“Why shouldn’t I go close?” Laura wanted to know.

“You might get your dress wet.  Mine spots terribly.”

“Oh, so does mine.  I forgot; and sea water stains so badly!”

So the two actresses drew away.

“There, I guess that will do,” remarked Russ, as he saw that there was no more film left in the camera.  “Now, Mr. Pertell, you’ll have to get some story written around these scenes.  Add more to them, and you’ll have a good reel.”

“I’ll do it, Russ.  I’m glad you were here to take them, so long as it did not turn out seriously.”

“Do you—­er—­ah—­mean to say that you filmed me?” demanded the dudish actor, who had overheard this colloquy.

“I got some pictures of you—­yes,” admitted Russ.  “I couldn’t resist the temptation.”

“I demand that those pictures be destroyed!” cried Mr. Towne, who seemed to have recovered rapidly from his unexpected bath.

“What for?” asked Mr. Pertell, in surprise.  “I haven’t seen them, of course—­can’t until they’re developed, and that won’t be for some time.  But I should say the rescue pictures would make a fine film.”

“But I want it burned up.  I won’t have it shown!” insisted Mr. Towne.

“Why not?”

“Do you suppose for one instant—­er, ah—­that I am going to let the public see me like this?” and Mr. Towne glanced at his wet and dripping garments—­garments that, but a short time ago, had been a walking testimonial of the tailor’s art.  Now they were wet and misshapen.

“Why, you can’t expect a man who has just been rescued from New York Bay to look as though he came out of a band-box; can you, dear man?” asked Mr. Pertell.  “Of course you look wet—­the public will expect to see you wet—­dripping with water, in fact.  Water always comes out well in the movies, anyhow.  Of course the public wants to see you wet!”

“But I don’t want them to!” protested the actor.  “I have never been shown in pictures except when I was well dressed, and I do not propose to begin now.  I will pose for you as soon as I get dry clothes on, but not in—­these!” and he made a despairing motion toward his ruined garments.

“Oh, you are too fussy!” laughed Mr. Pertell.  “Those pictures will have to go.  The scene was too good to spoil, as long as you were not drowned.”

“I was in no danger of drowning,” returned Mr. Towne, coldly.  “I am a good swimmer.  I was taken by surprise, that is all.”

“Well, it made good pictures,” declared the manager, indifferently.

“Too bad I couldn’t get you just as you went overboard!” sighed Russ.  “I was taken by surprise, too; but I did the best I could.  We can have you do that part over.”

“Never!” cried Mr. Towne, angrily.  “I will never be seen in an undignified position again, nor in clothes that have not been freshly pressed,” and he stalked away toward his stateroom.

“I can sympathize with you, my dear fellow,” murmured Mr. Bunn, who was as careful of his dignity, in a way, as was the other.  “They have made me do the most idiotic things in some of the dramas,” the older man went on.  “I have had to play fireman, and ride in donkey carts, slide down hill and all such foolishness—­all to the great detriment of my dignity.”