"Well, my child, what's the Chink Act?" asked Bacon who was now composed. "Stick around, Deane," he lowered his voice for Deane's ears. "I need sympathy. This last week I've been driven almost crazy. We've had three laundresses on the set, two nurse girls, half a dozen Slovaks and a flock of married women who stick their kids in day nurseries to pick up silk stocking money."
"So have I, Bacon. But what's the use of kicking. There aren't enough people in the theatrical business to supply the studios. We've got to choose from the masses and there can't be any great discrimination until we've weeded them out. I know they're nurse girls and shop girls and factory hands, but we don't dare turn any of them away. Look at our popular stars. Few of them came from the stage. You know yourself, Bacon, the success of the picture star is nine times out of ten a fluke."
Bacon, irritated, was scratching his head.
"Dammit," he said. "I know it, but it's enough to drive a man crazy just the same."
Deane recalled the names of several well-known stage stars whose resilient, intelligent personalities were entirely lost on the screen: their features were unphotographic.
Bacon groaned. "I can understand now why sheep-herders go mad," he said with genuine despair in his voice.
In the pause that followed Minnie stepped forward. "I'm ready," she spoke gaily, though her voice trembled with nervousness. (She wished that Deane wouldn't stand there looking at her, with his keen, searching eyes focused upon her.) "Shall I begin now, Mr. Bacon?"
"All right, fire ahead."
She cleared her throat and spoke with a childish roundness and clarity of tone. "I'm pretendin' that I'm a little Chinee girl learnin' to dance like the Americans," she said. "Shall
