The picture was, quite normally, waiting.
Electricians were shoving about the big light standards, cameras were being moved, and bored actors were loafing informally at the round tables or chatting in groups about the set.
One actor alone was keeping in his part.

A ragged, bearded, unkempt elderly man in red shirt and frayed overalls, a repellent fell hat pulled low over his brow, reclined on the floor at the end of the bar, his back against a barrel.

Apparently he slept.

A flash of remembrance from the Montague girl's talk identified this wretched creature.

This was what happened to an actor who had to peddle the brush.