 CHAPTER XII. ALIAS Harold Parmalie. Merton Gill awoke to the comforting realization that he was between sheets instead of blankets, and that this morning he need not obscurely leave his room by means of a window. As he dressed, however, certain misgivings to which he had been immune the day before, nod into his optimism. He was sober now. The sheer intoxication of food after fasting, of friendly concern after so long a period when no one had spoken to him kindly or otherwise, had evaporated. He felt the depression following success. He had been rescued from death by starvation, but had anything more than this come about? Had he not fed upon the charity of a strange girl taking her money without seeing ways to discharge the debt? How could he ever discharge it? Probably before this she had begun to think of him as a cheat. She had asked him to come to the lot, but had been vague as to the purpose. Probably his ordeal of struggle and sacrifice was not yet over. At any rate he must find a job that would let him pay back the borrowed twenty-five dollars. He would meet her as she had requested, assure her of his honest intentions, and then seek for work. He would try all the emporiums in Hollywood. They were numerous, and some of them would need the services of an experienced assistant. This plan of endeavor crystallized as he made his way to the Holden lot. He had brought his package of stills, but only because the girl had insisted on seeing them. The Countess made nothing of letting him in. She had missed him, she said, for what seemed like months, and was glad to hear that he now had something definite in view because the picture game was mighty uncertain, and it was only the lucky few nowadays that could see something definite. He did not confide to her that the definite something now within his view would demand his presence at some distance from her friendly self. He approached the entrance to stage five with head bent in calculation, and not until he heard her voice did he glance up to observe that the Montague girl was dancing from pleasure, it would seem, at merely beholding him. She seized both his hands in her strong grasp and revolved him at the center of a circle she danced. Then she held him off while her eyes took in the details of his restoration. Well, well, well, that shows what a few hamanegues and sleep will do. Kid, you gross a million at this minute. New suit, new shoes, snappy cravat right from the men's quality shop, and all shaved and combed slick and everything. Say, and I was afraid maybe you wouldn't show. He regarded her earnestly. Oh, I would have come back all right. I'd never forget that twenty-five dollars I owe you, and you'll get it back all right, only it may take a little time. I thought I'd see you for a minute and then go out and find a job. You know, a regular job in a store. Nothing of the sort, old trooper. She danced again about him, both his hands in hers, which annoyed him because it was rather loud public behavior, though he forgave her in the light of youth and kindliness. No regular job for you, old pippin. Nothing but acting all over the place, real acting that people come miles to see. Do you think I can really get apart? Perhaps the creature had something definite in view for him. Sure you can get apart. Yesterday morning I simply walked into a part for you. Come along over to the office with me. Goodie, I see you brought the stills. I'll take a peek at them myself before Baird gets here. Baird, not the Buckeye comedy man, he was chilled by a sudden fear. Yes, Jeff Baird, you see he is going to do some five realers and this first one has a part that might do for you. At least I told him some things about you and he thinks you can get away with it. He went moodily at her side, thinking swift thoughts. It seemed ungracious to tell her of his loathing for the Buckeye comedies, those blasphemous caricatures of worthwhile screen art. It would not be fair. And perhaps here was a quick way to discharge his debt and be free of obligation to the girl. Of course he would always feel a warm gratitude for her trusting kindness, but when he no longer owed her money he could choose his own line of work, rather bondage to some Hollywood gashwiler than clowning in Baird's infamies. Well, I'll try anything he gives me, he said at last, striving for the enthusiasm he could not feel. You'll go big, too, said the girl. Believe me, kid, you'll go grand. In Baird's offices she sat at the desk and excitedly undid the package of stills. We'll give him the once over before he comes, she said, and was presently exclaiming with delight at the art study of Clifford Armitage in evening dress, two straight fingers pressing the left temple, the face in three-quarter view. Well, now, if that ain't Harold Parmoly to the life, if it wasn't for that Clifford Armitage signed under it you'd had me guessing. I knew yesterday you looked like him, but I didn't dream it would be as much like him as this picture is. Say, we won't show Baird this at first. We'll let him size you up and see if your face don't remind him of Parmoly right away. Then we'll show him this and it'll be a cinch. And, my, look at these others. Here you're a soldier and here you're a polo player. That is polo ain't it? Or is it tennis? And will you look at these stunning westerns? These are simply the best of all on horseback and throwing a rope and the fighting face with a gun drawn and rolling a cigarette, and as I live saying good-bye to the horse, wouldn't that get you? Buck Benson to the life. Again and again she shuffled over the stills, dwelling on each with excited admiration. Her excitement was pronounced. It seemed to be a sort of nervous excitement. It had caused her face to flush deeply, and her manner, especially over the western pictures, at moments oddly approached hysteria. Merton was deeply gratified. He had expected the art studies to produce no such impression as this. The Countess in the casting office had certainly manifested nothing like hysteria at beholding them. It must be that the Montague girl was a better judge of art studies. I always liked this one after the westerns, he observed, indicating the Harold Parmelee pose. It's stunning, agreed the girl, still with her nervous manner. I tell you, sit over there in Jeff's chair and take the same pose so I can compare you with the photo. Merton obliged. He leaned an elbow on the chair arm and a temple on the two straightened fingers. Is the light right, he asked, as he turned his face to the pictured angle? Fine, applauded the girl, hold it. He held it until shocked by shrill laughter from the observer. Peel followed Peel. She had seemed oddly threatened with hysteria, perhaps now it had come. She rocked on her heels and held her hands to her sides. Merton arose in some alarm and was reassured when the victim betrayed signs of mastering her infirmity. She wiped her eyes presently and explained her outbreak. You looked so much like Parmelee I couldn't help thinking how funny it was. It just seemed to go over me like anything, like a spasm or something, when I got to thinking what Parmelee would say if he saw someone looking so much like him. See, that's why I laughed. He was sympathetic and delighted in equal parts. The girl had really seemed to suffer from her paroxysm, yet it was a splendid tribute to his screen worth. It was at this moment that Barrett entered. He tossed his hat on a chair and turned to the couple. Mr. Barrett shake hands with my friend Merton Gill. His stage name is Clifford Armitage. Very pleased to meet you, said Merton, grasping the extended hand. He hoped he had not been too dignified, too condescending. Barrett would sometime doubtless know that he did not approve of those so-called comedies, but for the present he must demean himself to pay back some money borrowed from a working girl. Delighted, said Barrett, then he bent a suddenly troubled gaze upon the Gill lineaments. He held this a long moment, breaking it only with a sudden dramatic turning to Miss Montague. What's this, my child? You're playing tricks on the old man. Again he incredulously scanned the face of Merton. Who is this man, he demanded. I told you he's Merton Gill from Gushwamp, Ohio, said the girl, looking pleased and expectant. Simsbury, Illinois put in Merton quickly, wishing the girl could be better at remembering names. Barrett at last seemed to be convinced. He heavily smote an open palm with a clenched fist. Well, I'll be swashed. I thought you must be kidding. If I'd seen him out on the lot, I'd have said he was the twin brother of Harold Parmally. There exclaimed the girl triumphantly. Didn't I say he'd see it right quick? You can't keep a thing from this old bay. Now, you just come over here to this desk and look at this fine batch of stills he had taken by a regular artist back in Cranberry. Ah! exclaimed Barrett unctuously. I bet they're good. Show me. He went to the desk. Be seated, Mr. Gill, while I have a look at these. Merton Gill, under the eye of Barrett, which clung to him with something close to fascination, sat down. He took the chair with fine dignity, a certain masterly deliberation. He sat easily, and seemed to await a verdict confidently foreknown. Barrett's eyes did not leave him for the stills until he had assumed a slightly Harold Parmally pose. Then, his head bent with the girls over the pictures, he began to examine them. Exclamations of delight came from the pair. Merton Gill listened amably. He was not greatly thrilled by an admiration which he had long believed to be his due. Had he not always supposed that things of precisely this sort would be said about those stills when at last they came under the eyes of the right people? Like the Montague girl, Barrett was chiefly impressed with the westerns. He looked a long time at them, especially at the one where Merton's face was emotionally averted from his old pal Pinto at the moment of farewell. Regarding Barrett as he stood holding his art study up to the light, Merton became aware for the first time that Barrett suffered from some nervous affliction, a peculiar twitching of the lips, a trembling of the chin, which he had sometimes observed in senile persons. All at once Barrett seemed quite overcome by this infirmity. He put a handkerchief to his face and uttered a muffled excuse as he hastily left the room. Outside the noise of his heavy tread died swiftly away down the hall. The Montague girl remained at the desk. There was a strange light in her eyes and her face was still flushed. She shot a glance of encouragement at Merton. Don't be nervous, old kid. He likes them all right. He reassured her lightly. Oh, I'm not a bit nervous about him. It ain't as if he was doing something worthwhile instead of mere comedies. The girl's color seemed to heighten. You be sure to tell him that. Talk right up to him. Be sure to say, mere comedies. It'll show him you know what's what. And as a matter of fact, kid, he's trying to do something worthwhile right this minute, something serious. That's why he's so interested in you. Well, of course, that's different. He was glad to learn this of Barrett. He would take the man seriously if he tried to be serious, to do something fine and distinctive. Barrett here returned, looking grave. The Montague girl seemed more strangely intense. She beckoned the manager to her side. Now, here, Jeff, here was something I just naturally had to laugh at. Baird had not wholly conquered those facial spasms, but he controlled himself to say, show me. Now Merton directed the girl, take that same pose again like you did for me the way you are in this picture. As Merton adjusted himself to the parmily pose, she handed the picture to Baird. Now, Jeff, I ask you, ain't that Harold to the life, ain't it so near him that you just have to laugh your head off? It was even so. Baird and the girl both laughed convulsively. The former was rumbling chuckles that shook his frame. When he had again composed himself he said, well, Mr. Gill, I think you and I can do a little business. I don't know what your idea about a contract is, but Merton Gill quickly interrupted. Well, you see I'd hardly like to sign a contract with you, not for those mere comedies you do. I'll do anything to earn a little money right now so I can pay back this young lady, but I wouldn't like to go on plane and such things with cross-eyed people and waders on roller skates and all that. What I really would like to do is something fine and worthwhile, but not clowning in mere buckeye comedies. Mr. Baird, who had devoted the best part of an active career to the production of buckeye comedies and who regarded them as at least one expression of the very highest art, did not even flinch at these cool words. He had once been an actor himself. Taking the blow like a man he beamed upon his critic. Exactly, my boy. Don't you think I'll ever ask you to come down to clowning? You might work with me for years and I'd never ask you to do a thing that wasn't serious. In fact, that's why I'm hoping to engage you now. I want to do a serious picture. I want to get out of all that slapstick stuff, see? Something fine and worthwhile, like you say, and you're the very actor I need in this new piece. Well, of course, in that case. This was different. He made it plain that in the case of a manager striving for higher things, he was not one to withhold a helping hand. He was beginning to feel a great sympathy for Baird in his efforts for the worthwhile. He thawed somewhat from the reserve that buckeye comedies had put upon him. He chatted amably. Under promptings from the girl, he spoke freely of his career both in Simsbury and in Hollywood. It was twelve o'clock before they seemed willing to let him go, and from time to time they would pause to gloat over the stills. At last Baird said cheerily, Well, my lad, I need you in my new piece. How it'll be if I put you on my payroll beginning to-day at forty a week. How about it, hey? Well, I'd like that first rate, only I haven't worked any to-day. You shouldn't pay me for just coming here. The manager waved a hand eerily. That's all right, my boy. You've earned a day's salary just coming in here to cheer me up. These mere comedies get me so down in the dumps sometimes. And besides, you're not through yet. I'm going to use you some more. Listen now. The manager had become coldly businesslike. You go up to a little theatre on Hollywood Boulevard, you can't miss it, where they're running a herald Parmalie picture. I saw it last night, and I want you to see it to-day. Better see it afternoon and evening both. Yes, sir, said Merton. And watch Parmalie. Study him in this picture. You look like him already, but see if you can pick up some of his tricks. See what I mean? Because it's a regular Parmalie part I'm going to have you do, see? Kind of a society part to start with, and then we work in some of your western stuff at the finish. But get Parmalie as much as you can. That's all now. Oh, yes. And can you leave these stills with me? Our publicity man may want to use them later. All right, Mr. Baird, I'll do just what you say, and of course you can keep the stills as long as I got an engagement with you, and I'm very glad you're trying to do something really worthwhile. Thanks, said Baird, averting his face. The girl followed him into the hall. Great work, boy, and take it from me. You'll go over. Say honest now. I'm glad, clear down to my boots. She had both his hands again, and he could see that her eyes were moist. She seemed to be an impressionable little thing. Hysterical one minute while looking at a bunch of good stills, and sort of weepy the next. But he was beginning to like her, in spite of her funny talk and free ways. And say, she called after him when he had reached the top of the stairs. You know you haven't had much experience yet with a bunch of hard-boiled troopers. Many a one will be jealous of you the minute you begin to climb, and maybe they'll get fresh and try the kid you see. But don't you mind it. Give it right back to them. Or tell me if they get too raw. Just remember, I got a mean right when I swing free. All right, thank you, he replied. But his bewilderment was plain. She stared a moment, danced up to him, and seized a hand in both of hers. What I mean, son, if you feel bothered any time by anything, just come to me with it, see? I'm in this piece and I'll look out for you. Don't forget that. She dropped his hand and was back in the office while he mumbled his thanks for what he knew she had meant as a kindness. So she was to be in the bared piece. She, too, would be trying to give the public something better and finer. Still, he was puzzled at her believing he might need to be looked out for. An actor drawing forty dollars a week could surely look out for himself. He emerged into the open of the Holden lot as one who had at last achieved success after long and grueling privation. He walked briefly among the scenes of this privation, pausing in reminiscent mood before the Crystal Palace Hotel and other outstanding spots where he had so stoically suffered the torments of hunger and discouragement. He remembered to be glad now that no letter of appeal had actually gone to Gashwiler. Suppose he had built up in the old gentleman's mind a false hope that he might again employ Merton Gill, a good thing he had held out. Yesterday he was starving and penniless. Today he was fed and on someone's payroll for probably as much money a week as Gashwiler netted from his entire business. From sheer force of association, as he thus meditated he found himself hungry, and a few moments later he was selecting from the food counter of the cafeteria whatever chanced to appeal to the eye, no weighing of prices now. Before he had finished his meal, Henshaw and his so-called Governor brought their trays to the adjoining table. Merton studied with new interest the director who would someday be telling people that he had been the first to observe the aptitude of this new star. Had, in fact, given him a lot of footage and close-ups and medium shots and dramatics in the blight of Broadway when he was a mere extra, before he had made himself known to the public in Jeff Beard's first worthwhile piece. He was strongly moved now to bring himself to Henshaw's notice when he heard the latter say, It's a regular Harold Parmelie part, good light comedy, plenty of heart interest, and that corking fight off the cliff. He wanted to tell Henshaw that he himself was already engaged to do a Harold Parmelie part, and had been told not two hours ago that he would by most people be taken for Parmelie's twin brother. He restrained this impulse, however, as Henshaw went on to talk of the piece in hand. It proved to be Robinson Crusoe, which he had already discussed, or rather not Robinson Crusoe any longer, not even Robinson Crusoe Jr. It was to have been called Island Passion, he learned, but this title had been amended to Island Love. They're getting fed up on that word passion, Henshaw was saying, and anyhow Love seems to go better with Island, don't you think, Governor? Desert Passion was all right. There's something strong and intense about a desert, but Island is different. And it appeared that Island Love, though having begun as Robinson Crusoe, would contain few of the outstanding features of that tale. Instead of Crusoe's wrecked sailing ship there was a wrecked steam yacht, a very expensive yacht stocked with all modern luxuries, nor would there be a native Friday and his supposed sister with the tattooed shoulder, but a wealthy young New Yorker and his valet, who would be good for comedy on a desert Island, and a beautiful girl and the scoundrel who would, in the last reel, be thrown over the cliffs? Henshaw was vivacious about the effects he could get. I've been wondering, Governor, he continued, if we're going to kill off the heavy, whether we shouldn't plant it early that besides wanting this girl who's on the Island, he's the same scoundrel that wronged the young sister of the lead that owns the yacht. See what I mean? It would give more conflict. But here, the Governor frowned and spoke after a moment's pause. Your young New Yorker is rich, isn't he? Fine old family and all that. How could he have a sister that would get wronged? You couldn't do it. If he's got a wronged sister he'd have to be a working man or a sailor or something. And she couldn't be a New York society, girl. She'd have to be working someplace in a store or office, don't you see? How could you have a swell young New Yorker with a wronged sister? Real society girls never get wronged unless their father loses his money, and then it's never anything serious enough to kill a heavy for. No, that's out. Wait, I have it. Henshaw beamed with a new inspiration. You just said a sailor could have his sister wronged, so why not have one on the yacht, a good strong type, you know, and his little sister was wronged by the heavy, and he'd never know who it was because the little girl wouldn't tell him, even on her death bed. But he found the chap's photograph in her trunk, and on the yacht he sees that it was this same heavy. And there you are. Revenge, see what I mean? He fights with the heavy on the cliff after showing him the little sister's picture, and pushes him over to death on the rocks below. Get it? And the lead doesn't have to kill him. How about that? Henshaw regarded his companion with pleasant anticipation. The governor again debated before he spoke. He still doubted. Say, whose show is this? The Leeds or the Sailors that had the wronged sister? You'd have to show the sailor and his sister and show her being wronged by the heavy. That'd take a big cabaret set at least. And you'd have to let the sailor begin his stuff on the yacht, and then by the time he'd kept it up a bit after the wreck had pulled off the fight, where would your lead be? Can you see Parmalie playing second to this sailor? Why, the sailor'd run away with a piece, and the cabaret set would cost money when we don't need it. Just keep those things in mind a little. Well, Henshaw submitted gracefully. Anyway, I think my suggestion of island love is better than island passion. Kinda sounds more attractive, don't you think? The governor lied a to cigarette. Say, Howard, it's a wonderful business, isn't it? We start with poor old Robinson Crusoe and his goats and a parrot and a man Friday, and after dropping Friday's sister, who would really be the Countess of Cleague, we wind up with a steam yacht and a comic butler and call it island love. Who said the art of the motion picture is in its infancy? In this case it'll be plum senile. Well, go ahead with the boys and dope out your hogwash. Gosh, sometimes I think I wouldn't stay in the business if it wasn't for the money. And remember, don't you let a single solitary sailor on that yacht have a wronged sister that can blame it on the heavy, or you'll never have Parmalee play in the lead? Again, Merton Gill debated bringing himself to the notice of these gentlemen. If Parmalee wouldn't play the part for any reason like a sailor's wronged sister, he would. It would help him to be known in Parmalee parts. Still, he couldn't tell how soon they might need him, nor how soon Baird would release him. He regretfully saw the two men leave, however. He might have missed a chance even better than Baird would give him. He suddenly remembered that he still had a professional duty to perform. He must that afternoon and also that evening watch a Harold Parmalee picture. He left the cafeteria, swaggered by the watchmen at the gate. He now had the professional standing to silence that fellow, and made his way to the theatre Baird had mentioned. In front he studied the billing of the Parmalee picture. It was Object Matrimony, a smashing comedy of love and laughter. Harold Parmalee, with a gesture of mock dismay, seemed to repulse a bevy of beautiful maidens who wooed him. Merton took his seat with a dismay that was not mock, for it now occurred to him that he had no experience in love scenes and that an actor playing Parmalee parts would need a great deal of such experience. In Simsbury there had been no opportunity for an intending actor to learn certain little niceties expected at sentimental moments. Even his private life had been almost barren of adventures that might now profit him. He had sometimes played kissing games at parties, and there had been the more serious affair with Edwina May Pulver, nights when he had escorted her from church or sociables to the Pulver Gate and lingered in a sort of nervously worded ecstasy until he could some encourage to kiss the girl. Twice this had actually happened, but the affair had come to nothing because the Pulvers had moved away from Simsbury and he had practically forgotten Edwina May, forgotten even the scared haste of those embraces. He seemed to remember that he had grabbed her and kissed her, but was it on her cheek or nose? Anyway, he was now quite certain that the mechanics of this dead Amour were not those approved of in the best screen circles. Never had he gathered a beauteous girl in his arms and very slowly, very accurately, very tenderly, done what Parmalie and the other screen actors did in their final fade-outs. Even when Bula Baxter had been his screen ideal, he had never seen himself as doing more than save her from some dreadful fate. Of course later, if he had found out that she was unwed. He resolved now to devote special study to Parmalie's methods of wooing the fair creature, who would be found in his arms at the close of the present film. Probably Baird would want some of that stuff from him. From the very beginning of object matrimony, it was apparent that the picture drama would afford him excellent opportunities for studying the Parmalie technique in what an early subtitle called The Eternal Battle of the Sexes. For Parmalie in the play was Hubert Throckmorton, popular screen idol and surfeted with attentions of adoring women. Cunningly the dramatist made use of Parmalie's own personality, of his screen triumphs, and of the adulation lavished upon him by discriminating fair ones. His breakfast tray was shown piled with missives, amply attesting the truth of what the interviewer had said of his charm. All women seemed to adore Hubert Throckmorton in the drama, even as all women adored Harold Parmalie and Private Life. The screen revealed Throckmorton quite savagely ripping open the letters, glancing at their contents, and flinging them from him with humorous shutters. He seemed to be asking why these foolish creatures couldn't let an artist alone. Yet he was kindly in this half humorous, half savage mood. There was a blending of chagrin and amused tolerance on his face as the screen had him murmur, casting the letter aside. Poor, silly little girls. From this early scene Merton learned Parmalie's method of withdrawing the gold cigarette case, of fastidiously selecting a cigarette, of closing the case and of absently thinking of other matters, tamping the gold tip thing against the cover. This was an item that he had overlooked. He should have done that in the cabaret scene. He also mastered the Parmalie trick of withdrawing the handkerchief from the cuff of the perfectly fitted morning coat. That was something else he should have done in the blight of Broadway. Little things like that, done right, gave the actor his distinction. The drama progressed. Millionaire Jasper Gordon, a power in Wall Street, was seen telephoning to Throckmorton. He was in treating the young actor to spend the weekend at his palatial Long Island country home to meet a few of his friends. The grim old Wall Street magnate was perturbed by Throckmorton's refusal and renewed his appeal. He was one of those who always had his way in Wall Street, and he at length prevailed upon Throckmorton to accept his invitation. He then manifested the wildest delight and he was excitedly kissed by his beautiful daughter who had been standing by his side in the sumptuous library while he telephoned. It could be seen that the daughter, even more than her grim old father, wished Mr. Throckmorton to be at the Long Island country home. Later Throckmorton was seen driving his high-powered roadster, accompanied only by his valet to the Gordon country home on Long Island, a splendid mansion surrounded by its landscaped grounds where fountains played and roses bloomed against the feathery background of graceful eucalyptus trees. Merton Gill here saw that he must learn to drive a high-powered roadster. Probably Baird would want some of that stuff too. A round of country house gayities ensued permitting Throckmorton to appear in a series of perfectly fitting sports costumes. He was seen on his favorite hunter, on the tennis courts, on the first tee of the golf course, on a polo pony and in the mazes of the dance. Very early it was learned that the Gordon daughter had tired of mere social triumphs and wished to take up screen acting in a serious way. She audaciously requested Throckmorton to give her a chance as leading lady in his next great picture. He softened his refusal by explaining to her that acting was a difficult profession and that suffering and sacrifice were necessary to round out the artist. The beautiful girl replied that within ten days he would be compelled to admit her rare ability as an actress, and laughingly they wagered a kiss upon it. Merton felt that this was the sort of thing he must know more about. Throckmorton was courteously gallant in the scene. Even when he said, shall we put up the stakes now, Miss Gordon, it could be seen that he was jesting. He carried this light manner through minor scenes with the beautiful young girlfriends of Miss Gordon who wooed him, lay and wait for him, ogled and sighed. Always he was the laughingly tolerant conqueror who had but a lazy scorn for his triumphs. He did not strike the graver note until it became suspected that there were crooks in the house bent upon stealing the famous Gordon jewels. That it was Throckmorton who averted this catastrophe by sheer nerve and by use of his rare histrionic powers as when he disguised himself in the coat and hat of the arch crook whom he had felled with a single blow and left bound and gagged in order to receive the casket of jewels from the thief who opened the safe in the library, and that he laughed away the thanks of the grateful millionaire astonished no one in the audience, though it caused Merton Gill to wonder if he could fell a crook with one blow. He must practice up some blows. Throckmorton left the palatial country home, wearied by the continuous adulation. The last to speed him was the Gordon daughter who reminded him of their wager. Within ten days he would acknowledge her to be an actress fit to play as his leading woman. Throckmorton drove rapidly to a simple farm where he was not known and would be no longer surfited with attentions. He dressed plainly in shirts that opened wide at the neck and assisted in the farm labors such as pitching hay and leading horses into the barn. It was the simple existence that he had been craving away from it all. No one suspected him to be Hubert Throckmorton, least of all the simple country maiden, daughter of the farmer, in her neat print dress and heavy braid of golden hair that hung from beneath her sun bonnet. She knew him to be only a man among men, a simple farm laborer, and Hubert Throckmorton, wearied by the adulation of his feminine public, was instantly charmed by her coy acceptance of his attentions. That this charm should ripen to love was to be expected. Here was a child, simple, innocent, a wild rose-beauty in her print dress and sun bonnet, who would love him for himself alone. Beside a blossoming orange tree on the simple Long Island farm he declared his love, warning the child that he had nothing to offer her but two strong arms and a heart full of devotion. The little girl shyly betrayed that she returned his love, but told him that he must first obtain the permission of her grandmother, without which she would never consent to wed him. She hastened into the old farmhouse to prepare grandmother for the interview. Throckmorton presently faced the old lady, who sat huddled in an armchair, her hands crooked over a cane, a ruffled cap above her silvery hair. He manfully voiced his request for the child's hand in marriage. The old lady seemed to mumble an assent. The happy lover looked about for his fiancé when, to his stupefaction, the old lady arose briskly from her chair, threw off cap, silvery wig, gown of black, and stood revealed as the child herself, smiling roguishly up at him from beneath the sun bonnet. With a glad cry he would have seized her when she stayed him with lifted hand. Once more she astounded him. Swiftly she threw off sun bonnet, blonde wig, print dress, and stood before him, revealed as none other than the gordon daughter. Hubert Throckmorton had lost his wager. Slowly, as the light of recognition dawned in his widening eyes, he gathered the beautiful girl into his arms. Now may I be your leading lady? she asked. My leading lady, not only in my next picture, but for life, he replied. There was a pretty little scene in which the wager was paid. Merton studied it. Twice again that evening he studied it. He was doubtful. It would seem queer to take a girl around the waist that way and kiss her so slowly. Maybe he could learn. And he knew he could already do that widening of the eyes. He could probably do it as well as Parmally did. Back in the Buckeye office when the Montague girl had returned from her parting with Merton, Baird had said, Kids, you've brightened my whole day. Didn't I tell you? He's a lot better than you said. But can you use him? You can't tell. You can't tell till you try him out. He might be good and he might blow up right at the start. I bet he'll be good. I tell you, Jeff, that boy is just full of acting. All you gotta do, keep his stuff straight, serious. He can't help but be funny that way. We'll see. Tomorrow we'll kind of feel him out. He'll see this Parmally film today. I caught it last night and there's some stuff in it I want to play horse with. See? So I'll start him to-morrow in a quiet scene and find out does he handle. If he does we'll go right into some Hulkem drama stuff. The more serious he plays it the better. It ought to be good, but you can't ever tell in our trade. You know that as well as I do. The girl was confident. I can tell about this lad, she insisted. CHAPTER XIII Merton Gill, enacting the part of a popular screen idol, as in the play of yesterday, sat at breakfast in his apartments on stage number five. Outwardly he was cool, wary, unperturbed as he peeled the shell from a hard-boiled egg and sprinkled salt upon it, for the breakfast consisted of hard-boiled eggs and potato salad brought on in a wooden dish. He had been slightly disturbed by the items of this meal. It was not so elegant a breakfast as Hubert Throckmorton's, but he had been told by Baird that they must be a little different. He had been slightly disturbed, too, at discovering the faithful valet who brought on the simple repast was the cross-eyed man. Still the fellow had behaved respectfully as a valet should. He had been quietly obsequious of manner, revealing only a profound admiration for his master and a constant solicitude for his comfort. Probably he, like Baird, was trying to do something distinctive and worthwhile. Having finished the last egg, glad they had given him no more than three, the popular screen idol at the prompting of Baird, backed by the cameras, arose with Drew a metal cigarette case, purchased that very morning with this scene in view, and selected a cigarette. He stood negligently as Parmalie had stood, tapped the end of the cigarette on the side of the case as Parmalie had done, lighted a match on the sole of his boot, and idly smoked in the Parmalie manner. Three times the day before he had studied Parmalie in this bit of business. Now he idly crossed to the center table upon which reposed a large photograph album. He turned the pages of this, pausing to admire the pictures there revealed. Baird had not only given him general instructions for this scene, but now prompted him in low encouraging tones. Turn over slowly. You like them all. Now lift the album up and hold it for a better light on that one. It's one of the best. It pleases you a lot. Look even more pleased. Smile. That's good. Put down the album. Turn again. Slowly. Turn twice more. That's it. Pick it up again. This one is fine. Baird took him through the album in this manner, had him close it when all the leaves were turned, and stand a moment with one hand resting on it. The album had been empty. It had been deemed best not to inform the actor that later close-ups of the pages would show him to have been refreshed by studying photographs of himself, copies, in fact, of the stills of Clifford Armitage at that moment resting on Baird's desk. As he stood now, a hand affectionately upon the album, a trace of the fatuously admiring smile still lingering on his expressive face, a knock sounded upon the door. "'Come in,' he called. The valet entered with the morning mail. This consisted entirely of letters. There were hundreds of them, and the valet had heaped them in a large-clothes basket which he now held respectfully in front of him. The actor motioned him with an authentic parmalie gesture to place them by the table. The valet obeyed those spilling many letters from the top of the overflowing basket. These, while his master seated himself, he briskly swept up with a broom. The chagrined amusement of Harold Parmalie, the half-savage, half-humorous tolerance for this perhaps excusable weakness of woman, was here accurately manifested. The actor yawned slightly, lighted another cigarette with flawless Parmalie technique, withdrew a handkerchief from a sleeve-cuff, lightly touched his forehead with it, and began to open the letters. He glanced at each one in a quick bored manner and cast it aside. When a dozen or so had been thus treated he was aroused by another knock at the door. It opened to reveal the valet with another basket overflowing with letters. Upon this the actor arose, spread his arms wide in a gesture of humorous helplessness. He held this briefly, then drooped in humorous despair. He lighted another cigarette, eyed the letters with that whimsical lift of the brows so characteristic of Parmalie, and lazily blew smoke toward them. Then regarding the smoke he idly waved a hand through it. Poor, silly little girls! But there was a charming tolerance in his manner. One felt his generous recognition that they were not holy without provocation. This appeared to close the simple episode. The scenes, to be sure, had not been shot without delays and rehearsals, and a good two hours of the morning had elapsed before the actor was released from the glare of light and the need to remember that he was heralded Parmalie. His peeling of an egg, for example, had not at first been dainty enough to please the director, and the scene with the album had required many rehearsals to secure the needed variety of expressions. But Baird had been helpful in his promptings, and always kind. Now, this one you've turned over. It's someone you love better than anybody. It might be your dear old mother that you haven't seen for years. It makes you kind of solemn as you show how fond you were of her. You're affected deeply by her face. That's it. Now, the next one. You like it just as much, but it pleases you more. It's someone else you're fond of, but you're not so solemn. Now, turn over another. But very slow. Slow. But don't let go of it. Stop a minute and turn back as if you had to have another peek at that last one. See what I mean? Take plenty of time. This is a great treat for you. It makes you feel kind of religious. Now you're getting it. That's the boy. All right? The scene where he showed humorous dismay at the quantity of his male had needed but one rehearsal. He had here been herald parmaly without effort. Also he had not been asked to do again the parmaly trick of lighting a cigarette, nor of withdrawing the handkerchief from its cuff to twice touch his forehead in moments of amused perplexity. Baird had merely uttered a low fine at beholding these bits. He drew a long breath of relief when released from the set. Seemingly he had met the test. Baird had said that morning, now we'll just run a little kind of test to find out a few things about you, and had followed with the general description of the scenes. It was to be of no great importance a minor detail of the picture. Perhaps this had been why the wealthy actor breakfasted in rather a plainly furnished room on hard-boiled eggs and potato salad. Perhaps this had been why the costume given him had been not too well-fitting, not too nice and detail. Perhaps this was why they had allowed the cross-eyed man to appear as his valet. He was quite sure this man would not do as a valet in a high-class picture. Anyway, however unimportant the scene, he felt that he had acquitted himself with credit. The Montague girl, who had made him up that morning with close attention to his eyebrows, watched him from back of the cameras and she seized both his hands when he left the set. You're going to land, she warmly assured him. I can tell a trooper when I see one. She was in costume. She was apparently doing the part of a society girl, though slightly overdressed, he thought. We're working on another set for this same picture, she explained, but I simply had to catch you acting. You'll probably be over with us to-morrow, but you're through for the day, so beat it and have a good time. Couldn't I come over and watch you? No, Baird doesn't like to have his actors watching things they ain't in. He told me specially that you weren't to be around except when you're working. You see, he's using you in kind of a special part in this multiple-realer, and he's afraid you might get confused if you watched the other parts. I guess he'll start you to-morrow. You're to be in a good, wholesome heart-play. You'll have a great chance in it. Well, I'll go see if I can find another Parmalie picture for this afternoon. Say, you don't think I was too much like him in that scene, do you? You know it's one thing if I look like him. I can't help that. But I shouldn't try to imitate him too closely, should I? I got to think about my own individuality, don't I? Sure, sure you have. But you were fine. Your imitation wasn't a bit too close. You can think about your own individuality this afternoon when you're watching him. Late that day in the projection room Baird and the Montague girl watched the rush of that morning's episode. The squirrel-stunnet whispered the girl after the opening scene. It seemed to her that Merton Gill on the screen might overhear her comment. Even Baird was low-toned. Looks so, he agreed. If that ain't Parmalie, then I'll eat all the hard-boiled eggs on the lot. Baird rubbed his hands. It's Parmalie plus, he corrected. Oh, mother, mother! murmured the girl while the screen revealed the actor studying his photographs. He handled all right in that spot, observed Baird. He'll handle right, don't worry. A night told you he's a natural-born trooper. The male was abandoned in humorous despair. The cigarette lighted in a flawless Parmalie manner. The smoke idly brushed aside. Poor, silly little girl, as the actor was seen to say. The girl gripped Baird's arm until he winced. There, old Pippin, there's your million picked right up on the lot. Maybe, assented the cooler Baird as they left the projection room. And say, asked the girl, did you notice all morning how he didn't even bat an eye when you spoke to him if the camera was still turning? Not like a beginner that'll nearly always look up and get out of the picture. What I bet, observed Baird, I bet he'd had done that album stuff even better than he did if I'd actually put his own pictures in, the way I'm going to for the close-ups. I was afraid he'd see it was kidding if I did, or if I told him what pictures they were going to be. But I'm darn now if I don't think he just stood for it. I don't believe you'll ever be able to peeve that boy by telling him he's good. The girl glanced up defensively as they walked. Now, don't get the idea he's conceited, because he ain't, not one bit. How do you know he ain't? She considered this, then explained brightly. Because I wouldn't like him if he was. No, no, now you listen here, as Baird had grinned. This lad believes in himself. That's all. That's different from conceit. You can believe a whole lot in yourself and still be as modest as a new hatched chicken. That's what he reminds me of, too. The following morning Baird halted him outside the set on which he would work that day. Again, he had been made up by the monogue girl, with a special attention to the eyebrows so that they might show the parmily lift. I just want to give you the general dope of the piece before you go on, said Baird, in the shelter of high canvas backing. You're the only son of a widowed mother, and both you and she are toiling to pay off the mortgage on the little home. You're the cashier of this business establishment, and in love with the proprietor's daughter, only she's a society girl and kind of looks down on you at first. Then there's her brother, the proprietor's only son. He's the clerk in this place. He doesn't want to work, but his father's made him learn the business, see? He's kind of a no-good dissipated, wears flashy clothes and plays the races and shoots craps and drinks. You try to reform him because he's idolized by his sister that you're in love with. But you can't do a thing with him. He keeps on and gets in with a rough crowd, and finally he steals a lot of money out of the safe. And just when they're about to discover that he's the thief, you see it would break his sister's heart, so you take the crime on your own shoulders. After that, just before you're going to be arrested, you make a getaway, because after all you're not guilty, and you go out west to start all over again. Out there in the big open spaces suggested Merton who had listened attentively. Exactly, ascended Baird, with one of those nervous spasms that would now and again twitch his lips and chin. Out there in the big open spaces were men are men. That's the idea. And you build up a little gray home in the west for yourself and your poor old mother who never lost faith in you. There'll be a lot of good western stuff in this, bug-bends and stuff, you know, that you can do so well. And the girl will get out there some way and tell you that her brother finally confessed his crime, and everything will be jake, see what I mean? Yes, sir, it sounds fine, Mr. Baird, and I certainly will give the best that is in me to this part. He had an impulse to tell the manager, too, how gratified he was that one who had been content with the low humor of the Buckeye comedies should at last have been one over to the better form of photodrama. But Baird was leading him on to the set. There was no time for this congratulatory episode. Baird's impulse was swept from his mind in the novelty of the set now exposed, and in the thought that his personality was to dominate it. The scene of the little dramas unfolding was a delicatessen shop. Counters and shelves were arrayed with cooked foods, salads, cheeses, the latter under glass or wire protectors. At the back was a cashier's desk and open safe beside it. He took his place there at Baird's direction and began to ride in a ledger. Now your old mother's coming to mop up the place, called Baird. Come on, mother. You look up and see her and rush over to her. She puts down her bucket and mop and takes you in her arms. She's weeping. You try to comfort her. You want her to give up mopping and tell her you can make enough to support, too. But she won't listen because there's the mortgage on the little flat to be paid off. So you go back to the desk, stopping to give her a sad look as she gets down on the floor. Now try it. A very old, bent, feeble woman with a pail of water and cloths tottered on. Her dress was ragged, her white hair hung about her sad old face in disorderly strands. She set down her bucket and raised her torn apron to her eyes. Look up and see her, called Baird. A glad light comes into her eyes. Rush forward, say, mother distinctly so it'll show. Now the clench. You're crying on his shoulder, mother, and he's looking down at you first, then off, about it me. He's near crying himself. Now he's telling you to give up mopping places, and you're telling him every little helps. All right, break. Get to mopping, mother, but keep on crying. He stops for a long look at you. He seems to be saying that someday he will take you out of such work. Now he's back at his desk. All right, but we'll do it once more. And a little more pathos, Merton, when you take the old lady in your arms. You can broaden it. Don't actually break down, but you nearly do. The scene was rehearsed again to Baird's satisfaction and the camera's ground. Merton Gill gave the best that was in him. His glad look at first beholding the old lady, the yearning of his eyes when his arms opened to unfold her, the tenderness of his embrace as he murmured soothing words, the lingering touch of his hand as he left her, the manly determination of the last look in which he showed a fresh resolve to release her from this toil, all were eloquent of the deepest filial devotion and earnestness of purpose. Back at his desk he was genuinely pitying the old lady. Very lately it was evident she had been compelled to play in a cabaret scene, for she smelled strongly of cigarettes, and he could not suppose that she, her eyes brimming with anguished mother-love, would have relished these. He was glad when it presently developed that his own was not to be a smoking part. Now the dissipated brothers coming on, explained Baird, he'll breeze in, hang up his hat, offer you a cigarette which you refuse, and show you some money that he won on the third race yesterday. You follow him a little away from the desk, telling him he shouldn't smoke cigarettes, and that money he gets by gambling will never do him any good. He laughs at you, but you don't mind. On your way back to the desk you stop by your mother, and she gets up and embraces you again. Take your time about it, she's your mother, remember? The brother entered. He was indeed dissipated appearing, loudly dressed and already smoking the cigarette as he swaggered the length of the shop to offer Merton one. Merton refused in a kindly but firm manner. The flashy brother now pulled a roll of bills from his pocket and pointed to his winning horse in a racing-extra. The line and large type was there for the close-up. Pianola rumps home in third race. Followed the scene in which Merton sought to show this youth that cigarettes and gambling would harm him. The youth remained obdurate. He seized a duster, and with ribbed action began to dust off the rows of cooked food on the counters. Again the son stopped to embrace his mother, who again wept as she unfolded him. The scene was shot. Step by step under the patient coaching of Baird the simple drama unfolded. It was hot beneath the lights. Delays were frequent and the rehearsals tedious, yet Merton Gill continued to give the best that was in him. As the day wore on the dissipated son went from bad to worse. He would leave the shop to place money on a horse race, and he would seek to induce the customers he waited on to play at dice with him. A few of them consented, and one, a colored man who had come to purchase Pig's Feet, wanted this game all the bills which the youth had shown to Merton on entering. There were moments during this scene when Merton wondered if Baird were not relapsing into Buckeye comedy depths, but he saw the inevitable trend of the drama and the justification for this bit of gambling. For the son, now penniless, became desperate. He appealed to Merton for a loan, urging it on the ground that he had a sure thing, thirty to one shot at Letonia. At least these were the words of Baird as he directed Merton to deny the request and to again try to save the youth from his inevitable downfall, where upon the youth had sneered at Merton and left the place in deep anger. There followed the scene with the boy's sister, only daughter of the rich delicatessen merchant, whom Merton was pleased to discover would be played by the Montague girl. She entered in a splendid evening gown almost too splendid, Merton thought, for streetwear and daylight, though it was partially concealed by a rich opera cloak. As the brother being out, Merton came forward to wait upon her. "'It's like this,' Baird explained. She's just a simple New York society girl, kind of shallow and heartless, because she has never been aroused nor anything. See? You're the first one that's really touched her heart, but she hesitates because her father expects her to marry a Count, and she's come to get the food for a swell banquet they're giving for him. She says where's her brother, and if anything happened to him it would break her heart. Then she orders what she wants, and you do it up for her, looking at her all the time as if you thought she was the one girl in the world. She kind of falls for you a little bit. Still she's afraid of what her father would say. Then you get bolder. See? You come from behind the counter and begin to make love, talking as you come out. So and so and so and so and so and so. Miss Hoffmeyer, I have loved you since the day I first set eyes on you. So and so and so and so and so. I have nothing to offer but the love of an honest man. She's fallen for it. See? So you get up close and grab her. Caveman stuff. Do a good hard clench. She's yours at last. She just naturally sags right down on you. You've got her. Do a regular parmily. Take your time. You're going to kiss her and kiss her right. But just as you get down to do it, the father busts in and says, What's the meaning of this? So you fly apart and the father says you're discharged, because his daughter is the affianced wife of this Count aspirin. See? Then he goes back to the safe and finds all the money has been taken, because the son has sneaked in and grabbed out the bundle and hit it in the icebox on his way out, taking only a few bills to get down on a horse. So he says, Call the police. But that's enough for now. Go ahead and do that love scene for me. Slowly the scene was brought to Baird's liking. Slowly because Merton Gill at first proved to be diffident at the crisis. For three rehearsals the muscular arm of Miss Monogue had most of the clenching to do. He believed he was being rough and masterful, but Baird wished a greater show of violence. They had also to time this scene with the surreptitious entrance of the brother, his theft of the money which he stuffed into a paper sack and placed in the icebox and his exit. The leading man having at last proved that he could be herald parmily even in this crisis, the scene was extended to the entrance of the indignant father. He was one of those self-made men of wealth Merton sought, a short stout gentleman with fiery whiskers, not at all fashionably dressed. He broke upon the embrace with a threatening stick. The pair separated, the young lover facing him, proud, erect, defiant, the girl drooping and confused. The father discharged Merton Gill with great brutality, then went to the safe at the back of the room, returning to shout the news that he had been robbed by the man who would have robbed him of his daughter. It looked black for Merton. Puzzled at first, he now saw that the idolized brother of the girl must have taken the money. He seemed about to declare this when his nobler nature compelled him to a silence that must be taken for guilt. The airing brother returned, accompanied by several customers. Being a detective to arrest this man ordered the father. One of the customers stepped out to return with a detective. Again Merton was slightly disquieted at perceiving that the detective was the cross-eyed man. This person bustled about the place, tapping the cooked meats and cheeses, and at last placed his hand upon the shoulder of the supposed thief. Merton, at Baird's direction, drew back and threatened him with a blow. The detective cringed and said, I will go out and call a policeman. The others now turned their backs upon the guilty man. Even the girl drew away after one long agonized look at the lover to whose embrace she had so lately submitted. He raised his arms to her in mute appeal as she moved away, then dropped them at his side. Give her all you got in a look, directed Baird. You're saying, I go to a felon's cell, but I do it all for you. Dream your eyes at her. Merton Gill obeyed. The action progressed. In this wait for the policeman the old mother crept forward. She explained to Merton that the money was in the icebox where the real thief had placed it, and since he had taken the crime of another upon his shoulders he should also take the evidence lest the unfortunate man be later convicted by that. She also urged him to fly by the rear door while there was yet time. He did these things, pausing for a last embrace of the weeping old lady even as the hand of the arriving policeman was upon the door. All for today, except for some close-ups, announced Baird when this scene had been shot. There was a breaking up of the group, a relaxation of that dramatic tension which the heart values of the piece had imposed. Only once, while Merton was doing some of his best acting, had there been a kind of wheezy tittering from certain members of the cast and the group around the cameras. Baird had quickly suppressed this. If there's any kidding in this piece it's all in my part, he announced in cold, clear tones, and there had been no further signs of levity. Merton was pleased by this manner of Baird's. It showed that he was finally in earnest in the effort for the worthwhile things. And Baird now congratulated him, seconded by the Montague girl. He had, they told him, been all that could be expected. I wasn't sure of myself, he told them, in one scene, and I wanted to ask you about it, Mr. Baird. It's where I take the money from the ice-box and go out with it. I couldn't make myself feel right. Wouldn't it look to other people as if I was actually stealing it myself? Why couldn't I put it back in the safe? Baird listened respectfully, considering. I think not, he announced at length. You'd hardly have time for that, and you have a better plan. It'll be brought out in the subtitles, of course. You're going to leave it at the residence of Mr. Hofmeier where it will be safe. You see, if you put it back where it was, his son might steal it again. We thought that out very carefully. I see, said Merton. I wish I'd been told that. I feel that I could have done that bit a lot better. I felt kind of guilty. You did it perfectly, Baird assured him. Kid, you're a wonder, declared the Monarchy girl. I'm that tickled with you I could give you a good hug. And with that curious approach to hysteria she had shown while looking at his stills, she for a moment frantically clasped him to her. He was somewhat embarrassed by the success, but pardoned it in the reflection that he had indeed given the best that was in him. Bring all your western stuff to the dressing-room tomorrow, said Baird. Western stuff. The real thing at last. He was slightly amazed later to observe the old mother outside the set. She was not only smoking a cigarette with every sign of relish, but she was singing as she did a little dance-step. Still, she had been under a strain all day, weeping, too, almost continuously. He remembered this and did not judge her harshly as she smoked, danced, and lightly sang. Her mother's name was Cleo, her father's name was Pat, they called her Cleopatra, and let it go at that. Chapter 14 Out There Where Men Are Men From the dressing-room the following morning a raid in the Buck Benson outfit unworn since that eventful day on the Gashwiler lot Merton accompanied Baird to a new set where he would work that day. Baird was profuse in his admiration of the cowboy embellishments, the maroon chaps, the new boots, the hat, the checked shirt, and gay neckerchief. I am mighty glad to see you so sincere in your work, he assured Merton. A lot of these hams I hire get to kidding on the set and spoil the atmosphere, but don't let it bother you. One earnest leading man, if he'll just stay earnest, will carry the peace. Remember that. You got a serious part. I'll certainly remember, Merton earnestly assured him. Here we are. This is where we begin the western stuff, said Merton recognized the place. It was the high-gear dance-hall where the Montague girl had worked. The name over the door was now the Come All Ye, and there was a hitching-rack in front of which were tethered half a dozen saddled horses. Inside the scene was as he had remembered it. Tables for drinking were about the floor, and there was a roulette-wheel at one side. A red-shirted bartender, his hair plastered low over his brow, leaned negligently on the bar. Scattered around the room were dance-hall girls in short skirts and a number of cowboys. First, I'll wise you up a little bit, said Baird. You've come out here to work on a ranch in the great open spaces, and these cowboys all love you and come to town with you every time, and they'll stand by you when the detective from New York gets here. Now let's see. I guess first we'll get your entrance. You come in the front door at the head of them. You've ridden from the ranch. We get the horse-back stuff later. You all come in yelling and so on, and the boys scatter, some to the barn, some to the wheel, and some sit down to tables and have their drinks, and some dance with the girls. You distribute money to them from a paper sack. Here's the sack. From a waiting property boy he took a paper sack. Put this in your pocket and take it out whenever you need money. It's the same sack, see, that the kid put the stolen money in, and you saved it after returning the money. It's just a kind of an idea of mine, he vaguely added as Merton looked puzzled at this. All right, sir. He took the sack, observing it to contain a rude imitation of bills, and stuffed it into his pocket. Then, after the boys scatter round, you go and stand at the end of the bar. You don't join in their sports and pastimes, see? You're serious. You have things on your mind. Just sort of look around the place as if you were holding yourself above such things, even if you do like to give the boys a good time. Now, we'll try the entrance. Cameras were put into place, and Merton Gill led through the front door his band of rollicking good fellows. He paused inside to give them bills from the paper sack. They scattered to their dissipations. Their leader austerely posed at one end of the bar and regarded the scene with disapproving eyes. Wine, women, and dance were not for him. He produced again the disillusioned look that had won Henshaw. Fine, said Baird. Gun it, boys. The scene was shot, and Baird spoke again. Hold it, everybody. Go on with your music, and you boys keep up the dance until mother's entrance. Then you quit and back off. Merton was puzzled by this speech, but continued his superior look, breaking it with a very genuine shock of surprise when his old mother tottered in at the front door. She was still the disconsolate creature of the day before, bedraggled, sad-eyed, feeble, very aged, and she still carried her bucket and the bundle of rags with which she had mopped. Baird came forward again. Oh, I forgot to tell you. Of course you had your old mother follow you out here to the great open spaces, but the poor old thing has cracked under the strain of her hard life. See what I mean? All her dear ones have been leaving the old nest and going out over the hills one by one. You were the last to go, and now she isn't quite right, see? You have a good home on the ranch for her, but she won't stay put. She follows you around, and the only thing that keeps her quiet is mopping, so you humor her, you let her mop. It's the only way. But of course it makes you sad. You look at her now, then go up and hug her the way you did yesterday. You try to get her to give up mopping, but she won't, so you let her go on. Try it. Merton went forward to embrace his old mother. Here was tragedy indeed, a bit of biting pathos from a humble life. He gave the best that was in him as he unfolded the feeble old woman and strained her to his breast, murmuring to her that she must give it up, give it up. The old lady wept, but was stubborn. She tore herself from his arms and knelt on the floor. I just got a mop, I just got a mop, she was repeating in a cracked voice. If I ain't let to mop I get rough till I'm simply a scandal. It was an affecting scene, marred only by one explosive bit of coarse laughter from an observing cowboy at the clothes of the old mother's speech. Merton Gill glanced up in sharp annoyance at this offender. Baird was quick and rebuke. The next guy that laughs at this pathos can get off the set, he announced, glaring at the assemblage. There was no further outbreak and the scene was filmed. There followed a dramatic bit that again involved the demented mother. This ought to be good if you can do it the right way, began Baird. Mothers mopping along there and sloshes some water on this Mexican's boot. Where are you, Pedro? Come here and get this. The old lady sloshes water on you while you're playing Monty here, so you yell caramba or something and kick at her. You don't land on her, of course, but her son rushes up and grabs your arm. Here, do it this way, Baird demonstrated. Grab his wrist with one hand and his elbow with the other and make as if you broke his arm across your knee. You know, like you were doing jujitsu. He slinks off with his broken arm and you just dust your hands off and embrace your mother again. Then you go back to the bar, not looking at Pedro at all. See? He's insulted your mother, and you've resented it in a nice dignified gentlemanly way. Try it. Pedro sat at the table and picked up his cards. He was a foul-looking Mexican and seemed capable even of the enormity he was about to commit. The scene was rehearsed to Baird's satisfaction, then shot. The weeping old lady, blinded by her tears, awkward with the mop, the brutal Mexican, his prompt punishment. The old lady was especially pathetic as she glared at her insultor from where she lay sprawled on the floor and muttered, Caramba, huh? I dare you to come outside and say that to me. Good work, applauded Baird when the scene was finished. Now we're getting into the swing of it. And about three days here we'll have something that exhibitors can clean up on, see if we don't. The three days passed in what for Merton Gill was a whirlwind of dramatic intensity. If at times he was vaguely disquieted by a suspicion that the piece was not wholly serious, he only had to remember the intense seriousness of his own part, and the always serious manner of Baird in directing his actors. And indeed there were but few moments when he was even faintly pricked by this suspicion. It seemed a bit incongruous that Hofmeyer, the delicatessen merchant, should arrive on a bicycle, dressed in cowboy attire, save for a badly dented derby hat, and carrying a bag of golf clubs. And it was a little puzzling how Hofmeyer should have been ruined by his son's mad act when it should have been shown that the money was returned to him. But Baird explained carefully that the old man had been ruined some other way and was demented like the poor old mother who had gone over the hills after her children had left the home nest. And assuredly in Merton's own action he found nothing that was not deeply earnest as well as strikingly dramatic. There was the tense moment when a faithful cowboy broke upon the festivities with word that a New York detective was coming to search for the man who had robbed a Hofmeyer establishment. His friends gathered loyally about Merton and swore he would never be taken from them alive. He was induced to don a false mustache until the detective had gone. It was a long heavy black mustache with curling tips and in this disguise he stood aloof from his companions when the detective entered. The detective was the cross-eyed man, himself now disguised as Sherlock Holmes, with a four-and-aft cloth cap and drooping blonde mustache. He smoked a pipe as he examined those present. Merton was unable to overlook this scene as he had been directed to stand with his back to the detective. Later it was shown that he observed in a mirror the Mexican whom he had punished creeping forward to inform the detective of this man's whereabouts. The coward's treachery cost him dearly. The hero, still with his back turned, drew his revolver and took careful aim by means of the mirror. This had been a spot where for a moment he was troubled. Instead of pointing the weapon over his shoulder, aiming by the mirror, he was directed to point it at the Mexican's reflection in the glass and to fire at this reflection. It's all right, Baird assured him. It's a camera trick, see? It may look now as if you were shooting into the mirror, but it comes perfectly right on the film. You'll see. Go on, aim carefully, right smack at the looking glass. Fire! Still somewhat doubting, Merton fired. The mirror was shattered, but a dozen feet back of him the treacherous Mexican threw up his arms and fell lifeless, a bullet through his cowardly heart. It was a puzzling bit of trick work, he thought, but Baird of course would know what was right, so the puzzle was dismissed. Buck Benson, silent man of the open, had got the scoundrel who would have played him false. A thrilling struggle ensued between Merton and the hellhound of justice. Perceiving who had slain his would-be informant, the detective came to confront Merton. Snatching off his cap and mustache he stood revealed as the man who had not dared to arrest him at the scene of his crime. With another swift movement he snatched away the mustache that had disguised his quarry. Buck Benson, at bay, sprang like a tiger upon his antagonist. They struggled while the excited cowboys surged about them. The detective proved to be no match for Benson. He was born to earth, then raised aloft and hurled over the adjacent tables. This bit of acting had involved a trick which was not obscure to Merton like his shot into the mirror that brought down a man back of him. Moreover, it was a trick of which he approved. When he bore the detective to earth the cameras halted their grinding while a dummy in the striking likeness of the detective was substituted. It was a light affair, and he easily raised it for the final toss of triumph. Throw it high as you can over those tables and toward the bar, called Baird. The figure was thrown as directed. Fine work! Now look up as if he was still in the air. Now down. Now brush your left sleeve lightly with your right hand. Now brush your right sleeve lightly with your left hand. All right, cut. Great, Merton. If that don't get you a hand, I don't know what will. Now all outside for the horseback stuff. Outside the faithful cowboys leaped into their saddles and urged their beloved leader to do the same. But he lingered beside his own horse, pleading with them to go ahead. He must remain in the place of danger yet a while for he had forgotten to bring out his old mother. They besought him to let them bring her out, but he would not listen. His alone was the task. Reluctantly the cowboys galloped off. As he turned to re-enter the dance-hall he was confronted by the detective who held two frowning weapons upon him. Benson was at last a prisoner. The detective brutally ordered his quarry inside. Benson, seeing he was beaten, made a manly plea that he might be let to bid his horse good-bye. The detective seemed moved. He relented. Benson went to his good old pal. Here's your chance for a fine bit, called Baird. Give it to us now the way you did in that still. Broaden it all you want to. Go to it. Well did Merton Gill know that here was his chance for a fine bit. The horse was strangely like Dexter upon whom he had so often rehearsed this bit. He was a bony, drooping, sad horse with a thin neck. They're taking you from me, old pal. Taking you from me. You and me has seen some tough times, and I sort of figured we'd keep on together till the last. And now they got me, old pal, taking me far away where you won't see me no more. Go to it, cowboy, take all the footage you want, called Baird in a curiously choked voice. The actor took some more footage. But we got to keep a stiff upper lip, old pal, you and me both. No crying, no busting down. We had our last gallop together and we're at the forkin' of the trail. So we gotta be brave. We gotta stay in the gaff. Benson released his old pal, stood erect, dashed a bit of moisture from his eyes, and turned to the waiting detective, who, it seemed, had also been strangely moved during this affecting farewell. He had not forgotten his duty. Benson was forced to march back into the Come All Ye Dance Hall. As he went he was wishing that Baird would have him escape and flee on his old pal. And Baird was a man who seemed to think of everything, or perhaps he had often seen the real Buck Benson's play, for now it appeared that everything was going to be as Merton Gill wished. Baird had even contrived an escape that was highly spectacular. Locked by the detective in an upper room, the prisoner went to the window and glanced out to find that his loyal horse was directly beneath him. He would leap from the window, alight in the saddle after a twenty-foot drop, and be off over the border. The window scene was shot, including a flash of the horse below. The mechanics of the leap itself required more time. Indeed, it took the better part of a morning to satisfy Baird that this thrilling exploit had been properly achieved. From a lower window, quite like the high one, Merton leaped, but only to the ground a few feet below. That's where we get your take-off, Baird explained. Now we get you lighting in the saddle. This proved to be a more delicate bit of work. From a platform built out just above the faithful horse, Merton precariously scrambled down into the saddle. He glanced anxiously at Baird, fearing he had not alighted properly after the supposed twenty-foot drop, but the manager appeared to be delighted with his prowess after the one rehearsal, and the scene was shot. That's all, Jake, Baird assured him. Don't feel worried. Of course we'll trick the bit where he hit the saddle. The camera'll look out for that. One detail only troubled Merton. After doing the leap from the high window and before doing its finish where he reached the saddle, Baird directed certain changes in his costume. He was again to don the false mustache, to put his hat on, and also a heavy jacket lined with sheep's wool worn by one of the cowboys in the dance-hall. Merton was pleased to believe he had caught the manager napping here. But Mr. Baird, if I leap from the window without the hat or mustache or jacket and land on my horse in them, wouldn't it look as if I had put them on as I was falling? Baird was instantly overcome with confusion. Now, that's so. I swear I never thought of that, Merton. I'm glad you spoke about it in time. You sure have shown me up as a director. You see, I wanted you to disguise yourself again. I'll tell you, get the things on, and after we shoot you lighting in the saddle we'll retake the window scene. That'll fix it. Not until long afterward, on a certain dread night when the earth was to rock beneath him, did he recall that Baird had never retaken that window scene. At present the young actor was too engrossed by the details of his daring leap to remember small things. The leap was achieved at last. He was in the saddle after a twenty-foot drop. He gathered up the reins, the horse beneath him coughed plaintively, and Merton rode out of the picture. Baird took a load off his mind as to this bit of writing. "'Will you want me to gallop?' he asked, recalling the unhappy experience with Dexter. No, just walk him beyond the camera-line. The camera'll trick it up all right.' So, safely, confidently, he had ridden his steed beyond the lens range at a curious shuffling amble, and his work at the Come All Ye Dance Hall was done. Then came some adventurous days in the open. In motor-cars the company of artists was transported to a sunny nook in the foothills beyond the city, and here in the wild, rough, open spaces the drama of mother-love, sacrifice, and thrills was further unfolded. First to be done here was the continuation of the hero's escape from the dance-hall. Upon his faithful horse he ambled along a quiet road until he reached the shelter of an oak tree. Here he halted at the roadside. "'You know the detective is following you,' explained Baird, "'and you're going to get him. Take your nag over a little so the tree won't mask him too much.' That's it. Now you look back, lean forward in the saddle. Listen. You hear him coming. Your face sets. Look as grim as you can. That's the stuff, the real Buck Benson stuff when they're after him. That's fine. Now you get an idea. Unlash your rope. Let the noose out. Give it a couple of whirls to see is everything all right. That's it. Only you still look grim. Not so worried about whether the rope is going to act right. We'll attend to that. When the detective comes in sight give about three good whirls and letter fly. Try it once. Good. Now coil her up again and go through the whole thing. Never mind about whether you're going to get him or not. Remember, Buck Benson never misses. We'll have a later shot that shows the rope falling over his head. Thereupon the grim-faced Benson, strong, silent man of the open, while the cameras ground, waited the coming of one who hounded him for a crime of which he was innocent. His iron face was relentless. He leaned forward listening. He uncoiled the rope, expertly ran out the noose and grimly waited. Far up the road appeared the detective on a galloping horse. Benson twirled the rope as he sat in his saddle. It left his hand to sail gracefully in the general direction of his pursuer. Cut! called Baird. That was bully. Now you got him. Right out into the road. You're dragging him off his horse. See? Keep up on the road. You're still dragging the hound. Look back over your shoulder and light your face up just a little. That's it. Use Benson's other expression. You got it fine. You're treating the skunk rough, but look what he was doing to you, trying to pinch you for something you never did. That's fine. Go ahead. OK, don't look back any more. Merton was chiefly troubled at this moment by the thought that someone would have to double for him in the actual casting of the rope that would settle upon the detective's shoulders. Well, he must practice roping. Perhaps by the next picture he could do this stuff himself. It was exciting work, though sometimes tedious. It had required almost an entire morning to enact this one simple scene with the numerous close-ups that Baird demanded. The afternoon was taken up largely in becoming accustomed to a pair of old Spanish spurs that Baird had now provided him with. Baird said they were very rare old spurs which he had obtained at a fancy price from an impoverished Spanish family who had treasured them as heirlooms. He said he was sure that Buck Benson and all his vast collection did not possess a pair of spurs like these. He would, doubtless, after seeing them worn by Merton Gill in this picture, have a pair made like them. The distinguished feature of these spurs was their size. They were enormous, and their rows extended a good twelve inches from Merton's heels after he had donned them. They may bother you a little at first, said Baird, but you'll get used to them, and they're worth a little trouble because they'll stand out. The first effort to walk in them proved bothersome indeed, for it was made over-ground covered with a low-growing vine and the spurs caught in this. Baird was very earnest in supervising this progress and even demanded the presence of two cameras to record it. Of course, I'm not using this stuff, he said, but I want to make a careful study of it. These are genuine Adalgo spurs. Mighty few men in this line of parts could get away with them. I bet Benson himself would have a lot of trouble. Now, try it once more. Merton tried once more, stumbling as the spurs caught in the undergrowth. The cameras closely recorded his efforts and Baird applauded them. You're getting it. Keep on. That's better. Now, try to run a few steps. Go right toward that left-hand camera. He ran the few steps, but fell headlong. He picked himself up an expression of chagrin on his face. Never mind, urged Baird, try it again. We must get this right. He tried again to run, and was again thrown. But he was determined to please the manager, and he earnestly continued his efforts. Benson himself would see the picture, and probably marvel that a new man should have mastered, apparently with ease, a pair of genuine Adalgos. Maybe we better try smoother ground, Baird at last suggested, after repeated falls had shown, that the undergrowth was difficult. So the cameras were moved on to the front of a ranch house now in use for the drama, and the spur lessons continued. But on smooth ground it appeared that the spurs were still troublesome. After the first mishap here Merton discovered the cause. The long shanks were curved inward so that in walking their ends clashed. He pointed this out to Baird, who was amazed at the discovery. Well, well, that's so. They're bound to interfere. I never knew that about Adalgos spurs before. We might straighten them, suggested the actor. No, no, Baird insisted. I wouldn't dare try that. They cost too much money, and it might break them. I tell you what you do. Stand up and try this. Just tow in a little when you walk. That'll bring the points apart. There. That's it. That's fine. The cameras were again recording so that Baird could later make his study of the difficulties to be mastered by the wearer of genuine Adalgos. By towing in, Merton now succeeded in walking without disaster, though he could not feel that he was taking the free stride of men out there in the open spaces. Now try running, directed Baird, and he tried running, but again the spurs caught, and he was thrown full in the eyes of the grinding camera. He had forgotten to tow in, but he would not give up. His face was set in Buck Benson grimness. Each time he picked himself up and earnestly resumed the effort. The rals were now catching in the long hair of his chaps. He worked on, directed and cheered by the patient Baird, while the two cameramen, with curiously strained faces, recorded his failures. Baird had given strict orders that other members of the company should remain at a distance during the spur lessons, but now he seemed to believe that a few other people might encourage the learner. Merton was directed to run to his old mother, who, bucket at her side and mop in hand, knelt on the ground at a little distance. He was also directed to run toward the Montague girl, now in frontier attire of fringed buckskin. He made earnest efforts to keep his feet during these essays, but the spurs still proved treacherous. Just pick yourself up and go on, ordered Baird, and had the cameras secure close shots of Merton picking himself up and going carefully on, towing in now to embrace his weeping old mother and the breathless girl who had awaited him with open arms. He was tired that night, but the actual contusions he had suffered in his falls were forgotten in the fear that he might fail to master the Adalgos. Baird himself seemed confident that his pupil would yet excite the jealousy of Buck Benson in this hazardous detail of the screen art. He seemed, indeed, to be curiously satisfied with his afternoon's work. He said that he would study the film carefully and try to discover just how the spurs could be mastered. You'll show him yet how to take a joke, he declared, when the puzzling implements were at last doffed. The young actor felt repaid for his earnest efforts. No one could put on a pair of genuine Adalgos for the first time and expect to handle them correctly. There were many days in the hills. Until this time the simple drama had been fairly coherent in Merton Gill's mind. So consecutively were the scenes shot that the story had not been hard to follow. But now came rather a jumble of scenes not only at times bewildering in themselves but apparently unrelated. First it appeared that the monagu girl, as Miss Rebecca Hoffmeyer had tired of being a mere New York society butterfly, had come out into the big open spaces to do something real, something worthwhile. The ruin of her father, still unexplained, had seemed to call out unsuspected reserves in the girl. She was stern and business-like in such scenes as Merton was permitted to observe. And she had not only brought her ruined father out to the open spaces, but the dissipated brother, who was still seen to play at dice whenever opportunity offered. He played with the jolly cowboys and invariably won. Off in the hills there were many scenes which Merton did not overlook. I want you to just have your own part in mind, Baird told him. And although he was puzzled later, he knew that Baird was somehow making it right in the drama when he became again the successful actor of that first scene, which he had almost forgotten. He was no longer the Buck Benson of the open spaces, but the foremost idol of the shadowed stage, and in Harold Parmely's best manner he informed the aspiring monagu girl that he could not accept her as a leading lady in his next picture because she lacked experience. The wager of a kiss was laughingly made as she promised that within ten days she would convince him of her talent. Later she herself in an effective scene became the grim-faced Buck Benson and held the actor up at the point of her two guns. Then when she had convinced him that she was Benson, she appeared after an interval as her own father, the fiery beard, the derby hat with its dents, the chaps, the bicycle and golf bag. In this scene she seemed to demand the actor's intentions toward the daughter and again overwhelmed him with confusion as Parmely had been overwhelmed when she revealed her true self under the baffling disguise. The wager of a kiss was pridly paid. This much of the drama he knew, and there was an affecting final scene on a hillside. The actor, arrayed in chaps, spurs, and boots below the waist and above this in faultless evening-dress. You see it's a masquerade at the party at the ranch, Baird explained, and you've thought up this costume to sort of puzzle the little lady. The girl herself was in the short-fringed Buck's skin skirt with knife and revolvers in her belt. Off in the hills day after day she had worn this costume in those active scenes he had not witnessed. Now she was merely coy. He followed her out on the hillside with only a little trouble from the spurs. Indeed he fell but once as he approached her, and the little drama of the lovers at last united was touchingly shown. In the background as they stood entwined the poor demented old mother was seen. With mop and bucket she was clean in the side of a cliff, but there was happier look on the worn old face. Glance around and see her, railed Baird. Then explain to the girl that you will always protect your mother no matter what happens. That's it. Now the clench. Kiss her. Slow. That's it. Cut. Merton's part in the drama was ended. He knew that the company worked in the hills another week and that there were more close-ups to take in the dance-hall, but he was not needed in these. Baird congratulated him warmly. Fine work, my boy. You've done your first picture and with Miss Montague as your leading lady I feel that you're going to land ace high with your public. Now all you gotta do for a couple of weeks is to take it easy while we finish up some rough ends of this piece. Then we'll be ready to start on the new one. It's pretty well doped out and there's a big part in it for you. Big things to be done in a big way. See what I mean? Well, I'm glad I suited you, Merton, replied. I tried to give the best that was in me to a sincere interpretation of that fine part, and it was a great surprise to me. I never thought I'd be working for you, Mr. Baird, and, of course, I wouldn't have been if you had kept on doing those comedies. I never would have wanted to work in one of them. Of course not, agreed Baird cordially. I realized that you were a serious artist, and you came in the nick of time, just when I was wanting to be serious myself, to get away from that slapstick stuff into something better and finer. You came when I needed you. And look here, Merton, I signed you on at forty a week. Yes, sir, I was glad to get it. Well, I'm going to give you more. From the beginning of the new picture you're on the payroll at seventy-five a week. No, no, not a word, as Merton would have thanked him. You're earning the money. And for the picture after that, well, if you keep on giving the best that's in you, it'll be a whole lot more. Now take a good rest till we're ready for you. At last he had won. Suffering and sacrifice had told. And Baird had spoken of the Monigu girl as his leading lady, quite as if he were a star. And seventy-five dollars a week? A sum Gashwiler had made him work five weeks for. Now he had something big to write his old friend Tessie Kearns. She might spread the news in Simsbury, he thought. He contrived a close-up of Gashwiler hearing it, of Mrs. Gashwiler hearing it, of Metta Judson hearing it. They would all be incredulous until a certain picture was shown at the Bijou Palace, a gripping drama of mother-love, of a clean-limbed young American type wrongfully accused of a crime, and taking the burden of it upon his own shoulders for the sake of the girl he had come to love, of the tense play of elemental forces of the Great West, the regeneration of a shallow society-girl when brought to adversity by the ruin of her old father, of the lovers reunited in that West they both loved. And somehow this was still a puzzle, the very effective weaving in and out of the drama of the world's most popular screen-idle, played so expertly by Clifford Armitage, who looked enough like him to be his twin brother. Fresh from joyous moments in the projection room, the Montague girl gazed at Baird across the latter's desk. Baird spoke. Sis, he's a wonder. Jeff, you're a wonder. How'd you ever keep him from getting wise? Baird shrugged. Easy, we caught him fresh. How'd you ever win him to do all those falls on the trick's burrs and get the close-ups of them? Didn't he know you were shooting? Ah, Baird shrugged again. A little talk made that all, Jake. But what bothers me? How's he going to act when he's seen the picture? The girl became grave. I'm scared stiff every time I think of it. Maybe he'll murder you, Jeff. Maybe he'll murder both of us. You got him into it. She did not smile, but considered gravely, absently. There's something else might happen, she said at last. That boy's got at least a couple of sides to him. I'd rather he'd be crazy mad than be what I'm thinking of now. And that's that all this stuff might just fairly break his heart. Think of it, to see his fine, honest acting turned into good old buckeye slapstick. Can't you get that? How'd you like to think you were playing Romeo and act your heart out at it and then find out they'd slipped in a cross-eyed Juliet in a comedy makeup on you? Well, you can laugh, but maybe it won't be funny to him. Honest, Jeff, that kid gets me under the ribs, kind of. I hope he takes it standing up and goes good and crazy mad. I know what to say to him if he does that. If he takes it the other way lying down I'll be too ashamed ever to look him in the eye again. Say, it'll be like going up to a friendly baby and soaking it with a potato masher or something. Don't worry about it, kid. Anyway, it won't be your fault so much as mine. And you think there's only two ways for him to take it, mad or heartbroken? Well, let me tell you something about that lad. He might fool you both ways. I don't know just how, but I tell you he's an actor, a born one. What he did is going to get over big. And I never yet saw a born actor that would take applause lying down, even if it does come for what he didn't know what he was doing. Maybe he'll be mad, that's natural enough, but maybe he'll fool us both. So cheeriold, pippen, and let's fly into the new piece. I'll play safe by shooting the most of that before the other one is released. And he'll still be playing straight in a serious heart drama. Fancy that, Armand.