none of them happy. But Winslow was playing a game that he loved—with great odds against him, he had no doubt of the outcome.
The moving picture theater was an ambitious affair for the small town on the edge of the Bay. It was filled with a holiday crowd, and the film showed a star of great popularity. He thrilled his audience with acts of incredible heroism. He rescued, single-handed, from a forest fire, the woman he loved, his faithful hound, his faithful horse, his faithful servants, and the villain he had foiled!
Sally, between Meriweather and Winslow, asked Merry daringly, "If there should be a fire, whom would you save, Hildegarde or me?"
"Both of you," promptly.
"You wouldn't. You'd be off with Hildegarde."
She turned away from him and began to talk to Winslow. There was an intermission, and the lights were on. Meriweather was aware of the densely packed condition of the house. He noted the exits. It was as if Sally's words had rung an alarm bell somewhere deep within him. When darkness again hid the audience, his imagination was still at work. It had always been a boyish trick of his to see himself in the center of the stage. It was that which had carried him so successfully through the war and had won for him his honors. He had dramatized himself in the midst of danger, had seen himself doing big things, and had done them. He had only been sorry there was so little chance for the spectacular. He would have liked waving plumes, flashing swords, and coal-black chargers thundering to the fray!
