"But Mr. Baird, if I leap from the window without the hat or mustache or jacket and land on my horse in them, wouldn't it look as if I had put them on as I was falling?"
Baird was instantly overcome with confusion. "Now, that's so! I swear I never thought of that, Merton. I'm glad you spoke about it in time. You sure have shown me up as a director. You see I wanted you to disguise yourself again—I'll tell you; get the things on, and after we shoot you lighting in the saddle we'll retake the window scene. That'll fix it."
Not until long afterward, on a certain dread night when the earth was to rock beneath him, did he recall that Baird had never retaken that window scene. At present the young actor was too engrossed by the details of his daring leap to remember small things. The leap was achieved at last. He was in the saddle after a twenty-foot drop. He gathered up the reins, the horse beneath him coughed plaintively, and Merton rode him out of the picture. Baird took a load off his mind as to this bit of riding.
"Will you want me to gallop?" he asked, recalling the unhappy experience with Dexter.
"No; just walk him beyond the camera line. The camera'll trick it up all right." So, safely, confidently, he had ridden his steed beyond the lens range at a curious shuffling amble, and his work at the Come All Ye Dance Hall was done.
Then came some adventurous days in the open. In motor cars the company of artists was transported to a sunny nook in the foothills beyond the city, and here in the wild, rough, open spaces, the drama of mother-love, sacrifice, and thrills was further unfolded.
First to be done here was the continuation of the hero's escape from the dance-hall. Upon his faithful horse he ambled along a quiet road until he reached the shelter of an oak tree. Here he halted at the roadside.
"You know the detective is following you," explained Baird, "and you're going to get him. Take your nag over a little so the tree won't mask him too much. That's it.
