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 I sing the verses that go with it, or just do the act without singing?"

"For God's sake, sing!" said Bacon, winking broadly, significantly, at Letcher and Deane. "You've heard the story, Hal?"

Deane didn't answer but Letcher's reply was a roar of disconcerting laughter.

"Go on, Min," he ordered, seeing the chief was being amused and taking some of the credit for having brought Minnie to his notice. "Make it snappy. If it's good we'll book you for vaudeville."

"But I don't want to go into vaudeville," protested Minnie, her face flushing with timid happiness, her eyes making a rapid survey of the studio to see if Al Kessler were taking note of her triumph. "I'm perfectly satisfied with the movies. Everybody's been so awful nice to me here."

"Go on," ordered Bacon, "I haven't got all day to give you."

Minnie went on. . . . She danced; she pirouetted; she mimicked the high, lisping patter of the Chinese when she sang "Chinky, Chinky, Chineeman—sabe washee clo'es."

Twice Bacon turned away, and once he made a motion as if to stop her, but Minnie went right on. It was no time to stop when the act was only half over, and the finale was the best part.

There were peals of laughter. Letcher had to hold to the sides of his chair. Bacon wiped his eyes twice. But Deane was like her father, he had no humor; he just stood there looking at her, tugging at the lock of hair that fell over his forehead.

Spurred on by their applause she fell into the floorwalker act. She walked flat-footed, she imitated his wheezy, asthmatic voice.