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HOLLYWOOD SHORTS
hurried retreat; and in a few moments, Hankard found himself staggering on the blue tile of the bathroom.
Crashing glass on the floor told the story of an overturned dressing table with all its feminine accessories.
"Oh, my perfume!" Millie screamed in protest. "My imported perfume. Oh, my Night in Paris! My Night! My Night!"
If, in the fifteenth century, a maiden had shouted the word night, however spelled, it might have been an urge to manhood. But there was no mistaking Millie's meaning. She ran to the bathroom door to watch the precious liquid slushing across the tile under belligerent feet.
The word night may not have impressed Hankard's mind, but Millie's presence did, goading him on toward victory. His powerful body punches sent his opponent backward into the living room. Through the tail of his eye, he sensed that Millie sympathized with him. That inspiration caused him to foul Harry, sending the man reeling into the fireplace.
Harry hurled a fire-iron. Dodging, Hankard retaliated with a vase. The vase was successfully ducked, but the water drenched Harry, and the roses made a ludicrous wreath about his neck.
Harry rushed in, as infuriated as a bull, intent on a quick finish. The impact of their bodies sent both inelegantly to the floor. On finding himself sitting on Hankard's neck, Harry burst forth with a vocal noise unbecoming to any leading man, and rolled over on the floor to give vent to vociferous laughter.
"Cut!" the director cried. "Cut the scene! We'll have to remake it. There's no hope of keeping any part of that in the picture. Besides, I want a better scene — all through."
The chief electrician yelled: "Kill 'em!"
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