 CHAPTER 3 WESTERN STUFF Saturday proved all that his black forebodings had pictured it. A day of sordid, harassing toil, toil moreover, for which Gashwiler, the beneficiary, showed but the scantist appreciation. Indeed, the day opened with a disagreement between the forward-looking clerk and his hide-bound reactionary. Gashwiler had reached the store at his accustomed hour of eight-thirty to find Merton embellishing the bulletin board in front, with legends setting forth a special bargains of the day to be had within. Chock in hand, he had neatly written, See our new importation of taffetas, two dollars and fifty-nine cents the yard. Below this he was in the act of putting down, Try our choice, honey-dew spinach, twenty cents the can. Try our preferred chipped beef, fifty-eight cents the pound. He was especially liking that use of the. It sounded modern. Yet along came Gashwiler, as if seeking an early excuse to nag and criticize this. Why don't you say a yard, a can, a pound, he demanded harshly. What's the sense of that there the stuff? Looks to me like just putting on a few heirs. You keep to plain language, and our patrons will like it a lot better. Viciously Merton Gill rubbed out the modern the and substituted the desired a. Very well, he assented, if you'd rather stick to the old-fashioned way. But I can tell you that's the way city-stores do it. I thought you might want to be up to date, but I see I made a great mistake. Said Gashwiler, unbitten by this irony. I guess the old way's good enough, long as our prices are always right. And don't forget to put on the canned salmon. I had that in stock for nearly a year now, and say it's twenty cents a can, not the can, and also say it's a grand reduction from thirty-five cents. That was always the way. You never could please the old grouch. And so began the labour that lasted until nine that night. Merton must count out eggs and whey butter that was brought in. He must do up sugar and grind coffee and measure dress goods and match silks. He must with the swavest gentility ask if there would not be something else today. And he must see that babies hazardously left on counters did not roll off. He lived in a vortex of mental confusion, performing his tasks mechanically. When drawing a gallon of kerosene or refolding the shown dress goods, or at any task not requiring him to be genially talkative, he would be saying to Miss Augusta Blivins in Far-Off Hollywood, Yes, my wife is more than a wife. She is my best pal, and I may also add my severest critic. There was but one break in the dreary monotony, and that was when Lowell Hardy, Simsbury's highly artistic photographer, came in to leave in order for groceries. Lowell wore a soft hat with a rakish brim, and affected low collars and flowing cravats, the artistic effect of these being heightened in his studio work by a purple velvet jacket. Even in Gashwilers he stood out as an artist. Merton received his order, and noting that Gashwiler was beyond earshot bespoke his services for the following afternoon. Say, Lowell, beyond the lot at two sharp tomorrow, will you? I want to shoot some Western stuff, some stills. Merton thrilled as he used these highly technical phrases. He had not read his magazines for nothing. Lowell Hardy considered, then, consented. He believed that he, too, might someday be called to Hollywood after they had seen the sort of work he could turn out. He always finished his art studies of Merton with great care, and took pains to have the artist's signature entirely legible. All right, Merton, I'll be there. I got some new patent paper, I'll try out on these. On the lot at two sharp to shoot Western stuff, repeated Merton with relish. Rideau assented Lowell and returned to more prosaic studio art. The day wore itself to a glad end. The last exigent customer had gone, the curtains were up, the lights were out, and at five minutes past nine the released slave, meeting Tessie Kerns at her front door, escorted her with a high heart to the second show at the Bijou Palace. They debated staying out until after the wretched comedy had been run, but later agreed that they should see this as Tessie keenly wished to know why people laughed at such things. The antics of the painfully cross-eyed man distressed them both, though the mental inferiors by whom they were surrounded laughed noisily. Merton wondered how any producer could bring himself to debase so great an art, and Tessie wondered if she hadn't, in a way, been aiming over the public's head with her scenarios. After all, you had to give the public what it wanted. She began to devise comedy elements for her next drama. But the hazards of Hortense came mercifully to soothe their annoyance. The slim little girl, with a wistful smile, underwent a rich variety of hazards, each threatening a terrible death. Through them all she came unscathed, leaving behind her a trail of infuriated scoundrels whom she had thwarted. She escaped from an underworld den in a Chicago slum just in the nick of time, cleverly concealing herself in the branches of the great eucalyptus tree that grew hard by, while her maddened pursuers scattered in their search for the prize. Again she was captured, this time to be conveyed by Aeroplane, a helpless prisoner and subject to the most fiendish insults by Black Steve to the frozen North. But in the far Alaskan wilds she eluded the fiends and drove swiftly over the frozen wastes with their only dog-team. Having left her pursuers far behind, she decided to rest for the night in a deserted cabin along the way. Here a blizzard drove snow through the chinks between the logs and a pack of fierce wolves besieged her. She tried to bar the door, but the bar was gone. At that moment she heard a call. Could it be Black Steve again? No, thank heaven. The door was pushed open and there stood Ralph Murdock, her fiancée. There was a quick embrace and words of cheer from Ralph. They must go on. But no, the wind cut like a knife and the wolves still prowled. The film here showed a running insert of cruel wolves exposing all their fangs. Ralph had lost his rifle. He went now to put his arm through the iron loops in place of the missing bar. The wolves sought to push open the door, but Ralph's arm foiled them. Then the outside of the cabin was shown, with Black Steve and his three ugly companions furtively approaching. The wolves had gone, but human wolves, 10,000 times more cruel, had come in their place. Back in the cabin Ralph and Hortense discovered that the wolves had gone. It had an ugly look. Why should the wolves go? Ralph opened the door and they both peered out. There, in the shadow of a eucalyptus tree, stood Black Steve and his dastardly crew. They were about to storm the cabin. All was undoubtedly lost. Not until the following week would the world learn how Hortense and her manly fiancé had escaped this trap. Again had Bula Baxter striven and suffered to give the public something better and finer. A Wonder Girl declared Merton when they were again in the open. That's what I call her a Wonder Girl. And she owes it all to hard, unceasing struggle and work and pains and being careful. You ought to read that new interview with her in this month's silver screenings. Yes, yes, she's wonderful, assented Tessie, as they strolled to the door of her shop. But I've been thinking about comedy. You know my new one I'm writing. Of course it's a big, vital theme, all about a heartless wife with her mind wholly on society and bridge clubs and dancing and that sort of dissipation. And her husband is Hubert Glenn Denning, a studious young lawyer who doesn't like to go out evenings but would rather play with the kitties a bit after their mother has gone to a party or read over some legal documents in the library which is very beautifully furnished. And her old school friend, Corona Bartlett, comes to stay at the house. A very voluptuous type, high-coloured with black hair and lots of turquoise jewelry. And she's a bad woman through and through and been divorced in everything by a man whose heart she broke and she's become a mere adventurous with a secret vice. She takes perfume in her tea, like I saw that one did, and all her evil instincts are aroused at once by Hubert, who doesn't really care deeply for her as she has only a surface appeal of mere sensuous beauty, but he sees that his wife is neglecting him and having an affair with an Italian count. I found such a good name for him, Count Ravioli, and staying out with him until all hours, so in a moment of weakness he gives himself to Corona Bartlett and then sees that he must break up his home and get a divorce and marry Corona to make an honest woman of her. But of course his wife is brought to her senses, so she sees that she has been in the wrong and has a big scene with Corona in which she scorns her and Corona slinks away and she forgives Hubert this one false step because it wasn't her fault. It's full of big situations, but what I'm wondering—I'm wondering if I couldn't risk some comedy in it by having the faithful old butler across eyed man. Nothing so outrageous as that creature we just saw, but still noticeably cross eyed. Do you think it would lighten some of the grimmer scenes, perhaps, and wouldn't it be good Pethos to have the butler aware of his infirmity and knowing the greatest surgeons in the world can't help him? Well, Merton considered, if I were you I shouldn't chance it. It would be mere acrobatic humor. And why do you want anyone to be funny when you have a big gripping thing of love and hate like that? I don't believe I'd have him cross eyed. I'd have him elderly and simple and dignified. And you don't want your audience to laugh, do you, when he holds up both hands to show how shocked he is at the way things are going on in that house? Well, maybe I won't then. It was just a thought. I believe you have the right instinct in those matters, Merton. I'll leave him as he is. Good night, then, said Merton. I got to be on the lot tomorrow. My cameraman's coming at two. Shooting some Western stuff. Oh, my, really? Tessie gazed after him, admiringly. He let himself into the dark store so lately the scene of his torment, and on the way to his little room stopped to reach under the grocery counter for those hidden savings. Tonight he would add to them the fifteen dollars lavished upon him by Gashwiler at the close of a week's toil. The money was in a tobacco pouch. He lighted the lamp on his table, placed the three new bills beside it, and drew out the hoard. He would count it to confirm his memory of the grand total. The bills were frayed, lacking the fresh green of new ones, weary-looking, with an air of being glad to rest at last after much passing from hand to hand as symbols of wealth. Their exalted present owner, tenderly smoothed cut, several that had become crumpled, secured them in a neat pile, adding the three recently acquired five-dollar bills, and proceeded to count, moistening the ends of a thumb and finger in defiance of the best sanitary teaching. It was no time to think of malignant bacteria. By his remembered count he should now be possessed of two hundred and twelve dollars. And there was the two dollar bill, a limp gray thing abraded almost beyond identification. He placed this down first, knowing that the remaining bills should amount to two hundred and ten dollars. Slowly he counted to finish with a look of blank, hesitating wonder. He made another count hastily but taking greater care. The wonder grew. Again he counted slowly this time so that there could be no doubt. And now he knew. He possessed thirty-three more than he thought. Knowing this was right, he counted again for the luxury of it. Two hundred and forty-five obvious dollars. How had he lost count? He tried to recall. He could remember taking out the money he had paid Lowell Hardy for the last batch of Clifford Armitage stills, for Lowell, although making professional rates to Merton, still believed the artist to be worth his hire. And he could remember taking some more out to send to the mail-order house in Chicago for the cowboy things. But it was plain that he had twice at least crowded a week's salary into the pouch and forgotten it. It was a pleasurable experience. It was like finding thirty-three dollars. And he was by that much nearer to his goal. That much sooner would he be released from bondage. Thirty-three dollars sooner could he look gashwiler in the eye and say what he thought of him and his Emporium. In his nightly prayer he did not neglect to render thanks for this. He dressed the next morning with a new elation. He must be more careful about keeping tab on his money, but it was also wonderful to find more than you expected. He left the storeroom that reeked of kerosene and passed into the Emporium to replace his treasure in its hiding place. The big room was dusky behind the drawn front curtains, but all the smells were there. The smell of ground coffee and spices at the grocery counter. Farther on, the smothering smell of prints and woolens and new leather. The dummies, waiting down by the door to be put outside, regarded each other in blank solemnity. A few big flies droned lazily about their still forms. Merton eyed the dusty floor, the gleaming counters, the curtains that shielded the shelves with a new disdain. Sooner than he thought he would bid them a last farewell. And today, at least, he was free of them, free to be on the lot at two to shoot western stuff. Let tomorrow, with its old round of degrading tasks, take care of itself. At ten thirty he was in church. He was not as attentive to the sermon as he should have been, for it now occurred to him that he had no stills of himself in the garb of a clergyman. This was worth considering, because he was not going to be one of those one-part actors. He would have a wide range of roles. He would be able to play anything. He wondered how the Reverend Otto Carmichael would take the request for a brief loan of one of his pulpit suits. Perhaps he was not so old as he looked. Perhaps he might remember that he, too, had once been young and fired with high ideals. It would be worth trying. And the things could be returned after a brief studio session with Lowell Hardy. He saw himself cast in such a part the handsome young clergyman, exponent of a muscular Christianity. He comes to the toughest cattle-town in all the Great Southwest determined to make honest men and good women of its sinning derelicts. He wins the hearts of these rugged but misguided souls. Though at first they treat him rough, they learn to respect him, and they call him the fighting parson. Eventually he wins the hand in marriage of the youngest of the dance hall denizens, a sweet young girl who, despite her evil surroundings, has remained as pure and good as she is beautiful. Anyway, if he had those clothes for an hour or two, while the artist made a few studies of him, he would have something else to show directors in search of fresh talent. After church he ate a lonely meal served by Metta Judson at the Gashwiler residence. The Gashwilers were on their accustomed Sabbath visit to the distant farm of Mrs. Gashwiler's father. But as he ate he became conscious that the Gashwiler influence was not wholly withdrawn. From above the mantle he was sternly regarded by a tinted enlargement of his employer's face entitled, Photographic Study by Lowell Hardy. Lowell never took photographs merely, he made photographic studies, and the specimen at hand was one of his most daring efforts. Merton glared at it in free hostility, a clod with ideals as false as the artist's pink on his leathery cheeks. He hurried his meal glad to be relieved from the inimical scrutiny. He was glad to be free from this and from the determined recital by Metta Judson of small-town happenings. What cared he that Gus Giddings had been fined ten dollars and costs by Squire Belcher for his low escapade, or that Gus's father had sworn to lick him within an inch of his life if he ever catched him touching stimulants again? He went to the barn, climbed to the hayloft, and undid the bundle containing his Buck Benson outfit. This was fresh from the mail-order house in Chicago. He took out almost reverently a pair of high-heeled boots with purple tops, a pair of spurs, a gay shirt, a gayer neckerchief, a broad-brimmed hat, a leather holster, and most impressive of all, a pair of goat-skin chaps died of violent maroon. All these he excitedly donned the spurs last. Then he clambered down the ladder from the loft, somewhat impeded by the spurs, and went into the kitchen. Metta Judson, washing dishes, gave a little cry of alarm. Nothing like this had ever before invaded the Gashwiler home by front door or back. Why, Mirt Gill, whatever you dressed up like that for, my stars you look like a cowboy or something. Well, I must say. Say, Metta, do me a favour. I want to see how these things look in a glass. It's a cowboy outfit for when I play regular Buck Benson parts, and everything's got to be just so, or the audience writes to the magazine about it and makes fun of you. Go ahead, said Metta. You can get a fine look at yourself in the tall glass in the old ladies' bedroom. Fourth whiff he went, profaning a sanctuary to survey himself in a glass that had never reflected anything but the discreet arraign of his employer's lady. He looked long and earnestly. The effect was quite all he had hoped. He lowered the front of the broad-brimmed hat the least bit, tightened his belt another notch, and moved the holster to a better line. He looked again. From feet to head he was perfect. Then, slightly crouching, he drew his revolver from the holster and held it forward from the hip, wrist and forearm rigidly straight. Throw up your hands! He uttered the grim words in a low tone, but one facing him would not have been deceived by the low tones. Steely-eyed, grim of face, relentless in all his bearing, the most desperate adversary would have quailed. Probably even Gashweiler himself would have quailed. When Buck Benson looked and spoke, thus he meant it. He held it a long breathless moment before relaxing. Then he tiptoed softly from the hallowed confines of a good woman's boudoir and clattered down the back stairs to the kitchen. He was thinking, I certainly got to get me another gun if I'm ever going to do two gun Benson parts, and I got to get the draw down better. I ain't quick enough yet. Well, did you like your rig, inquired Metta genially? Oh, it'll do for the stills we're shooting to-day, replied the actor. Of course, I ought to have a rattlesnake skin band on my hat, and the things look too new yet. And say, Metta, where's the clothesline? I want to practice roping a little before my cameraman gets here. My stars, you certainly going to be a real one, ain't you? She brought him the clothesline in use only on Mondays. He recoiled it carefully and made a running noose in one end. At two, Lowell Hardy found his subject casting the rope at an inattentive dexter. The old horse stood in the yard, head down, one foot crossed nonchalantly before the other. A slight tremor, a nervous flickering of his skin, was all that ensued when the rope grazed him. When it merely fell in his general neighborhood, as it often did, dexter did not even glance up. Good stuff, applauded the artist. Now just stand that way, holding the noose out. I want to make a study of that. He rapidly mounted his camera on a tripod and put in a plate. The study was made. Followed several studies of the fighting face of two-gun Benson, grim and rigid, about to shoot from the hip. But these were minor bits. More important would be Buck Benson and his old pal Pinto. From the barn Merton dragged the saddled, blanket and bridle he had borrowed from the Giddings House livery stable. He had never saddled a horse before, but he had not studied in vain. He seized dexter by a wisp of the surviving mane and simultaneously planted a hearty kick in the beast's side with a command, Get around there, you old skate! Dexter sighed miserably and got around as ordered. He was both pained and astonished. He knew that this was Sunday. Never had he been forced to work on this day. But he meekly suffered the protrusion of a bit between his yellow teeth and shuddered but slightly when a blanket and then a heavy saddle were flung across his back. True, he looked up in some dismay when the girth was tightened. Not once in all his years had he been saddled. He was used to having things loose around his waist. The girth went still tighter. Dexter glanced about with genuine concern. Someone was intending to harm him. He curved his swan-like neck and snapped savagely at the shoulder of his aggressor who kicked him again in the side and yelled, Woe there, dang you! Dexter subsided. He saw it was no use. Whatever queer thing they meant to do to him would be done despite all his resistance. Still his alarm had caused him to hold up his head now. He was looking much more like a horse. There, said Merton Gill, and as a finishing touch he lashed the coiled clothesline to the front of the saddle. Now here, get me this way. This is one of the best things I do, that is, so far. Fondly he twined his arms about the long thin neck of Dexter who tossed his head and knocked off the cowboy hat. Never mind that, it's out, said Merton. Can't use it in this scene. He laid his cheek to the cheek of his pet. Well, old pal, they're taking you from me. But we've got to keep a stiff upper lip. You and me has been through some pretty lively times together. But we've got to face the music at last. There, lull, did you get that? The artist had made his study. He made three others of the same affecting scene at different angles. Dexter was overwhelmed with endearments. Doubtless he was puzzled to be kicked in the ribs at one moment, the next to be fondled. But Lowell Hardy was enthusiastic. He said he would have some corking studies. He made another of Buck Benson preparing to mount good old Pinto, though, as a matter of fact, Buck, it appeared, was not even half prepared to mount. Go on, jump on him now, suggested the artist. I'll get a few more that way. Well, I don't know, Merton hesitated. He was twenty-two years old, and he had never yet been aboard a horse. Perhaps he shouldn't try to go too far in one lesson. You see, the old boy's pretty tired from his week's work. Maybe I better not mount him. Say, I'll tell you, take me rolling a cigarette just standing by him. I darn near forgot the cigarettes. From the barn he brought a sack of tobacco and some brown papers. He had no intention of smoking, but this kind of cigarette was too completely identified with Buck Benson to be left out. Walling against the side of Dexter, he poured tobacco from the sack into one of the papers. Get me this way, he directed, just pouring it out. He had not yet learned to roll a cigarette, but Gus Giddings, the Simsbury outlaw, had promised to teach him. Anyway, it was enough now to be looking keenly out from under his hat while he poured tobacco into the creased paper against the background of good old Pinto. An art study of this pose was completed, but Lowell Hardy craved more action, more variety. Go on, get up on him, he urged. I want to make a study of that. Well, again, Merton faltered. The old skates tired out from a hard week, and I'm not feeling any too lively myself. Shucks, it won't kill him if you get on his back for a minute, will it? And you'll want one on him to show, won't you? Hurry up while the light's right. Yes, he would need a mounted study to show. Many times he had enacted a scene in which a director had looked over the art studies of Clifford Armitage and handed them back with the remark, but you seem to play only society parts, Mr. Armitage. All very interesting, and I've no doubt we can place you very soon, but just at present we're needing a lead for a Western, a man who can look the part and ride. Thereupon he handed these Buck Benson stills to the man whose face would instantly relax into an expression of pleased surprise. The very thing, he would say, and among those stills certainly should be one of Clifford Armitage actually on the back of his horse. He'd chance it. All right, just a minute. He clutched the bridal reins of Dexter under his drooping chin, and, overcoming a feeble resistance, dragged him alongside the watering trough. Dexter at first thought he was wished to drink, but a kick took that nonsense out of him. With extreme care Merton stood upon the edge of the trough and thrust a leg blindly over the saddle. With some determined clambering he was at last seated. His feet were in the stirrups. There was a strange light in his eyes. There was a strange light in Dexter's eyes. To each of them the experience was not only without precedent, but rather unpleasant. Ride him out here in the middle here, away from that well directed the cameraman. You better lead him out, suggested the rider. I can feel him tremble already. He might break down under me. Metta Judson from the back porch here came into peace with lines that the author had assuredly not written for her. Get out there, you Dexter Gashweiler, called Metta loudly and with the best intentions. You keep still, commanded the rider severely, not turning his head. What a long way it seemed to the ground. He had never dreamed that horses were so lofty. Better lead him, he repeated to his cameraman. Lowell Hardy grasped the bridal reins, and after many vain efforts persuaded Dexter to stumble away from the well. His rider grasped the horn of his saddle. Look out, don't let him buck, he called. But Dexter had again become motionless except for a recurrent trembling under this monstrous infliction. Now there began the artist. Hold that. You're looking off over the Western Hills. Atta boy, wait till I get a side view. Move your camera, said the rider. Seems to me he doesn't want to turn around. But again the artist turned Dexter half around. That wasn't so bad. Merton began to feel the thrill of it. He even lounged in the saddle presently, one leg over the pommel, and seemed about to roll another cigarette while another art study was made. He continued to lounge there while the artist packed his camera. What had he been afraid of? He could sit a horse as well as the next man. Probably a few little tricks about it he hadn't learned yet, but he'd get these two. I bet they'll come out fine, he called to the departing artist. Leave that to me. I daresay I'll be able to do something good with them so long. So long, returned Merton, and was left alone on the back of a horse higher than people would think until they got on him. Indeed he was beginning to like it. If you just had a little nerve you'd needn't be afraid of anything. Very carefully he clambered from the saddle. His old pal shook himself with relief and stood once more with bowed head and crossed four legs. His late burden observed him approvingly. There was good old Pinto after a hard day's run over the mesa. He had borne his beloved owner far ahead of the sheriff's posse and was now securing a moment's much needed rest. Merton undid the riata and for half an hour practiced casting it at his immobile pet. Once the noose settled unerringly over the head of Dexter, who still remained immobile. Then there was the lightning draw to be practiced. Again and again the trusty weapon of Buck Benson flashed from its holster to the damage of a slower adversary. He was getting that draw down pretty good. From the hip with straight wrist and forearm Buck was ready to shoot in no time at all. Throughout that villain-infested terrain along the border he was known for his quick draw. The most desperate of them would never molest him except they could shoot him from behind. With his back to a wall they slunk from the encounter. Elated from this practice and from the memory of that one successful rope-cast, Merton became daring in the extreme. He considered nothing less than remounting his old pal and riding in the cool of early evening up and down the alley upon which the barnyard gave. He coiled the rope and again lashed it to the front left of the saddle. Then he curved an affectionate arm over the arched neck of Pinto who sighed deeply. Well, old pal, you and me has still got some mighty long miles to get over between now and sun up to-morrow. I reckon we got to put a right smart of distance between us and that pesky sheriff's posse, but I know you ain't lost heart, old pal. Dexter here tossed his head, being cloid with these embraces, and two gun-benzin caught a look in the desperate eyes of his pet which he did not wholly like. Perhaps it would be better not to ride him any more to-day. Perhaps it would be better not to ride him again until next Sunday. After all, wasn't Dexter practically a wild horse caught up from the range and broken to saddle only that afternoon? No use overdoing it. At this moment the beast's back looked higher than ever. It was the cutting remark of a thoughtless empty-headed girl that confirmed Merton in his rash resolve. Metta Judson, again on the back steps, surveyed the scene with kindling eyes. I bet you daresn't get on him again, said Metta. These were strong words, not words to be flung lightly at two gun-benzin. You know a lot about it, don't you, parried Merton Gill. Afraid of that old skate, murmured Metta, counterfeiting the inflections of pity. Her target shot her a glance of equal pity for her lack of understanding an empty-headed banter. He stalked to the barnyard gate and opened it. The way to his haven over the border was no longer barred. He returned to Dexter, firmly grasped the bridal reins under his weak chin and cajoled him again to the watering trough. Metta Judson was about to be overwhelmed with confusion. From the edge of the trough he again clambered into the saddle, the new boots groping away to the stirrups. The reins in his left hand he swept off his ideal hat with a careless gesture. He wished he had an art-study made of this, but you can't think of everything at one time. He turned loftily to Metta as one who had not even heard her tasteless taunts. Well so long I won't be out late. Metta was now convinced that she had in her heart done this hero wrong. You better be here before the folks get back, she warned. Merton knew this as well as she did, but the folks wouldn't be back for a couple of hours yet, and all he meant to venture was a ride at sober pace the length of the alley. Oh, I'll take care of that, he said. A few miles stiff gallop will be all I want. He jerked Dexter's head up, snapped the reins on his neck, and addressed him in a genial, comradely but authoritative tone. Get up there, old haas! Dexter lowered his head again and remained as if posing conscientiously for the statue of a tired horse. Get up there, you old skate! Again ordered the rider. The comradely unction was gone from his voice and the bony neck received a smarter wallop with the reins. Dexter stood unmoved. He seemed to be fearing that the worst was now coming and that he might as well face it on that spot as elsewhere. He remained deaf to threats and entreaties alike. No hoof moved from its resting place. Get up there, you old Dexter gashwiler! ordered Metta and was not rebuked. But neither would Dexter yield to a woman's whim. I'll tell you, said Merton, now contemptuous of his mount. Get the buggy whip and tickle his ribs! Metta sped on his errand, her eyes shining with the lust for torture. With the frayed end of the whip from the delivery wagon she lightly scored the exposed ribs of Dexter, tormenting him with devilish cunning. Dexter's hide shuttled back and forth. He winnied protestingly, but did not stir even one hoof. That's the idea, said Merton, feeling scornfully secure on the back of this spiritless animal. Keep it up! I can feel him coming to life. Metta kept it up. Her woman's ingenuity contrived new little tricks with the instrument of torture. She would doubtless have had a responsible post with the Spanish Inquisition. Face set, absorbed in her evil work, she tickled the ribs crosswise and tickled between them, up and down, always with the artist's light touch. Dexter's frame grew tense, his head came up. Once more he looked like a horse. He had been brave to face destruction, but he found himself unable to face being tickled to death. If only they had chosen some other method for his execution he would have perished gamely. But this was exquisitely poignant, beyond endurance. He tossed his head and stepped into a trot toward the open gate. Metta yelled in triumph. The writer tossed his own head in rhythm to Dexter's trot. His whole body tossed in the saddle. It was a fearsome pace, the sensations were nothing he had ever dreamed of, and he was so high above the good firm ground. Dexter continued his jolting progress to the applause of Metta. The writer tried to command Metta to keep still and merely bit his tongue. Stirred to life by the tickling, Dexter now became more acutely aware of that strange, restless burden on his back and was inspired to free himself from it. He increased his pace as he came to the gate and managed a backward kick with both heels. This lost the writer his stirrups and left him less securely seated than he wished to be. He dropped the reins and grasped the saddle's pommel with both hands. He strangely seemed to consider the pommel the steering wheel of a motor-car. He seemed to be twisting it with a notion of guiding Dexter. All might have been well, but on losing his stirrups the writer had firmly clasped his legs about the waste of the animal. Again and again he tightened them, and now Dexter not only looked every inch a horse, but very painfully to his writer felt like one, for the spurs were now goring him to a most seditious behavior. The mere pace was slackened only that he might alarmingly kick and shake himself in a manner as terrifying to the writer as it was unseemly in one of Dexter's years. But the thing was inevitable, because once in his remote hot youth Dexter, cavorting innocently in an orchard, had kicked over a hive of busy bees which had been attending strictly to their own affairs until that moment. After that they had attended to Dexter with a thoroughness that had seared itself into this day across his memory. He now sincerely believed that he had overturned another hive of bees and that not but by the most strenuous exertion could he escape from their harrying. They were stinging him venomously along his sides, biting deeper with every jump. At last he would bear his rider safely over the border. The rider clasped his mount ever more tightly. The deep dust of the alley road mounted high over the spirited scene, and through it came not only the hearty delight of meta-judson in peals of womanly laughter, but the shrill cries of the three ransom-children whom Merton had not before noticed. These were Calvin ransom aged eight, Elsie ransom aged six, and Little Woodrow ransom aged four. Their mother had lain down with a headache, having first ordered them to take their picture-books and sit quietly in the parlor as good children should on a Sabbath afternoon. So they had noisily pretended to obtain the picture-books and then quietly tiptoed out into the backyard, which was not so stuffy as the parlor. During the meritorious doings in the gashwiler barnyard they perched in a row on the alley fence and had been excited spectators from the moment that Merton had mounted his horse. In shrill but friendly voices they had piped, Oh, Merton gills a cowboy! Merton gills a cowboy! Oh, look at the cowboy on the big horse! For, of course, they were motion picture-experts and would know a cowboy when they saw one. Wide-eyed they followed the perilous antics of Dexter as he issued from the alley gate, and they screamed with childish delight when the spurs had recalled to his memory that far-off dreadful day with the busy bees. They now balanced precariously on the alley fence the better to trace Merton's flight through the dust-cloud. Merton's in a runaway! Merton's in a runaway! Merton's in a runaway! they shrieked, but with none of the sympathy that would have become them. They appeared to rejoice in Merton's plight. Merton's in a runaway! they joyously chanted. Suddenly they ceased, frozen with a new and splendid wonder, for their descriptive phrase was now inexact. Merton was no longer in a runaway, but only for a moment did they hesitate before taking up the new chant. Looky, looky! He's throwed Merton right off into the dirt! Oh, looky, Merton, Gil, right down there in the dirt! Again they had become exact. Merton was right down there in the dirt, and a frantic, flash-heeled Dexter was vanishing up the alley at the head of a cloud of dust. The friendly ransom-tots leaped from the fence to the alley, forgetting on her bed of pain the mother who supposed them to be engrossed with picture-books in the library. With one accord they ran toward the prostrate horseman, Calvin ahead, and Elsie a close second, holding the hand of little Woodrow. They were presently able to observe that the fleeing Dexter had narrowly escaped running down a motor-car, inopportunely turning at that moment into the alley. The gallant animal swerved in time, leaving the car's driver and his wife aghast at their house. Dexter vanished to the right upshaded Spruce Street on a sabbath evening as the first call to evening worship peeled from a neighbouring church tower. His late rider had erected himself and was beating dust from the new chaps and from the front of the new shirt. He picked up the ideal hat and dusted that. Underneath all the flurry of this adventure he was still the artist. He had been seven years old, after he was still the artist. He had been set afoot in the desert by a treacherous horse. He must find a water-hole or perish with thirst. He replaced the hat, and it was then he observed the motor-car bearing down the alley upon him. My good gosh! he muttered. The gash-wilers had returned a full two hours before their accustomed time. The car halted beside him and his employer leaned out a warmly hostile face. What's this mean? he demanded. The time was not one to tell gash-wiler what he thought of him. Not only was there a lady present, but he felt himself at a disadvantage. The lady saved him from an instant necessity for words. That was our new clothes-line. I recognized it at once. The woman seemed to pride herself on this paltry feet. What's this mean? again demanded gash-wiler. He was now a man of one idea. Again was Merton Gill saved from the need of instant speech, though not in the way he would have chosen to be saved. The three ransom-children ran up, breathless, shouting. Oh, Merton, here's your pistol. I found it right in the road there. We found your pistol right in the dirt there. I saw it first. You did not. I saw it first. Merton, will you let me shoot it off, Merton? I found your pistol, didn't I, Merton? Didn't I find it right in the road there? The friendly tots did little step-dances while they were thus vocal. Be quiet, children, commanded Merton, finding a voice. But they were not to be quelled by mere tones. He threw Merton right off into the dirt. Didn't he, Merton? Merton, didn't he throw you right off into the dirt, Merton? Did he hurt you, Merton? Merton, will you let me shoot it off just once, just once, and I'll never ask again? He didn't either find a first, Merton. He threw you right off into the dirt. Didn't he throw you right off into the dirt, Merton? With a harsher show of authority, or perhaps merely because he was bearded, so unreasoning are the inhibitions of the young, Gashwiler stilled the tumult. The dancing died. What's this mean, he repeated? We nearly had an accident, said the lady. What's this mean? An answer of sorts could no longer be delayed. Well, I thought I'd give Dexter a little exercise, so I saddled him up and was going to ride him around the block when—when these kids here yelled and scared him so he ran away. Oh, what a story, shouted the tots in unison! What a bad story! You'll go to the bad place, in-tone little Elsie. I swear I don't know what's getting into you, declared Gashwiler. Don't that horse get enough exercise during the week? Don't he like his day of rest? How'd you like me to saddle you up and ride you around the block? I guess you'd like that pretty well, wouldn't you?" Gashwiler fancied himself in this bit of sarcasm, brutal though it was. He toyed with it. Next Sunday I'll saddle you up and ride you around the block. See how you like that young man. It was our clothesline, said the lady. I could tell it right off. With a womanish tenacity she had fastened to a minor consequence of the outrage. Gashwiler became practical. Well, I must say, it's a pretty how-to-do. That horse'll make straight back for the farm. We won't have any delivery horse to-morrow. Sue, you get out. I'll go down the road a piece and see if I can head him off. He turned the other way, said Merton. Well, he's bound to head around for the farm. I'll go up the road and you hurry out the way he went. Maybe you can catch him before he gets out of town. Mrs. Gashwiler descended from the car. You better have that clothesline back by seven o'clock tomorrow morning, she warned the offender. Yes, ma'am, I will. This was not spoken in a Buck Benson manner. And say, Gashwiler paused and turned in the car, what you doing in that outlandish rig anyhow? Must think you're one of them Wild West cowboys or something. Ha! This last carried a sneer that stung. Well, I guess I can pick out my own clothes if I want to. Find thing to call clothes, I must say. Well, go see if you can pick out that horse if you're such a good picker out. Again Gashwiler was pleased with himself. He could play venomously with words. Yes, sir, said Merton, and plotted on up the alley, followed at a respectful distance by the ransom-kitties, who at once resumed their vocal exercises. He threw you right off into the dirt, didn't he, Merton? Merton, didn't he throw you right off into the dirt? If it were inevitable he wished that they would come closer. He would even have taken little Woodrow by the hand. But they kept far enough back of him to require that their voices should be raised. Incessantly the pitiless rain fell upon him. Merton! He threw you right off into the dirt, didn't he, Merton? He turned out of the alley up Spruce Street. The ransom-children lawlessly followed, forgetting their good home, their poor sick mother, and the rules she had laid down for their Sabbath recreation. At every moment the shrill cry reached his burning ears. Merton! Didn't he throw you off? The kitties appeared to believe that Merton had not heard them, but they were patient. Presently he would here, and reassure them that he had, indeed, been thrown off right into the dirt. Now he began to meet or pass early church-goers who would gaze at him in wonder or in frank criticism. He left the sidewalk and sought the center of the road, pretending that out there he could better search for a valuable lost horse. The ransom-children were at first in two minds about following him, but they soon found it more interesting to stay on the sidewalk. They could pause to acquaint the church-goers with a matter of common interest. He threw Merton off right into the dirt. If the people they addressed appeared to be doubting this, or to find it not specific enough, they would call ahead to Merton to confirm their simple tale. With wrapped, shining faces, they spread the glad news, though hurrying always to keep paced with the figure in the road. Spruce Street was vacant of Dexter, but up Elm Street, slowly cropping the wayside urbage as he went, was undoubtedly Merton's good old pal. He quickened his pace. Dexter seemed to divine his coming and broke into a kittenish gallop until he reached the Methodist Church. Here, appearing to believe that he had again eluded pursuit, he stopped to graze on a carefully tended square of grass before the sacred edifice. He was at once shooed by two scandalized old ladies, but paid them no attention. They might perhaps even have tickled him, for this was the best grass he had found since leaving home. Other church-goers paused in consternation, looking expectantly at the approaching Merton Gill. The three happy children who came up with him left no one in doubt of the late happening. Merton was still the artist. He saw himself approach Dexter, vault into the saddle, put spurs to the beast, and swiftly disappear down the street. People would be saying that he should not be let to ride so fast through a city street. He was worse than Gus Giddings. But he saw this only with his artist's eye. In sordid fact he went up to Dexter, seized the trailing bridal reins, and jerked savagely upon them. Back over the trail he led his good old pal. And for other late church-goers there were the shrill voices of friendly children to tell what had happened. To appeal confidently to Merton vaguely ahead in the twilight to confirm their interesting story. Dexter, the anarchist, was put to bed without his good-night kiss. Good old Pinto had done his pal dirt. Never again would he be given a part in Buck Benson's company. Across the alley came the voices of tired happy children in the appeal for an encore. Merton, please let him do it to you again. Merton, please let him do it to you again. And to the back porch came Mrs. Gashwiler to say it was a good thing he'd got that clothes-line back, and came her husband wishing to be told what outlandish notion Merton Gill would next get into the thing he called his head. It was the beginning of the end. Followed a week of strained relations with the Gashwiler household, including Dexter, and another week of relations hardly more cordial. But thirty dollars was added to the hoard, which was now counted almost nightly. And the cruder wits of the village had made rather a joke of Merton's adventure. Some were tasteless enough to rally him coarsely upon the crowded street, or at the post office while he awaited his magazines. And now there were two hundred and seventy-five dollars to put him forever beyond their jibes. He carefully rehearsed a scathing speech for Gashwiler. He would tell him what he thought of him. That merchant would learn from it some things that would do him good if he believed them, but probably he wouldn't believe them. He would also see that he had done his faithful employee grave injustices, and he would be left in some humiliation having found, as Merton Gill took himself forever out of retail trade, that two could play on words as well as one. It was a good warm speech, and its author knew every word of it from mumbled rehearsal during the two weeks, at times when Gashwiler merely thought he was being queer again. At last came the day when he decided to recite it in full to the man for whom it had been composed. He confronted him accordingly at a dull moment on the third Monday morning, burning with his message. He looked Gashwiler firmly in the eye and said, in halting tones, Mr. Gashwiler, now I've been thinking I'd like to go west for a while. To California, if you could arrange to let me off, please. And Mr. Gashwiler had replied, Well now, that is a surprise. When was he wishing to go, Merton? Why, I would be much obliged if you'd let me get off to-night on number four, Mr. Gashwiler, and I know you can send Spencer Grant to take my place, because I asked him yesterday. Very well, Merton, send Spencer Grant in to see me, and you can get off to-night. I hope you'll have a good time. Of course, I don't know how long I'll be gone. I may locate out there. But then again, that's all right, Merton. Any time you come back you can have your same old job. You've been a good man, and they ain't so plenty these days. Thank you, Mr. Gashwiler. Number four was made to stop at Simsbury for a young man who was presently commanding a meal in the palatial diner, and who had, before this meal was eaten, looked out with compassion upon two Simsbury-like hamlets that the train rushed by, a blur of small towners standing on their depot platforms to envy the inmates of that splendid structure. At last it was western stuff and no fooling. End of chapter three. Chapter four of Merton of the Movies. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Merton of the Movies by Harry Leon Wilson. Chapter four, The Watcher at the Gate. The street leading to the Holden Motion Picture Studio, considered by itself, lacks beauty. Flanking it for most of the way from the Boulevard to the Studio Gate are vacant lots labelled with their prices and appeals to the passer to buy them. Still, their prices are high enough to marks a thoroughfare as one out of the common, and it is further distinguished by two rows of lofty eucalyptus trees. These have a real feathery beauty and are perhaps a factor in the seemingly exorbitant prices demanded for the choice bungalow and home sites they shade. Save for a casual pioneer bungalow or two, there are no buildings to attract the notice until one reaches a high fence that marks the beginning of the Holden lot. Back of this fence is secreted a microcosmos, a world in little where one may encounter strange races of people in their native dress, and behold, by walking a block, cities actually apart by league upon league of the Earth's surface and separated by centuries of time. To penetrate this city of many cities and this actual present of the remote past, one must be of a certain inner elect. Hardly may one enter by assuming the disguise of a native as daring explorers have sometimes overcome the difficulty of entering other strange cities. Its gate, reached after passing along an impressive expanse of the reticent fence, is watched by a guardian. He is a stoutish man of middle age, not neatly dressed, and of forbidding aspect. His face is ruthless with a very knowing cynicism. He is there, it would seem, chiefly to keep people out of the delightful city, though from time to time he will bow an ascent or wave it with the hand clutching his evening newspaper to one of the favoured lawful inmates who will then carelessly saunter or drive an expensive motor-car through the difficult portal. Standing across the street one may peer through this portal into an avenue of the forbidden city. There is an exciting glimpse of green sword, flowering shrubbery, roses, vines, and a vista of the ends of enormous structures painted yellow. And this avenue is sprightly with the passing of enviable persons who are rightly there, some in alien garb, some in the duller uniform of the humble artisan, some in the pressed and garnished trappings of rich overlords. It is really best to stand across the street for this clandestine view of heart-shaking delights. If you stand close to the gate to peer past the bulky shape of the water he is likely to turn and give you a cold look. Further he is averse to light conversation, being always morosely absorbed, yet with an eye ever alert for intrusive outlanders, in his evening paper. He never reads a morning paper but has some means of obtaining at an early hour each morning a pink or green evening paper that shrieks with crimson headlines. Such has been his reading through all time, and this may have been an element in shaping his now inveterate hostility to those who would engage him in meaningless talk. Even in accepting the gift of an excellent cigar he betrays only aboard condescension. There is no relenting of countenance, no genial relaxing of an ingrained suspicion toward all who approach him. No cordiality, in short, such as would lead you to believe that he might be glad to look over a bunch of stills, taken by the most artistic photographer in all Simsbury, Illinois. So you let him severely alone after a bit, and go to stand across the street, your neatly wrapped art studies under your arm, and leaning against the trunk of a eucalyptus tree, you stare brazenly past him into the city of wonders. It is thus we first observe that rising young screen actor Clifford Armitage, beginning the tenth day of his determined effort to become much more closely identified with screen activities than hitherto. Ten days of waiting outside the guarded gate had been his, but no other ten days of his life had seemed so eventful or past so swiftly. For at last he stood before his goal, had actually fastened his eyes upon so much of it as might be seen through its gate. Never had he achieved so much downright actuality. Back in Simsbury on a Sunday morning he had often strolled over to the depot at early train time for a sight of the two metal containers housing the films shown at the Bijou Palace the day before. They would be on the platform, pasted over with express labels. He would stand by them, even touch them, examine the padlocks, turn them over, heft them, actually hold within his grasp the film wreath of Bula Baxter in a terrific installment of the hazards of Hortense. Those metal containers imprisoned so much of beauty, of daring, of young loves striving against adverse currents, held the triumphant fruiting of Miss Baxter's toil and struggle and sacrifice to give the public something better and finer. Often he had caressed the crude metal with a reverent hand as if his Wonder Woman herself stood there to receive his homage. That was actuality in a way, but here it was in full measure without mental subterfuge or vain imaginings. Had he not beheld from this post, he was pretty sure he had, Miss Baxter herself swathed in costly furs, drive a robin's egg-blue roaster through the gate without even a nod to the water? Indeed, that one glimpse of reality had been worth his ten days of waiting, worth all his watching of the gate and its keeper until he knew every dent in the keeper's derby hat, every bristle in his unkempt moustache, every wrinkle of his inferior raiment, and every pocket from which throughout the day he would vainly draw matches to relight an apparently fire-proof cigar. Surely waiting thus rewarded could not be called barren. When he grew tired of standing he would cross the street and rest on a low bench that encircled one of the eucalyptus trees. Here were other waiters without the pail, usually men of strongly marked features, with a tendency to extremes in stature or hair or beards or noses, and not conspicuously neat in attire. These, he discovered, were extras awaiting employment, many of them Mexicans or strange appearing mongrels, with a sprinkling of negroes. Often he could have recruited there a band of outlaws for desperate deeds over the border. He did not fraternize with these waves feeling that his was another plane. He had spent three days thus about the studio gate when he learned of the existence of another entrance. This was a door almost opposite the bench. He ventured through it and discovered a bare room with a wooden seat running about its sides. In a partition opposite the entrance was a small window and, over the words, casting director. One of the two other doors led to the interior, and through this he observed past many of the chosen. Another door led to the office of the casting director, glimpses of which could be obtained through the little window. The waiting room itself was not only bare as to floor and walls, but was bleak and inhospitable in its general effect. The wooden seat was uncomfortable, and those who sat upon it along the dull-toned walls appeared depressed and unhopeful, especially after they had braved to talk through the little window with someone who seemed always to be saying, No, nothing today. Yes, perhaps next week. I have your address. When the aspirants were women, as they mostly were, the someone back of the window would add dear to the speech. No, nothing today, dear. There seemed never to be anything today, and Clifford Armitage spent very little of his waiting-time in this room. It made him uncomfortable to be stared at by the other applicants, whether they stared casually, incuriously, or whether they seemed to appraise him disparagingly, as if telling him frankly that for him there would never be anything today. Then he saw that he too must undergo that encounter at the little window. Too apparently he was not getting anywhere by loitering about outside. It was exciting, but the producers would hardly look there for new talent. He chose a moment for this encounter when the waiting-room was vacant, not caring to be stared at when he took his first step in forming a connection that was to be notable in screen annals. He approached the window, bent his head, and encountered the gaze of a small, cumbly woman with warm brown eyes, neat reddish hair, and a quick manner. The gaze was shrewd. It seemed to read all that was needed to be known of this new candidate. Yes, said the woman. She looked tired and very businesslike, but her manner was not unkind. The novice was at once reassured. He was presently explaining to her that he wished to act in the pictures at this particular studio. No, he had not much experience. That is, you could hardly call it experience in actual acting, but he had finished a course of study and had a diploma from the General Film Production Company of Stebensville, Arkansas, certifying him to be a competent screen actor. And, of course, he would not at first expect a big part. He'd be glad to take a small part to begin with, almost any small part, until he could familiarize himself with studio conditions. And here was a bunch of stills that would give anyone an idea of the range of parts he was prepared to play. Society parts in a full dress suit, or soldier parts in a trench coat and a lieutenant's cap, or juveniles in the natty suit with the belted coat and in the Storm King model belted overcoat. And, of course, the western stuff. These would give an idea of what he could do. Cowboy outfit and all that sort of thing, chaps and spurs and guns and so forth. And he was prepared to work hard and struggle and sacrifice in order to give the public something better and finer. And would it be possible to secure some small part at once? Was a good all-round actor by any chance at the moment needed in the company of Miss Bula Baxter? Because he would especially like such a part, and he would be ready to start to work at any time, tomorrow or even today. The tired little woman beyond the opening listened patiently to this, interrupting several times to say over an insistent telephone. No, nothing today, dear. She looked at the stills with evident interest and curiously studied the face of the speaker as she listened. She smiled weirdly when he was through and spoke briskly. Now, I'll tell you, son, all that is very nice, but you haven't had a lick of real experience yet, have you? And things are pretty quiet on the lot just now. Today there are only two companies shooting, so you couldn't get anything today or tomorrow, or probably for a good many days after that. And it won't be much when you get it. You may get on as an extra after a while when some of the other companies start shooting, but I can't promise anything you understand. What you do now, leave me your name and address and telephone number. Yes, ma'am, said the applicant, and supplied these data. Clifford Armitage exclaimed the woman. I'll say that's some warm name. Well, you see, he paused, but resolved to confide freely in this friendly-seeming person. You see, I picked that out for a good name to act under. It sounds good, doesn't it? And my own name is only Merton Gill, so I thought I'd better have something that sounded a little more—well, you know. Sure, said the woman. All right, have any name you want, but I think I'll call you Merton when you come again. You needn't act with me, you know. Now, let's see. Name, age, height, good general wardrobe, house address, telephone number—oh, yes, tell me where I can find you during the day. Right out here, he replied firmly, I'm going to stick to this studio and not go near any of the others. If I'm not in this room, I'll be just outside there, on that bench around the tree, or just across the street where you can see through the gate and watch the people go through. Say, again, the woman searched his face and broke into her friendly smile. Say, you're a real nut, aren't you? How'd you ever get this way? And again he was talking, telling now of his past and his struggles to educate himself as a screen actor—one of the best. He spoke of Simsbury and Gashwiler and of Lowell Hardy who took his stills and of Tessie Kearns whose sympathy and advice had done so much to encourage him. The woman was joyously attentive. Now she did more than smile. She laughed at intervals throughout the narrative, though her laughter seemed entirely sympathetic and in no way daunted the speaker. Well, Merton, you're a funny one, I'll say that. You're so kind of ignorant and appealing. And you say this bug halter or gig-water or whatever his name is will take you back into the store at any time? Well, that's a good thing to remember because the picture game is a hard game. I wouldn't discourage a nice clean boy like you for the world, but there are a lot of people in pictures right now that would prefer a steady job like the one you left. It's Gashwiler that name. Oh, all right, just so you don't forget it and forget the address. The new applicant warmly reassured her. I wouldn't be likely to forget that after living there all those years. When he left the window the woman was again saying into the telephone, No, dear, nothing today I'm sorry. It was that night he wrote to Tessie Kearns. Dear friend Tessie. Well, Tessie, here I am safe and sound in Hollywood after a long ride on the cars that went through many strange and interesting cities and different parts of the country. And I guess by this time you must have thought I was forgetting my old friends back in Simsbury, but not so I can assure you, for I will never forget our long talks together and how you cheered me up often when the sacrifice and struggle seemed more than any man could bear. But now I feel repaid for all that sacrifice and struggle, for here I am where the pictures are made and soon I will be acting different parts in them, though things are quiet on the lot now with only two companies shooting today, but more companies will be shooting in a few days and then will come the great opportunity for me as soon as I get known and my different capabilities and what I can do in everything. I had a long talk today with the lady out in front that hires the actors and she was very friendly but said it might be quite some time because only two companies on the lot were shooting today and she said if Gashweiler had promised to keep my old job for me to be sure and not forget his address and it was laughable that she should say such a thing because I would not be liable to forget his address when I lived there so long, she must have thought I was very forgetful to forget that address. There is some great scenery around this place including many of the Rocky Mountains etc. that make it look beautiful and the city of Los Angeles is bigger than Peoria. I'm quite some distance out of the center of town and I have a nice furnished room about a mile from the Holden Studios where I will be hired after a few more companies get to shooting on the lot. There is an electric iron in the kitchen where one can press their clothes and my furnished room is in the house of a Los Angeles society woman and her husband who came here from Iowa. Their little house with flowers in front is called a bungalow. The husband, Mr. Patterson, had a farm in Iowa six miles out from Cedar Falls and he cares little for society but the wife goes into society all the time as there is hardly a day just now that some society does not have its picnic and one day it will be the Kansas society picnic and the next day it will be the Michigan society having a picnic or some other state and of course the Iowa society has the biggest picnic of all and Mr. Patterson says his wife can go to all these society functions if she wants but he does not care much for society and he is thinking of buying a half interest in a good soft drink place just to pass the time away as he says after the busy life he has led he needs something to keep him busy but his wife thinks only of society. I take my meals out at different places especially at drugstores I guess you'd be surprised to see these drugstores where you can go in and sit at the soda counter and order your coffee and sandwiches and custard pie and eat them right there in the drugstore but there are other places too like cafeterias where you put your dishes on a tray and carry it to your own table it is all quite different from Simsbury and I've seen oranges growing on the trees and there are palm trees and it does not snow here but the grass is green and the flowers bloom right through the winter which makes it very attractive with the rocky mountains standing up in the distance etc well Tessie you must excuse this long letter from your old friend and write me if any company has accepted passions perils and I might have a chance to act in that someday and I will let you know when my first picture is released and the title of it so you can watch out for it when it comes to the Bijou Palace I often think of the old town and would like to have a chat with you and my other old friends but I am not homesick only sometimes I would like to be back there as there are not many people to chat with here and one would almost be lonesome sometimes if they could not be at the studio but I must remember that work and struggle and sacrifice are necessary to give the public something better and finer and become a good screen actor so no more at present from your old friend and address Clifford Armitage at the above number as I am going by my stage name though the lady at the Holden lot said she liked my old name better and called me that and it sounded pretty good as I have not got used to the stage name yet he felt better after his chat with his old friend and the following morning he pressed a suit in the Patterson kitchen and resumed his vigil outside the gate but now from time to time at least twice a day he could break the monotony of this by a call at the little window sometimes the woman beyond it would be engrossed with the telephone and would merely look at him to shake her head at others the telephone being still she would engage him in friendly talk she seemed to like him as an occasional caller but she remained smilingly skeptical about his immediate success in the pictures again and again she urged him not to forget the address of Gigan Holder or Goosh Swamper, whoever it might be that was holding a good job for him he never failed to remind her that the name was Gashwiler and that he could not possibly forget the address because he had lived at Simsbury a long time this always seemed to brighten the woman's day it puzzled him to note that for some reason his earnest assurance pleased her as the days of waiting passed he began to distinguish individuals among the people who went through the little outer room or sat patiently around its walls on the hard bench waiting like himself for more companies to start shooting among the important looking men that passed through would be actors that were now reaping the reward of their struggle and sacrifice actors whom he thrilled to recognize as old screen friends these would saunter in with an air of fine leisure and their manner of careless but elegant dress would be keenly noted by Merton then there were directors these were often less scrupulously attired and seemed always to be solving naughty problems they passed hurriedly on brows drawn in perplexity they were very busy persons those on the bench regarded them with deep respect and stiffened to attention as they passed but they were never observed by these great ones the waiting ones were of all ages mostly women but with a sprinkling of men many of the women were young or youngish and of a rare beauty so Merton Gill thought others were elderly or old and a few would be accompanied by children often so young that they must be held on laps they too waited with round eyes and in perfect decorum for a chance to act sometimes the little window would be pushed open and a woman beckoned from the bench some of them greeted the casting director as an old friend and were still gay when told that there was nothing today others seemed to dread being told this and would wait on without daring an inquiry sometimes there would be a little flurry of actual business four society women would be needed for a bridge-table at 8.30 the next morning on stage number five the casting director seemed to know the wardrobe of each of the waiters and would select the four quickly the gowns must be smart it was at the country house of a rich New Yorker and jewels and furs were not to be forgotten there might be two days work the four fortunate ladies would depart with tearful smiles the remaining waiters settled on the bench hoping against hope for another call among the waiting room hopefuls Merton had come to know by sight the Montague family this consisted of a handsome elderly gentleman of a most impressive manner his wife a portly woman of middle age also possessing an impressive manner and a daughter Mr. Montague always removed his hat in the waiting room uncovering an abundant cluster of iron-grey curls above a noble brow about him there seemed ever to linger a faint spicy aroma of strong drink and he would talk freely to those sharing the bench with him his voice was full and rich in tone and his speech deliberate and precise more than hinted that he had once been an ornament of the speaking stage his wife also was friendly of manner and spoke in a deep control to somewhat roughened by wear but still notable the daughter Merton did not like she was not unattractive in appearance though her features were far off the screen heroine model her nose being too short her mouth too large her cheekbones too prominent and her chin too square indeed she resembled too closely her father who as a man could carry such things more becomingly she was a slangy chit much too free and easy in her ways Merton considered and revealing a self-confidence that amounted almost to impudence further her cheeks were brown her brief nose freckled and she did not take the pains with her face that most of the beautiful young women who waited there had so obviously taken she was a harem scarum baggage with no proper respect for anyone he decided especially after the day she had so rudely accosted one of the passing directors he was a more than usually absorbed director and with drawn brows would have gone unseen through the waiting room when the girl hailed him oh Mr. Henshaw one moment please he glanced up in some annoyance pausing with his hand to the door that led on to his proper realm oh it's you Miss Montague well what is it I'm very very busy well it's something I wanted to ask you she quickly crossed the room to stand by him tenderly flecking a bit of dust from his coat sleeve as she began say listen Mr. Henshaw do you think beauty is a curse to a poor girl Mr. Henshaw scowled down into the eyes so confidingly lifted to his that's something you won't ever have to worry about he snapped and was gone his brows again drawn in perplexity over his work you're not angry with poor little me are you Mr. Henshaw the girl called this after him and listened but no reply came back from the partition Mrs. Montague from the bench rebuked her daughter say what do you think that kidding stuff will get you don't you want to work for him anymore the girl turned pleading eyes upon her mother I think he might have answered a simple question said she this was all distasteful to Merton Gill the girl might indeed have deserved an answer to her simple question but why need she ask it of so busy a man he felt that Mr. Henshaw's rebuke was well merited for her own beauty was surely not excessive her father from the bench likewise admonished her you are sadly prone to a spirit of banter he declared though I admit that the so-called art of motion picture is not to be regarded too seriously it was not like that in my day then an actor had to be an artist there was no position for the little he-doll whippersnapper who draws the big money today and is ignorant of even the rudiments of the actor's profession he allowed his glance to rest perceptibly upon Merton Gill who felt uncomfortable we were with Louis James five years confided Mrs. Montague to her neighbors a haul show of course hadn't heard of movies then doing Virginia's and Julius Caesar and such classics and then starting out with the two orphans for a short season we were a knockout I'll say that I'll never forget the night we opened the new opera house at Akron they had to put the orchestra under the stage and the so-called art of the moving picture robs us of our little need of applause broke in her husband I shall never forget a remark of the late Lawrence Barrett to me after a performance of Richlew in which he had fairly outdone himself Montague my lad said he we may work for the money but we play for the applause but now our finest bits must go in silence or perhaps be interrupted by a so-called director who arrogates to himself the right to instill into us the rudiments of a profession in which we had grounded ourselves ere yet he was out of leading strings too often naturally the results are discouraging the unabashed girl was meantime having a sprightly talk with the casting director whom she had hailed through the window as Countess Barton somewhat startled wondered if the little woman could indeed be of the nobility hello Countess say listen can you give the camera a little peek at me today or at paw or ma no nothing today dear she had imitated the little woman's voice in her accustomed reply well I didn't think there would be I just thought I'd ask you ain't mad are you I could have gone in a harem tank scene over at the bigger place but they wanted me to dress the same as a fish and a young girl's got to draw the line somewhere besides I don't like that Hugo over there so much he hates to part with anything like money and he'll jib you if he can say I'll bet he couldn't play an honest game of solitaire how do you like my hair this way like it huh that's good and me having the only freckles left in all Hollywood ain't I the little prairie flower growing wild there every hour on the level paw needs work these days when he's idle he mostly sticks home and tries out new ways to make primal Kentucky sour mash in eight hours and if he don't quit he's going to find himself seeing some moving pictures that no one else can and he's all worried up about his hair going off on top and trying new hair restores you know his latest well he goes over to the selig place one day and watches horse meat fed to the lions and says to himself that horses have plenty of hair and it must be the fat under the skin that makes it grow so he begs for a hunk of horse from just under the mane and he's rubbing that on you can't tell what he'll bring home next the old boy still believes you can raise hair from the dead do you want some new stills of me I got a new one yesterday that shows my other expression well so long countess the creature turned to her parents let's be on our way old dears this place is dead but the countess says they'll soon be shooting some tenement house stuff up at the consolidated maybe there'll be something in it for someone we might as well have a look in Merton felt relieved when the Montague family went out the girl in the lead he approved of the fine old father but the daughter lacked dignity in speech and manner you couldn't tell what she might say next the Montague's were often there sometimes in full sometimes represented by but one of their number once mrs. Montague was told to be on stage six the next morning at eight thirty to attend a swell reception where the great georgette dairy said the casting director and your big pearls and the Lorneone not forgetting the gold cigarette case and the chinchilla neck piece said mrs. Montague the spare parts will all be their countess and thanks for the word the elder Montague on the occasion of his calls often found time to regale those present with anecdotes of Lawrence Barrett a fine artist in his day sir none finer ever appeared in a haul show and always about his once superb frock coat clung the scent of forbidden beverages on one such day he appeared with an untidy sprouting of beard accompanied by the talkative daughter pause landed apart she explained through the little window it's one of those weuns place with revenuers and feuds one of those place where the city chap don't treat our nail right you know and they won't stand for the crepe hair so pop has got to raise a brush and he's mad but it ought to give him a month or so and after that he may be able to pedal the brush again you can never tell in this business can you countess it's most annoying the old gentleman explained to the bench occupants in the true art of the speaking stage an artificial beard was considered above reproach nowadays one must descend to mere physical means if one is to be thought worthy and of chapter four