Neither had observed the rising young screen actor, Clifford
Armytage, though he had coughed violently again as they left. He had
coughed most plausibly, moreover, because of the cigarettes.
At the cashier's window, no longer obstructed, he received his
money, another five-dollar bill adorned with the cheerfully
prosperous face of Benjamin Harrison and half that amount in silver
coin. Then, although loath to do this, he went to the dressing room
and removed his make-up. That grease paint had given him a world of
confidence.
At the casting office he stopped to tell his friend of the day's
camera triumph, how the director had seemed to single him out from a
hundred or so revellers to portray facially the deadly effect of
Broadway's night life.
"Good work!" she applauded. "Before long you'll be having jobs
oftener. And don't forget, you're called again to-morrow morning for
the gambling-house scene."
She was a funny woman; always afraid he would forget something he
could not possibly forget. Once more in the Patterson kitchen he
pressed his suit and dreamt of new eminences in his chosen art.
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