in an incredibly high-powered roadster, and back and forth until Harold was ready to scream with excitement. But "Speedy," in his cute running pants and cutaway gym shirt, exposing his mighty torso, was fortunately in time. Ethelda was rushed into the car, the villain expunged by a blow of the Laurel fist. Then came the ride back to the starting point of the race, "the desperate, heart-breaking struggle against that inscrutable enemy—Time," as the sub-title put it, with a grouchy little figure of a scythe-bearing Father Time for a decoration. The referee had raised his gun aloft to bark out the starting signal when "Speedy" dashed breathlessly upon the scene. His seat in the Yates shell, strangely enough, was vacant. Yates was about to start the race with seven men, there being presumably not another undergraduate in the university capable of pulling an oar.
It was a bit confusing, but Harold forgot this minor criticism in the thrill of watching the race. The close-ups posed by the actors had been cleverly spliced with actual distant scenes of an intercollegiate race upon the Hudson. The result was a real triumph of the film-cutter's art. Harold was one with the rest of the audience in being duped. As the winning shell flashed down through the lane of gay launches and yachts and there fol-
