"Get that Russ! Every motion of it!" cried the manager. "That will make it better than when we rehearsed it. Spatter that paste all over Mr. Bunn while you're at it, Mr. Switzer."

"Stop! Stop, I say! I protest. I will not have it!"

"Vell, you goin' to git it, all right!" cried the German, and with the brush he liberally daubed the Shakespearean actor with the white and sticky stuff. All the other players were laughing at the ridiculous scene.

"More paste!" ordered Mr. Pertell. "More paste there, Mr. Switzer. Don't be afraid of it, Mr. Bunn! It's clean!"

"Oh, this is awful—this is terrible!" groaned the tragic actor. "My hat is ruined."

And such did seem to be the case, for the shining silk tile was filled with paste, the outside also being well covered.

Mr. Bunn tried to get away from the slapping brush of Mr. Switzer, but the German was not to be outwitted. The two had fallen to the floor under the impact of the comic player, and were now tangled up in the ladder.

"That's good! That's good!" laughed Mr. Pertell. "Get all of that, Russ! Every bit!"

"I'm getting it!" cried the operator, as he continued to grind away at the crank of the moving picture camera.

Again Mr. Bunn tried to get up and away, but the ladder, through which his legs had slipped, hampered him. Then a roll of the paper got under the feet of both players. It unreeled, and some paste got on it. The next instant part of it was plastered over Mr. Switzer's face, and, being unable to see, he pawed about wildly, spattering more paste all over, much of it getting on Mr. Bunn.

"Better than ever. Use some more of that paper!" ordered the manager. "Paste some on Mr. Switzer, if you can, Mr. Bunn."

"Oh, I can all right!" cried the older actor. "Here is where I have my revenge!"

He scooped up a hand full of paste, spread it on a piece of paper, and clapped it over the face of the German, for that player had removed the first piece that was stuck on. And thus they capered about in the scenic room, making a chaos of it.

Russ took all the pictures for the future amusement of thousands who attended the darkened theaters.

Of course it was horseplay, pure and simple, and yet audiences go into paroxysms of mirth over much the same things. The love of slap-stick comedy has not all died out, and the managers realize this.

"I don't know when I've laughed so much," confessed Alice, holding her aching sides as she sat down near Ruth, when the little comedy was over.

"Nor I, my dear. I think the old saying is true, after all, that 'a little nonsense, now and then, is relished by the best of men.'"

"This was certainly nonsense," admitted Alice. "Oh, come over and let's see Miss Pennington and Miss Dixon in that new play—'Parlor Magic.' It's very interesting, and rather funny."

The two older actresses were to play in a little scene where a young man—in this case Paul Ardite—attempted to do some tricks he had been studying. He was supposed to come to grief in making an omelet in a silk hat, and have other troubles when he tried to take rabbits out of parlor vases, and such like nonsense.

This was one of the trick films—that is, it was not a straight piece of work. It depended for its success on the manipulation of the camera, on substituting dummies for real persons or animals at certain points, the interposition of films and many other things too technical to put into a book that is only intended to amuse you.

"How are you?" asked Miss Pennington, as Ruth and Alice came over to their side of the studio. "You are looking quite well."

"And we are well," answered Alice. "We want to see you act," for the filming had not yet begun.

"For instruction or amusement?" asked Miss Dixon, and her voice had something of a sneer in it. She and her chum were not on the most friendly terms with Ruth and Alice.

"Both amusement and instruction," responded Alice, sweetly—in a doubly sweet voice under the circumstances. "One can learn from anyone, you know," and she pretended to be interested in one of the tricks Paul was practicing while getting ready for the camera.

Alice could say things with a double meaning at times, and probably this was one of them.

"Oh!" was all Miss Dixon said, and then she called: "Paul, come here; won't you? I want you to fasten my glove."

"Certainly," he agreed, with a look at Alice which was meant to say: "I don't want to do this, but I can't very well get out of it."

Paul, I might add, had been quite interested in Miss Dixon before the advent of Alice, and the vaudeville actress rather resented the change. She took advantage of every opportunity to make Paul fetch and carry for her as he had been wont to do.

The parlor magic play was successfully filmed and then, as Alice and Ruth had some shopping to do, to get their costumes ready for their appearance before the camera next day, they prepared to leave. They stopped for a moment, however, to watch their father in his play—"A Heart's Cavalier." This was rather a pretentious drama, and called for really good acting, the nature of which appealed to the veteran player.

It was really a delight to watch him, for he gave a finished performance, and the loss of his voice was no handicap here. He could whisper the words, or utter them in a low tone, so that the motion of his lips might be seen by the audience.

If you have ever seen motion pictures, and I am sure you all have, you know that often you can tell exactly what the characters are saying by watching the form of their lips.

Deaf persons, who have learned to know what other persons are saying, merely by watching their lips, are able to "hear" much more than can the ordinary individual what goes on in moving pictures. In this they have a distinct advantage.

But of course the story the celluloid film tells is mostly conveyed by the action of the characters, and Mr. DeVere was an expert in this.

"Good-bye, Daddy," called Alice, when he was out of the scene for a moment. "We'll be back, and you can take us out to lunch."

"All right," he laughed. "Make your poor old daddy spend his hard-earned money, will you?"

"You know you're just crazy to do it," said Ruth. "Come on Alice."

The next day called for hard work for both the moving picture girls, and there were a number of outdoor scenes to do. They were glad of this change, however.

Some of the scenes Ruth and Alice had parts in, as well as Paul Ardite, were filmed out in Bronx Park, with the still natural wildness of that beauty spot as background. One scene was down near the beaver pond, and with the snow on the ground, and the sleet still on the trees, the pictures afterward turned out to be most effective. Special permission had to be obtained to use the camera in the park, there being a rule against it.

Alice had one part which called for feeding the birds with crumbs scattered over the snow. And, just when they wanted this not a bird—even a sparrow—was in sight. In vain they went to different parts of the park, looking for some, and scattered many crumbs.

"I guess we'll have to give it up, and come back some other time," Russ said finally. "I don't want to make another trip, either," he went on. "It wastes so much time, and we're going to be be very busy soon."

"What about those new plans?" asked Ruth.

"They are to be announced to-morrow, I believe," was the answer. "A lot of snow dramas are to be filmed."

"Good!" cried Alice. "I love the snow."

"Oh, quick! There are some birds!" called Ruth. "See, over there, Alice. Scatter the crumbs!"

Russ had them in his pocket in readiness, and soon the snow was covered. The birds did their part well, and as Alice stood near them, throwing crumbs to the hungry sparrows and starlings, they fluttered about her, and flocked at her feet.

"Good!" cried Russ, who was busy with the camera. "It couldn't be better. This will make a fine film."

Alice presented a pretty picture as she stood there in her furs, scattering crumbs to the birds, and the little feathered creatures proved the best sort of actors, for they were not self-conscious, and did not stop to peer at the camera, the clicking of which they did not mind in the least.

"Well, that's done; now I think we'll go back," Russ said, when he had ascertained, by looking at the register on the side of the camera, that enough feet of the film had been used on that scene. For, in order to have each scene get its proper amount of space, both as regards time and length of film a strict watch is kept on how much celluloid is used.

A manager, or director, will decide on the importance of the various scenes, and then divide up the film, giving so many feet to each act.

The standard length of film is a thousand feet. It comes in thousand foot reels, but some plays are so elaborate that two, three or even seven reels have been given up to them. Great scenic productions, such as "Quo Vadis?" use up many thousand feet of film.

Russ and the two girls, with Paul, started back from the Bronx. They were to stop in at the studio, but on reaching there the girls found that their father had gone home, leaving a note saying he was going to see the doctor about his throat.

"Poor daddy!" murmured Ruth. "He does have such trouble!"

"Has Merley bothered him again?" asked Russ.

"No, he has heard nothing from him," answered Alice. "But daddy worries about it. Five hundred dollars means more to him now than five thousand may later. For I hope daddy will get rich some day," she finished, with a laugh.

The three walked on together to the subway, and got out at the station nearest their house. On the way they had to cross one of the surface car lines, and, just as they reached the corner, they heard a shout of alarm or warning, evidently directed at someone in danger from an approaching electric car.

"What is it?" cried Ruth, clinging to Alice.

"I don't know," answered the younger girl. "Oh, yes, there it is!" she cried, pointing.

Three men were on the car tracks, and two of them seemed to be trying to pull one away, out of the path of an approaching car. The shouts came from a number of pedestrians who had seen the danger of the man.

The latter seemed to be caught by the foot on the rail, though how this was possible was difficult to understand, as the rail was flat.

The motorman was doing his best to stop the car, but the rails were slippery and it was easily seen that he could not do it. Then he added his shouts to those of the others.

"Oh, he'll be killed!" cried Alice, covering her face with her hands. Ruth had also turned aside.

"No, he won't!" cried Russ, with conviction. "They'll get him off, I think. There! He's free! I guess they took off his shoe."

As he spoke the girls looked, and they saw the man fall in a peculiar way, to one side, so as to be out of the path of the car, which swept past him. The vehicle, however, seemed to hit him, but of this neither Russ nor the girls could be sure.

"That's a queer accident," murmured Russ, as he started toward the scene of it. "Come on, girls."

Ruth and Alice went with him. There was a little crowd about the fallen man, and at the sight of the fellow's face Alice suddenly cried:

"Look! That is Dan Merley!"