Mr. Becksteine coughed again.
"I do not know anything about other worlds," he admitted.
"Now, this is my idea," said Bones, interrupting what promised to be a
free and frank admission of Mr. Becksteine's genius. "I've worked the
thing out, and I see just how we can save money. In producing
two-roller cinematographs--that's the technical term," explained Bones,
"the heavy expense is with the artistes. The salaries that these
people are paid! My dear old Ham, you'd never believe."
"I don't see how you can avoid paying salaries," said Hamilton
patiently. "I suppose even actors have to live."
"Ah!" said Mr. Becksteine, shaking his head.
"Of course, dear old thing. But why pay outside actors?" said Bones
triumphantly.
He glared from one face to the other with a ferocity of expression
which did no more than indicate the strength of his conviction.
"Why not keep the money in the family, dear old Ham? That's what I ask
you. Answer me that." He leaned back in his chair, thrust his hands
in his trousers pockets, and blandly surveyed his discomfited audience.
"But you've got to have actors, my dear chap," said Hamilton.
"Naturally and necessarily," replied Bones, nodding with very large
nods. "And we have them. Who is Jasper Brown, the villain who tries
to rob the poor girl of her legacy and casts the vilest aspersions upon
her jolly old name?"
"Who is?" asked the innocent Hamilton.
"You are," said Bones.
Hamilton gasped.
"Who is Frank Fearnot, the young and handsome soldier--well, not
necessarily handsome, but pretty good-looking--who rescues the girl
from her sad predicament?"
"Well, that can't be me, anyway," said Hamilton.
"It is not," said Bones. "It is me! Who is the gorgeous but sad old
innocent one who's chased by you, Ham, till the poor little soul
doesn't know which way to turn, until this jolly young officer steps
brightly on the scene, whistling a merry tune, and, throwing his arms
about her, saves her, dear old thing, from her fate--or, really, from a
perfectly awful rotten time."
"Who is she?" asked Hamilton softly.
Bones blinked and turned to the girl slowly.
"My dear old miss," he said, "what do you think?"
"What do I think?" asked the startled girl. "What do I think about
what?"
"There's a part," said Bones--"there's one of the grandest parts that
was ever written since Shakespeare shut his little copybook."
"You're not suggesting that I should play it?" she asked, open-mouthed.
"Made for you, dear old typewriter, positively made for you, that
part," murmured Bones.
"Of course I shall do nothing so silly," said the girl, with a laugh.
"Oh, Mr. Tibbetts, you really didn't think that I'd do such a----"
She didn't finish the sentence, but Hamilton could have supplied the
three missing words without any difficulty.