The seventh shot #997424

IT was twelve o’clock—a hot, sunny noon in the latter part of August. Broadway blazed with the last fiery effort of the passing summer; there was a steady stream of humanity pouring up and down on either side of the clanging cars, and occasionally swirling between them. In spite of the temperature, New York was as fervently busy as usual, especially here on what is affectionately known as the Rialto. For in nearly every theater in the Forties rehearsals had begun, and those actors who were not already employed were frantically hunting jobs. Gone the brief weeks in which they had forgotten calcium and make-up boxes; it was nearly September—time to work.