perhaps even have tickled him； for this was the best grass he had found since leaving home。 Other churchgoers paused in consternation； looking expectantly at the approaching Merton Gill。 The three happy children who came up with him left no one in doubt of the late happening。
Merton was still the artist。 He saw himself approach Dexter； vault into the saddle； put spurs to the beast； and swiftly disappear down the street。 People would be saying that he should not be let to ride so fast through a city street。 He was worse than Gus Giddings。 But he saw this only with his artist's eye。 In sordid fact he went up to Dexter； seized the trailing bridle reins and jerked savagely upon them。 Back over the trail he led his good old pal。 And for other later churchgoers there were the shrill voices of friendly children to tell what had happenedto appeal confidently to Merton； vaguely ahead in the twilight； to confirm their interesting story。
Dexter； the anarchist； was put to bed without his goodnight kiss。 Good old Pinto had done his pal dirt。 Never again would he be given a part in Buck Benson's company。 Across the alley came the voices of tired； happy children； in the appeal for an encore。 〃Mer…tun； please let him do it to you again。〃 〃Mer…tun； please let him do it to you again。〃
And to the back porch came Mrs。 Gashwiler to say it was a good thing he'd got that clothesline back； and came her husband wishing to be told what outlandish notion Merton Gill would next get into the thing he called his head。 It was the beginning of the end。
Followed a week of strained relations with the Gashwiler household； including Dexter； and another week of relations hardly more cordial。 But thirty dollars was added to the hoard which was now counted almost nightly。 And the cruder wits of the village had made rather a joke of Merton's adventure。 Some were tasteless enough to rally him coarsely upon the crowded street or at the post office while he awaited his magazines。
And now there were two hundred and seventy…five dollars to put him forever beyond their jibes。 He carefully rehearsed a scathing speech for Gashwiler。 He would tell him what he thought of him。 That merchant would learn from it some things that would do him good if he believed them； but probably he wouldn't believe them。 He would also see that he had done his faithful employee grave injustices。 And he would be left； in some humiliation； having found； as Merton Gill took himself forever out of retail trade； that two could play on words as well as one。 It was a good warm speech； and its author knew every word of it from mumbled rehearsal during the two weeks； at times when Gashwiler merely thought he was being queer again。
At last came the day when he decided to recite it in full to the man for whom it had been composed。 He confronted him； accordingly； at a dull moment on the third Monday morning； burning with his message。
He looked Gashwiler firmly in the eye and said in halting tones； 〃Mr。 Gashwiler； now； I've been thinking I'd like to go West for a whileto California； if you could arrange to let me off； please。〃 And Mr。 Gashwiler had replied； 〃Well； now； that is a surprise。 When was you wishing to go； Merton？〃
〃Why； I would be much obliged if you'd let me get off to…night on No。 4； Mr。 Gashwiler； and I know you can get Spencer Grant to take my place； because I asked him yester…day。〃
〃Very well； Merton。 Send Spencer Grant in to see me； and you can get off to…night。 I hope you'll have a good time。〃
〃Of course； I don't know how long I'll be gone。 I may locate out there。 But then again〃
〃That's all right； Merton。 Any time you come back you can have your same old job。 You've been a good man； and they ain't so plenty these days。〃
〃Thank you； Mr。 Gashwiler。〃
No。 4 was made to stop at Simsbury for a young man who was presently commanding a meal in the palatial diner； and who had； before this meal was eaten； looked out with compassion upon two Simsbury…like hamlets that the train rushed by； a blur of small…towners standing on their depot platforms to envy the inmates of that splendid structure。
At last it was Western Stuff and no fooling。
CHAPTER IV
THE WATCHER AT THE GATE
The street leading to the Holden motion…picture studio； considered by itself； lacks beauty。 Flanking it for most of the way from the boulevard to the studio gate are vacant lots labelled with their prices and appeals to the passer to buy them。 Still their prices are high enough to mark the thoroughfare as one out of the common； and it is further distinguished by two rows of lofty eucalyptus trees。 These have a real feathery beauty； and are perhaps a factor in the seemingly exorbitant prices demanded for the choice bungalow and home sites they shade。 Save for a casual pioneer bungalow or two； there are no buildings to attract the notice until one reaches a high fence that marks the beginning of the Holden lot。 Back of this fence is secreted a microcosmos； a world in little； where one may encounter strange races of people in their native dress and behold； by walking a block； cities actually apart by league upon league of the earth's surface and separated by centuries of time。
To penetrate this city of many cities； and this actual present of the remote past； one must be of a certain inner elect。 Hardly may one enter by assuming the disguise of a native； as daring explorers have sometimes overcome the difficulty of entering other strange cities。 Its gate； reached after passing along an impressive expanse of the reticent fence； is watched by a guardian。 He is a stoatish man of middle age； not neatly dressed； and of forbidding aspect。 His face is ruthless； with a very knowing cynicism。 He is there； it would seem； chiefly to keep people out of the delightful city； though from time to time he will bow an assent or wave it with the hand clutching his evening newspaper to one of the favoured lawful inmates； who will then carelessly saunter or drive an expensive motor car through the difficult portal。
Standing across the street； one may peer through this portal into an avenue of the forbidden city。 There is an exciting glimpse of greensward； flowering shrubbery； roses； vines； and a vista of the ends of enormous structures painted yellow。 And this avenue is sprightly with the passing of enviable persons who are rightly there； some in alien garb； some in the duller uniform of the humble artisan； some in the pressed and garnished trappings of rich overlords。
It is really best to stand across the street for this clandestine view of heart…shaking delights。 If you stand close to the gate to peer past the bulky shape of the warder he is likely to turn and give you a cold look。 Further； he is averse to light conversation； being always morosely absorbedyet with an eye ever alert for intrusive outlandersin his evening paper。 He never reads a morning paper； but has some means of obtaining at an early hour each morning a pink or green evening paper that shrieks with crimson headlines。 Such has been his reading through all time； and this may have been an element in shaping his now inveterate hostility toward those who would engage him in meaningless talk。 Even in accepting the gift of an excellent cigar he betrays only a bored condescension。 There is no relenting of countenance； no genial relaxing of an ingrained suspicion toward all who approach him； no cordiality； in short； such as would lead you to believe that he might be glad to look over a bunch of stills taken by the most artistic photographer in all Simsbury； Illinois。 So you let him severely alone after a bit； and go to stand across the street； your neatly wrapped art studies under your arm； and leaning against the trunk of a eucalyptus tree； you stare brazenly past him into the city of wonders。
It is thus we first observe that rising young screen actor； Clifford Armytage； beginning the tenth day of his determined effort to become much more closely identified with screen activities than hitherto。 Ten days of waiting outside the guarded gate had been his； but no other ten days of his life had seemed so eventful or passed so swiftly。 For at last he stood before his goal； had actually fastened his eyes upon so much of it as might be seen through its gate。 Never had he achieved so much downright actuality。
Back in Simsbury on a Sunday morning he had often strolled over to the depot at early train time for a sight of the two metal containers housing the films shown at the Bijou Palace the day before。 They would be on the platform； pasted over with express labels。 He would stand by them； even touch them； examine the padlocks； turn them over； heft them； actually hold within his grasp the film wraith of Beulah Baxter in a terrific installment of The Hazards of Hortense。 Those metal containers imprisoned so much of beauty； of daring； of young love striving against adverse currents held the triumphant fruiting of Miss Baxter's toil and struggle and sacrifice to give the public something better and finer。 Often he had caressed the crude metal with a reverent hand； as if his wonder woman herself stood there to receive his homage。
That was actuality； in a way。 But here it was in full measure； without mental subterfuge or vain imaginings。 Had he n