Luck went away from there feeling, and telling himself emphatically, that he had made a “rotten” talk.  He had not said what he had meant to say, or at least he had not said it the way he had meant to say it.  But he was too busy to dwell much upon his deficiencies as an orator; he had yet to borrow a projection machine and operator from somewhere—­for, as usual, he had issued his invitation before he had definitely arranged for the exhibition, and had trusted to luck and his own efforts to be able to keep his promise.

Luck (or his own efforts) landed him within easy conversational reach of a man who was preparing to open a little theater on a side street.  The seats were not in yet, but he had his machine, and he meant to operate it himself, while his wife sold tickets and his boy acted as usher,—­a family combination which to Luck seemed likely to be a success.  This man, when Luck made known his needs, said he was perfectly willing to “limber up” his machine and himself on The Phantom Herd, if Luck would let his wife and boy see the picture, and would pay the slight operating expenses.  So that was settled very easily.

At five minutes to eight that evening all of the cattlemen and a few favored, influential citizens of El Paso whom Luck had invited personally sat waiting before the blank screen.  Up in the operator’s cramped quarters Luck was having a nervous chill and trying his best not to show it, and he was telling the operator to give it time enough, for the Lord’s sake, and to be sure he had everything ready before he started in, and so forth, until the operator was almost as nervous as Luck himself.

“Now, look here,” he cried exasperatedly at last.  “You know your business, and I know mine.  You’re going to have me named in your write-ups as the movie-man that run this show for the convention, ain’t you?  And I’m going to open up a picture house next week in this town, ain’t I?  And I ain’t going to advertise myself as a bum operator, am I?  Now you vamos outa here and get down there in the audience, if you don’t want me to get the fidgets and spoil something.  Go on—­beat it!”

Luck must have been in a strange condition, for he beat it promptly and without any retort, and slid furtively into a chair between two old range-men just as the operator’s boy-usher switched off the lights.  Luck’s heart began to pound so that he half expected his neighbors to tell him to close his muffler,—­only they were of the saddle-horse fraternity and would not have known what the phrase meant.

The Phantom Herd flashed suddenly upon the screen and joggled there dizzily, away over to one side.  Luck clapped his hand to his perspiring forehead and murmured “Oh, my Gawd!” like a prayer, and shut his eyes to hide from them the desecration.  He opened them to find that the caste was just flicking off and the first scene dissolving in.

The man at his left gave a long sigh and crossed his knees, and leaned back and began to chew tobacco rapidly between his worn old molars.