The dance went on but I knew the eyes
of the director were on me. My legs seemed to lose all proper
coordination. My arms became unmanageable. I lost step and could not
pick it up again, yet, as in a nightmare, I struggled on desperately.
Suddenly the director clapped his hands. The music ceased, and I
slowed down to an uneasy shuffle.
"Sweetheart," said the director, addressing me personally, "you're not
dancing. You're swimming, that's what you're doing. As a Persian girl
you would make a first class squaw." He halted for a moment and then
bawled out in a great voice, "Understudy!" and I was removed from the
stage in a fainting condition. This evening I was shipped back to
camp a thoroughly discredited Show Girl. I had labored long in
vicious, soul-squelching corsets and like Samson been shorn of my
locks, and here I am after all my sacrifices relegated back to the
scrap heap. Why am I always the unfortunate one? I must have a private
plot in the sky strewn with unlucky stars. Camp routine after the free
life of the stage is unbearably irksome. My particular jimmy legs was
so glad to see me back that he almost cried as he thrust a broom and a
swab into my hands.
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