The lights were out, the revelry done.
Merton Gill beyond a doubt preferred Western stuff, some heart-gripping tale of the open spaces, or perhaps of the frozen north, where he could be the hard-riding, straight-shooting, two-fisted wonder-man, and not have to smoke so many cigarettes--only one now and then, which he would roll himself and toss away after a few puffs.

Still, he had shown above the mob of extra people, he thought.

Henshaw had noticed him.

He was coming on.
The Montague girl hailed him as he left the set.

"Hullo, old trouper.