"You'd better touch wood," advised the Madison; then she added,
"Rhonda's physical, purely physical. No one knows what we artistes
suffer, with our high-strung, complex, nervous organizations."
"Better be a happy cow than a miserable artiste," laughed Rhonda.
"Besides that, Rhonda gets all the breaks," complained Naomi.
"Yesterday they shoot the first scene in which I appear, and where was
I? Flat on my back with an attack of fever, and Rhonda has to double
for me--even in the close-ups."
"It's a good thing you look so much alike," said Baine. "Why, knowing
you both as well as I do, I can scarcely tell you apart."
"That's the trouble," grumbled Naomi. "People'll see her and think it's
me."
"Well, what of it?" demanded Rhonda. "You'll get the credit."
"Credit!" exclaimed Naomi. "Why, my dear, it will ruin my reputation.
You are a sweet girl and all that, Rhonda; but remember, I am Naomi
Madison. My public expects superb acting. They will be disappointed,
and they will blame me."
Rhonda laughed good-naturedly. "I'll do my best not to entirely ruin
your reputation, Naomi," she promised.
"Oh, it isn't your fault," exclaimed the other. "I don't blame you. One
is born with the divine afflatus, or one is not. That is all there is
to it. It is no more your fault that you can't act than it is the fault
of that sheik over there that he was not born a white man."
"What a disillusionment that sheik was!" exclaimed Rhonda.
"How so?" asked Baine.
"When I was a little girl I saw Rudolph Valentino on the screen; and,
ah, brothers, sheiks was sheiks in them days!"
"This bird sure doesn't look much like Valentino," agreed Baine.
"Imagine being carried off into the desert by that bunch of whiskers
and dirt! And here I've just been waiting all these years to be carried
off."
"I'll speak to Bill about it," said Baine.
The girl sniffed. "Bill West's a good cameraman, but he's no sheik.
He's just about as romantic as his camera."
"He's a swell guy," insisted Baine.
"Of course he is; I'm crazy about him. He'd make a great brother."
"How much longer we got to sit here?" demanded Naomi, peevishly.
"Until they get the generator truck and twenty-two other trucks through
that mud hole."
"I don't see why we can't go on. I don't see why we have to sit here
and fight flies and bugs."
"We might as well fight 'em here as somewhere else," said Rhonda.
"Orman's afraid to separate the safari," explained Baine. "This is a
bad piece of country. He was warned against bringing the company here.
The natives never have been completely subdued, and they've been acting
up lately."
They were silent for a while, brushing away insects and watching the
heavy truck being dragged slowly up the muddy bank. The ponies of the
Arabs stood switching their tails and biting at the stinging pests that
constantly annoyed them.
Sheykh Ab el-Ghrennem spoke to one at his side, a swarthy man with evil
eyes. "Which of the _benat_, Atewy, is she who holds the secret of the
valley of diamonds?"
"_Billah!_" exclaimed Atewy, spitting. "They are as alike as two pieces
of _jella_. I cannot be sure which is which."
"But one of them hath the paper? You are sure?"
"Yes. The old _Nasrany_, who is the father of one of them, had it; but
she took it from him. The young man leaning against that invention of
_Sheytan_, talking to them now, plotted to take the life of the old man
that he might steal the paper; but the girl, his daughter, learned of
the plot and took the paper herself. The old man and the young man both
believe that the paper is lost."
"But the _bint_ talks to the young man who would have killed her
father," said the sheykh. "She seems friendly with him. I do not
understand these Christian dogs."
"Nor I," admitted Atewy. "They are all mad. They quarrel and fight, and
then immediately they sit down together, laughing and talking. They do
things in great secrecy while every one is looking on. I saw the _bint_
take the paper while the young man was looking on, and yet he seems to
know nothing of it. He went soon after to her father and asked to see
it. It was then the old man searched for it and could not find it. He
said that it was lost, and he was heartbroken."
"It is all very strange," murmured Sheykh Ab el-Ghrennem. "Are you sure
that you understand their accursed tongue and know that which they say,
Atewy?"
"Did I not work for more than a year with a mad old _Nasrany_ who dug
in the sands at _Kheybar_? If he found only a piece of a broken pot he
would be happy all the rest of the day. From him I learned the language
of _el-Engleys_."
"_Wellah!_" sighed the sheykh; "it must be a great treasure indeed,
greater than those of Howwara and Geryeh combined; or they would not
have brought so many carriages to transport it." He gazed with brooding
eyes at the many trucks parked upon the opposite bank of the stream
waiting to cross.
"When shall I take the _bint_ who hath the paper?" demanded Atewy after
a moment's silence.
"Let us bide our time," replied the sheykh. "There be no hurry, since
they be leading us always nearer to the treasure and feeding us well
into the bargain. The _Nasrany_ are fools. They thought to fool the
_Bedauwy_ with their picture taking as they fooled _el-Engleys_, but we
are brighter than they. We know the picture making is only a blind to
hide the real purpose of their safari."
Sweating, mud covered, Mr. Thomas Orman stood near the line of blacks
straining on the ropes attached to a heavy truck. In one hand he
carried a long whip. At his elbow stood a bearer, but in lieu of a
rifle he carried a bottle of Scotch.
By nature Orman was neither a harsh nor cruel task-master. Ordinarily,
both his inclinations and his judgment would have warned him against
using the lash. The sullen silence of the blacks which should have
counselled him to forbearance only irritated him still further.
He was three months out of Hollywood and already almost two months
behind schedule, with the probability staring him in the face that it
would be another month before they could reach the location where the
major part of the picture could be shot. His leading woman had a touch
of fever that might easily develop into something that would keep her
out of the picture entirely. He had already been down twice with fever,
and that had had its effects upon his disposition. It seemed to him
that everything had gone wrong, that everything had conspired against
him. And now these damn niggers, as he thought of them, were lying down
on the job.
"Lay into it, you lazy bums!" he yelled, and the long lash reached out
and wrapped around the shoulders of a black.
A young man in khaki shirt and shorts turned away in disgust and
walked toward the car where Baine was talking to the two girls. He
paused in the shade of a tree; and, removing his sun helmet, wiped the
perspiration from his forehead and the inside of the hat band; then he
moved on again and joined them.
Baine moved over to make room for him by the rear door of the car. "You
look sore, Bill," he remarked.
West swore softly. "Orman's gone nuts. If he doesn't throw that whip
away and leave the booze alone we're headed for a lot of grief."
"It's in the air," said Rhonda. "The men don't laugh and sing the way
they used to."
"I saw Kwamudi looking at him a few minutes ago," continued West.
"There was hate in his eyes all right, and there was something worse."
"Oh, well," said Baine, "you got to treat those niggers rough; and
as for Kwamudi, Tom can tie a can to him and appoint some one else
headman."
"Those slave driving days are over, Baine; and the blacks know it.
Orman'll get in plenty of trouble for this if the blacks report it, and
don't fool yourself about Kwamudi. He's no ordinary headman; he's a
big chief in his own country, and most of our blacks are from his own
tribe. If he says quit, they'll quit; and don't you forget it. We'd be
in a pretty mess if those fellows quit on us."
"Well, what are we goin' to do about it? Tom ain't asking our advice
that I've ever noticed."
"You could do something, Naomi," said West, turning to the girl.
"Who, me? What could I do?"
"Well, Tom likes you a lot. He'd listen to you."
"Oh, nerts! It's his own funeral. I got troubles of my own."
"It may be your funeral, too," said West.
"Blah!" said the girl. "All I want to do is get out of here. How much
longer I got to sit here and fight flies? Say, where's Stanley? I
haven't seen him all day."
"The Lion Man is probably asleep in the back of his car," suggested
Baine. "Say, have you heard what Old Man Marcus calls him?"
"What does he call him?" demanded Naomi.
"Sleeping Sickness."
"Aw, you're all sore at him," snapped Naomi, "because he steps right
into a starring part while you poor dubs have been working all your
lives and are still doin' bits. Mr. Obroski is a real artiste."
"Say, we're going to start!" cried Rhonda. "There's the signal."
At last the long motorcade was under way. In the leading cars was
a portion of the armed guards, the askaris; and another detachment
brought up the rear. To the running boards of a number of the trucks
clung some of the blacks, but most of them followed the last truck
afoot. Pat O'Grady, the assistant director, was in charge of these.
O'Grady carried no long whip. He whistled a great deal, always the same
tune; and he joshed his charges unmercifully, wholly ignoring the fact
that they understood nothing that he said. But they reacted to his
manner and his smile, and slowly their tenseness relaxed. Their sullen
silence broke a little, and they talked among themselves. But still
they did not sing, and there was no laughter.
"It would be better," remarked Major White, walking at O'Grady's side,
"if you were in full charge of these men at all times. Mr. Orman is
temperamentally unsuited to handle them."