Next to this was a
scene representing a counterfeiter's den in some low cellar, with the
police breaking through the door with drawn revolvers, to capture the
criminals.
And in front of these varied scenes stood a battery of queer
cameras--moving picture cameras, looking like flat fig boxes with a
tube sticking out, and a handle on one side, at which earnest-faced
young men were vigorously clicking.
And, off to one side, stood several men in their shirt sleeves
superintending the performances. They gave many directions.
"No, not that way! When you faint, fall good and hard, Miss
Pennington!"
"Hurry now, Mr. Switzer; get in some of that funny business! Look
funny; don't act as though this was your funeral!"
"Come on there Mr. Bunn; this isn't 'Hamlet.' You needn't stalk about
that way. There's no grave in this!"
"Hold on, there! Cut that part out. Stop the camera; that will have
to be done over. There's no life in it!"
And so it went on, in the glaring light that filtered in through the
roof, composed wholly of skylights, while a battery of arc lamps, in
addition, on some of the scenes, poured out their hissing glare to
make the taking of the negatives more certain.
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