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Metta Bigler hovered round proud as Lucifer and trying to smoke for the first time in her life, though making poor work of it, like she was eating the cigarette and every now and then finding bits she couldn't swallow, and holding it off at arm's length in between bites. Mrs.
I could just see Vernabelle consenting, almost peevishly; but it sounded like it might be disorderly enough, so I says I'll come if she promises to leave at least one window down at the top, me not having a gas mask. Metta thinks a minute, then says she guesses she can leave one window down a mite; not much, on account of the nature of Vernabelle's dance costume.
And say, Metta, where's the clothesline? I want to practise roping a little before my camera man gets here." "My stars! You're certainly goin' to be a real one, ain't you?" She brought him the clothesline, in use only on Mondays. He re-coiled it carefully and made a running noose in one end. At two Lowell Hardy found his subject casting the rope at an inattentive Dexter.
The costume, as Metta had said, not only followed the lines of the figure, so far as it went anywhere at all, but it suggested and almost revealed that Vernabelle had been badly assembled. The Bohemians kind of gasped and shivered, all except Jeff Tuttle, who applauded loudly. They seemed to feel that Vernabelle was indeed getting away from it all. Then came this here cycle-of-dance portrayals.
But after Metta went away, after she had put out the light and said "Pleasant dreams, Master Russy, an' be sure an' don't roll out," after that! Russy snuggled deep down in the pillows and said he would go right to sleep; oh, right straight! He always had before.
About eight or ten people was huddled round the couch, parties I could hardly make out through this gas attack, and everyone was gabbling. Metta come forward to see who it was, then she pulled something up out of the group and said "Meet dear Vernabelle."
Russy didn't want it to, but it crept in through the key-hole, it must have been the key-hole, for the door was shut the minute Metta's skirt had whisked through. But one thing Russy had to be thankful for, Metta didn't know it was there in the room. As far as that went, it was a kind-hearted Lie.
She's a perfectly good girl, falling on thirty, refers to herself without a pang as a bachelor girl, and dresses as quiet as even a school-teacher has to in a small town. Well, Metta rushes up to me now, all glowing and girlish, and says I must come to her studio that very afternoon and meet her dear old chum, Vernabelle Smith, that is visiting her from Washington Square, New York.
Edgar thrust back his falling hair with a weary hand and tried to look modest, but it was useless. Vernabelle devoted most of her chat to Edgar. She was an incessant person but it seemed to take a man to bring out all that was best in her. Pretty soon Metta went over to a table and brought back some glasses of wine on a tray, of which all partook with more or less relish.
He was thinking: "I certainly got to get me another gun if I'm ever going to do Two-Gun Benson parts, and I got to get the draw down better. I ain't quick enough yet." "Well, did you like your rig?" inquired Metta genially. "Oh, it'll do for the stills we're shooting to-day," replied the actor. "Of course I ought to have a rattlesnake-skin band on my hat, and the things look too new yet.
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