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