“Your lines are simple, girls. You’ve just gotten out of a buckboard after a long ride from the nearest railroad station. You’re tired and stiff and a little mad because Curt didn’t come to meet you. Janet, remember that you’re a little giddy and anything crazy you do will fit in all right.”
“She’ll do plenty of that,” said Bertie Jackson, under her breath.
Billy Fenstow didn’t believe in rehearsals. He told his people what he wanted, then asked them to do it, and started the cameras grinding. If it was too bad, he had to shoot it over, but if it was fair, he let it go, with the result that once in a while he got some exceptional shots.
“All set, girls?” asked the director.
Janet, her mouth dry, nodded.
“Let’s go. Camera!”
They stepped into the range of the cameras, Helen in the lead and Janet, a rather vacant stare on her face, following. There was a bear-skin rug in front of the door and some way her feet became tangled up in it and she pitched forward, only the strong arm of Curt Newsom preventing her from falling. Curt, a veteran trooper, faked a line and Janet had enough presence of mind to come back with a cue. Then they went on with the scene, which was extremely brief, ending with a cowboy, laden with baggage, trying to get through the door.
“Cut it,” waved Billy. “What are you trying to do, clown this?” he demanded of the red-faced Janet.
“No, Mr. Fenstow. You see, I slipped. I didn’t mean to do it,” she explained.
“Well, whatever it was, it was a nice bit of action and I think we’ll keep it. It ought to be worth a laugh or two.”