that Al was being called down. She was glad because it fitted in with her new estimate of him. "I'll bet he feels like thirty cents," she said to herself, but she didn't know Al.
The partners were chosen and the extra people danced. Rotten dancing, Minnie thought, because Bacon didn't let them sway their bodies or hug shoulder to shoulder. He bawled them out, saying that they were supposed to be dancing on Fifth Avenue instead of Sixth. He made the men hold their partners away from them as if they were afraid of catching the measles. Minnie was disgusted, and glad she wasn't called upon to dance. She told the girl next to her she'd hate to be seen stalking around the floor like that. Dancing wasn't anything unless one body fitted in closely with another.
Over and over and over again they rehearsed the dance until she could see their limbs were aching from the strain.
Then Bacon called out, "Let's shoot!"
"Shoot what?" Minnie turned to the girl next to her, her eyes round with excitement.
"Shoot the scene," answered the girl, stifling a yawn. "It's about time. Keep this up and they'll never get to us. That's always my luck."
"Places!" shouted Letcher. "This is the picture."
How frightened they all looked as they grouped together, then scrambled back to their positions! Letcher blew three times on his shrill whistle and there was again silence. Then Bacon rose, took off his coat, carefully laid his cigar on the edge of the table and reached for the megaphone.
"Lights!" he called.
There was a sharp, staccato splutter which died away in a hissing sound as the hard, dead-white lights came on, striking the eyes like a physical blow.
"Music!" The orchestra opened with a crash of cymbals,
