“Well, Uncle, you can imagine our dismay.  We both screamed, for we thought our time had come, for sure.  My legs were so weak that Beth had to drag me away and her face was white as a sheet and full of terror.  Somehow we managed to stagger into the street, where a dozen men caught us and hurried us away.  I hardly thought we were in a safe place when the big workman cried:  ’There, young ladies; that will do.  Your expression was simply immense and if this doesn’t turn out to be the best film of the year, I’ll miss my guess!  Your terror-stricken features will make a regular hit, for the terror wasn’t assumed, you know.  Thank you very much for happening along just then.’”

Patsy stopped her recital to laugh once more, with genuine merriment, but her cousin Beth seemed annoyed and Uncle John was frankly bewildered.

“But—­what—­what—­was it all about?” he inquired.

“Why, they were taking a moving picture, that was all, and the workmen and shopgirls and policemen were all actors.  There must have been a hundred of them, all told, and when we recovered from our scare I could hear the machine beside me clicking away as it took the picture.”

“Did the wall fall?” asked Uncle John.

“Not just then.  They first got the picture of the rush-out and the panic, and then they stopped the camera and moved the people to a safe distance away.  We watched them set up some dummy figures of girls and workmen, closer in, and then in some way they toppled over the big brick wall.  It fell into the street with a thundering crash, but only the dummies were buried under the debris.”

Mr. Merrick drew a long breath.

“It’s wonderful!” he exclaimed.  “Why, it must have cost a lot of money to ruin such a building—­and all for the sake of a picture!”

“That’s what I said to the manager,” replied Patsy; “but he told us the building was going to be pulled down, anyhow, and a better one built in its place; so he invented a picture story to fit the falling walls and it didn’t cost him so much as one might think.  So you see, Uncle, we are in that picture—­big as life and scared stiff—­and I’d give a lot to see how we look when we’re positively terror-stricken.”

“It will cost you just ten cents,” remarked Beth, with a shrug; “that is, if the picture proves good enough to be displayed at one of those horrid little theatres.”

“One?” said Uncle John.  “One thousand little theatres, most likely, will show the picture, and perhaps millions of spectators will see you and Patsy running from the falling wall.”

“Dear me!” wailed Patsy.  “That’s more fame than I bargained for.  Do millions go to see motion pictures, Uncle?”

“I believe so.  The making of these pictures is getting to be an enormous industry.  I was introduced to Otis Werner, the other day, and he told me a good deal about it.  Werner is with one of the big concerns here—­the Continental, I think—­and he’s a very nice and gentlemanly fellow.  I’ll introduce you to him, some time, and he’ll tell you all the wonders of the motion picture business.”