the criminals.
And in front of these varied scenes stood a battery of queer cameras—moving picture cameras, looking like flat fig boxes with a tube sticking out, and a handle on one side, at which earnest-faced young men were vigorously clicking.
And, off to one side, stood several men in their shirt sleeves superintending the performances. They gave many directions.
"No, not that way! When you faint, fall good and hard, Miss Pennington!"
"Hurry now, Mr. Switzer; get in some of that funny business! Look funny; don't act as though this was your funeral!"
"Come on there Mr. Bunn; this isn't 'Hamlet.' You needn't stalk about that way. There's no grave in this!"