Here he now noticed for the first time the prop-boy Jimmie, he who had almost certainly defaulted with an excellent razor. Jimmie threw a blanket about the star's shoulders as she hovered above the glowing coals. Merton had waited for her voice. He might still venture to speak to her--to tell her of his long and profound admiration for her art. Her voice came as she shivered over the fire:
"Murder! That water's cold. Rosenblatt swore he'd have it warmed but I'm here to say it wouldn't boil an egg in four minutes."He could not at first identify this voice with the remembered tones of Beulah Baxter. But of course she was now hoarse with the cold.
Under the circumstances he could hardly expect his heroine's own musical clearness. Then as the girl spoke again something stirred among his more recent memories. The voice was still hoarse, but he placed it now. He approached the brazier. It was undoubtedly the Montague girl. She recognized him, even as she squeezed water from the hair of wondrous gold.
"Hello, again, Kid. You're everywhere, ain't you? Say, wha'd you think of that Rosenblatt man? Swore he'd put the steam into that water and take off the chill. And he never." She threw aside the blanket and squeezed water from her garments, then began to slap her legs, arms, and chest.
"Well, I'm getting a gentle glow, anyhow. Wha'd you think of the scene?""It was good--very well done, indeed." He hoped it didn't sound patronizing, though that was how he felt. He believed now that Miss Baxter would have done it much better. He ventured a question. "But how about Miss Baxter--when does she do something? Is she going to be swept off the boat, too?""Baxter? Into that water? Quit your kidding!""But isn't she here at all--won't she do anything here?""Listen here, Kid; why should she loaf around on the set when she's paying me good money to double for her?""You--double for Beulah Baxter?" It was some more of the girl's nonsense, and a blasphemy for which he could not easily forgive her.
"Why not? Ain't I a good stunt actress? I'll tell the lot she hasn't found any one yet that can get away with her stuff better than what I do.""But she--I heard her say herself she never allowed any one to double for her--she wouldn't do such a thing."Here sounded a scornful laugh from Jimmie, the prop--boy. "Bunk!"said he at the laugh's end. "How long you been doublin' for her, Miss Montague? Two years, ain't it?--I know it was before I come here, and I been on the lot a year and a half. Say, he ought to see some the stuff you done for her out on location, like jumpin' into the locomotive engine from your auto and catchin' the brake beams when the train's movin', and goin' across that quarry on the cable, and ridin' down that lumber flume sixty miles per hour and ridin'
some them outlaw buckjumpers--he'd ought to seen some that stuff, hey, Miss Montague?""That's right, Jimmie, you tell him all about me. I hate to talk of myself." Very wonderfully Merton Gill divined that this was said with a humorous intention. Jimmy was less sensitive to values. He began to obey.
"Well, I dunno--there's that motorcycle stuff. Purty good, I'll say.
I wouldn't try that, no, sir, not for a cool million dollars. And that chase stuff on the roofs down town where you jumped across that court that wasn't any too darned narrow, an' say, I wisht I could skin up a tree the way you can. An' there was that time--""All right, all right, Jimmie. I can tell him the rest sometime. Idon't really hate to talk about myself--that's on the level. And say, listen here, Jimmie, you're my favourite sweetheart, ain't you?""Yes, ma'am," assented Jimmie, warmly. "All right. Beat it up and get me about two quarts of that hot coffee and about four ham sandwiches, two for you and two for me. That's a good kid.""Sure!" exclaimed Jimmie, and was off.
Merton Gill had been dazed by these revelations, by the swift and utter destruction of his loftiest ideal. He hardly cared to know, now, if Beulah Baxter were married. It was the Montague girl who had most thrilled him for two years. Yet, almost as if from habit, he heard himself asking, "Is--do you happen to know if Beulah Baxter is married?""Baxter married? Sure! I should think you'd know it from the way that Sig Rosenblatt bawls everybody out.""Who is he?"
"Who is he? Why, he's her husband, of course--he's Mr. Beulah Baxter.""That little director up on the platform that yells so?" This unspeakable person to be actually the husband of the wonder-woman, the man he had supposed she must find intolerable even as a director. It was unthinkable, more horrible, somehow, than her employment of a double. In time he might have forgiven that--but this!
"Sure, that's her honest-to-God husband. And he's the best one out of three that I know she's had. Sig's a good scout even if he don't look like Buffalo Bill. In fact, he's all right in spite of his rough ways. He'd go farther for you than most of the men on this lot. If I wanted a favour I'd go to Sig before a lot of Christians Ihappen to know. And he's a bully director if he is noisy. Baxter's crazy about him, too. Don't make any mistake there.""I won't," he answered, not knowing what he said.
She shot him a new look. "Say, Kid, as long as we're talking, you seem kind of up against it. Where's your overcoat a night like this, and when did you last--""Miss Montague! Miss Montague!" The director was calling.
"Excuse me," she said. "I got to go entertain the white folks again." She tucked up the folds of her blanket and sped around the pool to disappear in the mazes of the scaffolding. He remained a moment staring dully into the now quiet water. Then he walked swiftly away.
Beulah Baxter, his wonder-woman, had deceived her public in Peoria, Illinois, by word of mouth. She employed a double at critical junctures. "She'd be a fool not to," the Montague girl had said. And in private life, having been unhappily wed twice before, she was Mrs. Sigmund Rosenblatt. And crazy about her husband!
A little while ago he had felt glad he was not to die of starvation before seeing his wonder-woman. Reeling under the first shock of his discoveries he was now sorry. Beulah Baxter was no longer his wonder-woman. She was Mr. Rosenblatt's. He would have preferred death, he thought, before this heart-withering revelation.
