his way. Or take Ulysses Grant Jones, the undertaker. Mons. Jones complained bitterly about the movie troupe's autos being parked in front of his place of business, on the grounds that "they're liable to prevent me from gettin' my bodies in!" And last but far from least, Hank Knowles, the druggist. Hank tired of moonshine, hard cider and plain alcohol, so he took a handful of prescriptions from his file, mixed 'em all up together and drank the result to get a thrill. He got one!
These and many others, too humorous to mention, kept me in a continual state of merriment and Mr. Daft seized upon them eagerly for "types" in his movie. He drafted the bulk of 'em as "extras" and soon had practically the entire metropolis working in the film, to the consternation of Royal Underwood Corona, who vainly protested at our super-director rewriting his book to fit these casual characters. Honestly, Mr. Daft even cameraed the mayor's trained dog, most of the town's babies and Zeb Whitcomb's prize two-headed calf.
The early rising and retiring hours, the wholesome food, the wonderful air and the fact that nobody knew where I was all made a decided hit with me, and I'm enjoying my stay immensely. I aided Pete's mother in putting up preserves and Pete showed me how to milk a cow. Neither me nor the bovine liked it.
But by far the most entertaining spectacle to me was
