 CHAPTER XV. A NEW TRAIL. One genial morning a few days later the sun shone in across the desk of Baird while he talked to Merton Gill of the New Peace. It was a sun of fairest promise. Mr. Gill's late work was again lavishly commended, and confidence was expressed that he would surpass himself in the drama shortly to be produced. Mr. Baird spoke in enthusiastic terms of this, declaring that if it did not prove to be a knock-out, a clean-up picture, then he, Jeff Baird, could safely be called a Chinaman. And during the time that would elapse before shooting on the New Peace could begin, he specified a certain study in which he wished his actor to engage. You've watched the Edgar Wayne pictures, haven't you? Yes, I've seen a number of them. Like his work, that honest country boy lovin' his mother and little sister stuff, wearing overalls and tousled hair in the first part, and coming out in city clothes and $8 neckties at the last, with his hair slicked back, same as a seal? Oh, yes, I like it. He's fine. He has great appeal. Good. That's the kind of apart you're going to get in this New Peace. Lots of managers in my place would say, No, he's a capable young chap and has plenty of talent, but he lacks the experience to play in Edgar Wayne part. That's what a lot of these Weisenheimers would say. But me, not so. I believe you can get away with this part, and I'm going to give you your chance. I'm sure I don't know how to thank you, Mr. Baird, and I'll try to give you the very best that is in me. I'm sure of that, my boy. You needn't tell me. But now, what I want you to do while you got this layoff between pieces, chase out and watch all the Edgar Wayne pictures you can find. There was one up on the boulevard last week. I'd like you to watch half a dozen times. It may be at another house down this way, or it may be out in one of the suburbs. I'll have someone outside call up and find where it is today, and they'll let you know. It's called Happy Homestead, or something snappy like that, and it kind of suggests a layout for this new peace of mind. See what I mean? It'll suggest things to you. Edgar and his mother and little sister live on this farm, and Edgar mixes in with a swell dame down at the summer hotel, and a villain tries to get his old mother's farm, and another villain takes his little sister off up to the wicked city, and Edgar has more trouble than would patch hell a mile. See? But it all comes right in the end, and the city girl falls for him when she sees him in his stepping out clothes. It's a pretty little thing, but to my way of thinking it lacks strength. Not enough punch to it. So we're sort of building up on that general idea, only we'll put in the pep that this peace lacked. If I don't miss my guess you'll be able to show Wayne a few things about serious acting, especially after you've studied his methods a little bit in this peace. Well, if you think I can do it, began Merton, then broke off an answer to a sudden thought. Will my mother be the same actress that played it before, the one that mopped all the time? Yes, the same actress, but a different sort of mother. She's more enterprising. She's sort of a chemist in a way. Puts up preserves and jellies for the hotel. She never touches a mop in the whole peace and dresses neat from start to finish. And does the cross-eyed man play in it? Sometimes in scenes with him I'd get the idea I wasn't really doing my best. Yes, yes, I know. Baird waved the sympathetic hand. Poor old Jack. He's trying hard to do something worthwhile, but he's played in those cheap comedy things so long it's sort of hard for him to get out of it and play serious stuff. If you know what I mean. I know what you mean, said Merton. And he's been with me so long I kind of hate to discharge him. You see, on account of those eyes of his, it would be hard for him to get a job as a serious actor. So I did think I'd give him another part in this piece if you didn't object, just to sort of work him into the worthwhile things. He's so eager for the chance. It was quite pathetic how grateful he looked when I told him I'd try him once more in one of the better and finer things. And a promise is a promise. Still, Merton, you're the man I must suit in this cast. If you say the word I'll tell Jack he must go. Though I know what a blow it will be to him. No, Mr. Baird, Merton interrupted fervently. I wouldn't think of such a thing. Let the poor fellow have a chance to learn something better than the buffoonery he's been doing. I'll do everything I can to help him. I think it is very pathetic his wanting to do the better things. It's fine of him. And maybe some day he could save up enough to have a good surgeon fix his eyes right. It might be done, you know. Now that's nice of you, my boy. It's kind and generous. Not every actor of your talent would want Jack working in the same scene with him. And perhaps, as you say, some day he can save up enough from his wages to have his eyes fixed. I'll mention it to him. And this reminds me, speaking of the cast, there's another member who might bother some of these fussy actors. She's the girl who will take the part of your city sweetheart. As a matter of fact, she isn't exactly the type I'd have picked for the part, because she's rather a large, hearty girl, if you know what I mean. I could have found a lot who were better lookers. But the poor thing has a bed-ridden father and mother, and a little crippled brother, and a little sister that isn't well. And she's working hard to send them all to school. I mean the children, not her parents. So I saw the chance to do her a good turn, and I hope you'll feel that you can work harmoniously with her. I know I'm too darned human to be in this business. Baird looked aside to conceal his emotion. I'm sure, Mr. Baird, I'll get along fine with a young lady, and I think it's fine of you to give these people jobs when you could get better folks in their places. Well, we'll say no more about that, replied Baird gruffly, as one who had again hidden his too impressionable heart. Now ask in the outer office where that Wayne film is today and catch it as often as you feel you're getting any of the Edgar Wayne stuff. We'll call you up when work begins. He saw the Edgar Wayne film, a touching story in which the timid, diffident country boy triumphed over difficulties and won the love of a pure New York society girl, meantime protecting his mother from the insulting sneers of the idle rich, and being made to suffer intensely by the apparent moral wreck of his dear little sister whom a rich scoundrel lured to the great city with false promises that he would make a fine lady ever. Never before had he studied the acting method of Wayne with a definite aim and view. Now he watched until he himself became the awkward country boy. He was primed with the Wayne manner, the appealing ingenuousness, the simple embarrassments the manly regard for the old mother when word came that Baird was ready for him in the new piece. This drama was strikingly like the Wayne piece he had watched, at least in its beginning. Baird, in his striving for the better things, seemed at first to have copied his model almost too faithfully. Not only was Merton to be the awkward country boy in the little hillside farmhouse, but his mother and sister were like the other mother and sister. Still he began to observe differences. The little sister, played by the Montague girl, was a simple farm maiden as in the other piece, but the mother was more energetic. She had silvery hair and wore a neat black dress with a white lace collar and cameo brooch at her neck, and she embraced her son tearfully at frequent intervals as had the other mother, but she carried on in her kitchen an active business in canning fruits and putting up jellies, which sold to the rich people at the hotel, would swell the little fund that must be saved to pay the mortgage. Also in the present piece the country boy was to become a great inventor, and this was different. Merton felt that this was a good touch. It gave him dignity. He appeared ready for work on the morning designated. He was now able to make up himself and he dressed in the country boy costume that had been provided. It was perhaps not so attractive a costume as Edgar Wayne had worn, consisting of loose-fitting overalls that came well above his waist and were fastened by straps that went over the shoulders, but, as Baird remarked, the contrast would be greater when he dressed in rich city clothes at the last. His hair, too, was no longer than the slicked-back hair of Parmalie, but tassled in country disorder. For much of the action of the new piece they would require an outside location, but there were some interiors to be shot on the lot. He forgot the ill-fitting overalls when shown his attic laboratory where, as an ambitious young inventor sustained by the unfaltering trust of mother and sister, he would perfect certain mechanical devices that would bring him fame, fortune, and the love of a pure New York society girl. It was a humble little room containing a workbench that held his tools and a table littered with drawings over which he bent until late hours of the night. At this table, simple, unaffected, deeply earnest, he was shown as the dreamy young inventor, perplexed at moments then, with brightening eyes, making some needful change in the drawings. He felt in these scenes that he was revealing a world of personality, and he must struggle to give a sincere interpretation in later scenes that would require more action. He would show Baird that he had not watched Edgar Wayne without profit. Another interior was of the neat living-room of the humble home. Here were scenes of happy family life with the little sister and the fond old mother. The Montague girl was a charming picture in her simple print dress and sun bonnet beneath which hung her braid of golden hair. The mother was a sweet old dear, dressed as Baird had promised. She early confided to Merton that she was glad her part was not to be a mopping part. In that case she would have had to wear knee-pads, whereas now she was merely, she said, to be a tired businesswoman. Still another interior was of her kitchen, where she busily carried on her fruit-canning activities. Pots boiled on the stove, and glass jars were filled with her product. One of the pots Merton noticed, the largest, had a tightly closed top from which a slender tube of copper went across one corner of the little room to where it coiled in a bucket filled with water, whence it discharged its contents into bottles. This, it seemed, was his mother's improved grape juice, a cooling drink to tempt the jaded palates of the city folks up at the big hotel. The laboratory of the young inventor was abundantly filmed while the earnest country boy dreamed hopefully above his drawings, or tinkered at metal devices on the workbench. The kitchen in which his mother toiled was repeatedly shot, including close-ups of the old mother's ingenious contrivances, especially of the closed boiler with its coil of copper tubing by which she was helping to save the humble home. And a scene in the neat living-room with its old-fashioned furniture made it all too clear that every effort would be required to save the little home. The cruel moneylender, a lawyer with mean-looking whiskers, confronted the three shrinking inmates to warn them that he must have his money by a certain day or out they would go into the streets. The old mother wept at this, and the earnest boy took her in his arms. The little sister, terrified by the man's rough words, also flew to this shelter, and thus he defied the intruder, calm, fearless, dignified. The money would be paid, and the intruder would now please remember that, until the day named, this little home was their very own. The scoundrel left with a final menacing wave of his gnarled hand, left the group facing ruin unless the invention could be perfected, unless mother could sell an extraordinary quantity of fruit or improved grape juice to the city folks, or, indeed, unless the little sister could do something wonderful. She, it now seemed, was confident she could also help. She stood apart from them and prettily promised to do something wonderful. She asked them to remember that she was no longer a mere girl but a woman with a woman's determination. They both padded the little thing encouragingly on the back. The interiors, possible on the Holden lot having been finished, they motored each day to a remote edge of the city where outside locations had been found for the humble farmhouse and the grand hotel. The farmhouse was excellently chosen, by the merchant thought, being the neat, unpretentious abode of honest, hardworking people, but the hotel, some distance off, was not so grand, he thought, as Baird's new play seemed to demand. It was plainly a hotel, a wooden structure with balconies, but it seemed hardly to afford those attractions that would draw a wealthier element from New York. He forebore to warn Baird of this, however, fearing to discourage a manager who was honestly striving for the serious in photodrama. His first exterior scene saw him, with the help of mother and little sister, loading the one poor motor car which the family possessed with mother's products. These were then driven to the hotel. The Montague girl drove the car, and scenes of it in motion were shot from a car that preceded them. They arrived before the hotel, Merton was directed to take from the car an iron weight attached to a rope, and running to a connection for it on the hood. He was to throw the weight to the ground, plainly with a notion that he would thus prevent the car from running away. The simple device was, in fact, similar to that used at Gashwiler's strict orders on the delivery wagon back in Simsbury, for Gashwiler had believed that Dexter would run away if untethered. But of course it was absurd, Merton saw, to anchor a motor car in such a manner, and he was somewhat taken aback when Baird directed this action. It's all right, Baird assured him. You're a simple country boy and don't know any better, so do it plumb serious. You'll be smart enough before the show's over. Go ahead, get out, grab the weight, throw it down, and don't look at it again as if you did this every time. That's it. You're not being funny, just a simple country boy like Wayne was at first. He performed the action, still with some slight misgiving. Followed scenes of brother and sister offering mother's wares to the city folks idling on the porch of the hotel. Each bearing a basket they were caught submitting the jellies and jams. The brother was laughed at, even sneered at by the supercilious rich, the handsomely gowned women and the dissipated-looking men. No one appeared to wish his jellies. The little sister had better luck. The women turned from her, but the men gathered about her and quickly bought out the stock. She went to the car for more, and the men followed her. To Merton who watched these scenes, the dramatists' intention was plain. These men did not really care for jellies and jams. They were attracted solely by the wild rose beauty of the little country girl. And they were plainly the sort of men whose attentions could mean no good to such as she. Left on the porch he was now directed to approach a distinguished-looking old gentleman, probably a banker and a power-and-wall street, who read his morning papers. Timidly he stood before this person, thrusting forward his basket. The old gentleman glanced up in annoyance and brutally rebuffed the country boy with an angry flourish of the paper he read. You are hurt by this treatment, called Baird, and almost discouraged. You look back over your shoulder to where Sister is doing a good business with her stuff, and you see the old mother back in her kitchen, working her fingers to the bone. We'll have a flash of that, see? And you try again. Take out that bottle in the corner of the basket, uncork it, and try again. The old man looks up, he smelled something. You hold the bottle toward him, and you're saying so and so and so and so and so. Oh, mister, if you know how hard my poor old mother works to make this stuff, won't you please take a little taste of her improved grape juice and see if you don't want to buy a few shillings worth? So and so, so and so, so and so. See what I mean? That's it. Look pleading. Think how the little home depends on it. The old gentleman, first so rude, consented to taste the improved grape juice. He put the bottle to his lips and tilted it. A camera was brought up to record closely the look of pleased astonishment that enlivened his face. He arose to his feet, tilted the bottle again, this time drinking abundantly. He smacked his lips with relish, glanced furtively at the group of women in the background, caught the country boy by a sleeve, and drew him further along the porch. He's telling you what fine stuff this grape juice is, explained to Baird, saying that your mother must be a wonderful old lady and he'll drop over to meet her, and in the meantime he wants you to bring him all this grape juice she has. He'll take it, she can name her own price. He hands you a ten-dollar bill for the bottle he has, and for another in the basket. That's it, give it to him. The rest of the bottles are jams or something. You want him to take them, but he pushes them back. He's saying he wants the improved grape juice or nothing. He shows a big wad of bills to show he can pay for it. You look glad now. The little home may be saved after all. The scene was shot. Merton felt that he carried it acceptably. He had shown the diffident pleading of the country boy that his mother's product should be at least tasted, his frank rejoicing when the old gentleman approved of it. He was not so well satisfied with the work of the monigu girl as his innocent little sister. In her sale of mother's jellies to the city men, in her acceptance of their attentions, she appeared to be just the least bit bold. It seemed almost as if she wished to attract their notice. He hesitated to admit it, for he profoundly esteemed the girl, but there were even moments when, in technical language, she actually seemed to vamp these creatures who thronged about her to profess for her jams and jellies an interest he was sure they did not feel. He wondered if Baird had made it plain to her that she was a very innocent little country girl who should be unpleasantly affected by these advances. The scene he watched, shot where the little sister climbed back into the motor-car, leered at by the four New York club men, he thought especially distasteful. Unfortunately the skirt of her print dress was already short enough. She needed not to lift it under this evil regard as she put her foot up to the step. It was on the porch of the hotel too that he was to have his first scene with the New York society girl whose hand he won. She proved to be the daughter of the old gentleman who liked the improved grape juice. As Baird had intimated, she was a large girl, not only tall and stoutly built, but somewhat heavy of face. Baird's heart must have been touched indeed when he consented to employ her, but Merton remembered her bedridden father and mother, the little crippled brother, the little sister who was also in poor health and resolved to make their scenes together as easy for her as he could. At their first encounter she appeared in a mannish coat and writing britches, though she looked every inch a woman in this attire. She sees you, and it's a case of love at first sight on her part, explained Baird, and you love her too, only you're a bashful countryboy and can't show it the way she can. Try out a little the first scene now. Merton stood, his basket on his arm, as the girl approached him. Look down, called Baird, and Merton lowered his gaze under the ardent regard of the social butterfly. She tossed away her cigarette and came nearer. Then she mischievously pinched his cheek as the New York men had pinched his little sisters. Having done this she placed her hand beneath his chin and raised his face to hers. Now look up at her, called Baird. But she frightens you. Remember your country raising. You never saw a society girl before. That's it. Look frightened while she's admiring you in that bold way. Now turn a little and look down again. Pinch his cheek once more, Lulu. Now, Merton, look up and smile, but kind of scared. You're still afraid of her, and offer her a bottle of maw's preserves. Step back a little as you do it, because you're kind of afraid of what she might do next. That's fine. Good work, both of you. He was glad for the girl's sake that Baird had approved the work of both. He had been afraid she was overdoing the New York society manner in the boldness of her advances to him. But, of course, Baird would know. His conscience hurt him a little when the Monigu girl added her praise to Baird's for his own work. "'Kid, you certainly stepped neat and looked nice in that love scene,' she warmly told him. He would have liked to praise her own work, but could not bring himself to. Perhaps she would grow more shrinking and modest as the drama progressed. A part of the play now developed as he had foreseen it would, in that the city men at the hotel pursued the little sister to her own doorstep with the tensions that she should have found unwelcome. But even now she behaved in a way he could not approve. She seemed determined to meet the city men halfway. "'I'm to be the sunlight arc of this hovel,' she announced when the city men came, one at a time, to shower gifts upon the little wild rose. Later it became apparent that she must in the end pay dearly for her two ready acceptance of these favors. One after another the four city men, whose very appearance would have been sufficient warning to most girls, endeavored to lure her up to the great city where they promised to make a lady of her. It was a situation notoriously involving danger to the simple country girl, yet not even her mother frowned upon it. The mother indeed frankly urged the child to let all of these kind gentlemen make a lady of her. The brother should have warned her in this extremity, but the brother was not permitted any share in these scenes. Only Merton Gill, in his proper person, seemed to feel the little girl was all too cordially inviting trouble. He became confused ultimately by reason of the scenes not being taken consecutively. It appeared that the little sister actually left her humble home at the insistence of one of the villains, yet she did not, apparently, creep back months later broken in body and soul. As nearly as he could gather she was back the next day. And it almost seemed as if later, at brief intervals, she allowed herself to start for the great city with each of the other three scoundrels who were bent upon her destruction, but always she appeared to return safely and to bring large sums of money with which to delight the old mother. It was puzzling to Merton. He decided at last, he did not like to ask the monarchy girl, that Baird had tried the same scene four times, and would choose the best one of these for his drama. Brother and sister made further trips to the hotel with their offerings. Only the sister now took jams and jellies exclusively, which she sold to the male guests, while the brother took only the improved grape juice which the rich old New Yorker bought and generously paid for. There were other scenes at the hotel between the country boy and the heavy-faced New York society girl in which the latter was an ardent wooer. Once she was made to snatch a kiss from him as he stood by her, his basket on his arm. He struggled in her embrace, then turned to flee. She was shown looking after him, laughing, carelessly slapping one leg with her riding-crop. You're still timid, Baird told him. You can hardly believe you have won her love. In some following scenes at the little farmhouse it became impossible for him longer to doubt this, for the girl frankly told her love as she lingered with him at the gate. She's one of these new women, said Baird. She's living her own life. You listen. It's wonderful that this great love should have come to you. Let us see the great joy dawning in your eyes. He endeavored to show this. The New York girl became more ardent. She put an arm about him, drew him to her. Slowly, almost in the manner of Harold Parmley, as it seemed to him, she bent down and imprinted a long kiss upon his lips. He had been somewhat difficult to rehearse in the scene, but Baird made it all plain. He was still the bashful country boy, though now he would be awakened by love. The girl drew him from the gate to her waiting automobile. Here she overcame a last reluctance and induced him to enter. She followed and drove rapidly off. It was only now that Baird led him into the very heart of the drama. You see, he told Merton, you've watched these city folks, you've wanted city life and fine clothes for yourself, so in a moment of weakness you've gone up to town with this girl to have a look at the place, and it sort of took hold of you. In fact, you hit up quite a pace for a while, but at last you go stale on it. The blight of Broadway suggested Merton, wondering if there could be a cabaret scene. Exactly, said Baird. And you get to thinking of the poor old mother and little sister back here at home, working off to pay the mortgage, and you decide to come back. You get back on a stormy night, lots of snow and wind, you're pretty weak. We'll show you sort of fainting as you reach the door. You have no overcoat nor hat, and your city suit is practically ruined. You got a great chance for some good acting here, especially after you get inside to face the folks. It'll be the strongest thing you've done so far. It was indeed an opportunity for strong acting. He could see that. He stayed late with Baird in his staff one night, and a scene of the prodigals returned to the door of the little home was shot in a blinding snowstorm. Baird warmly congratulated the mechanics who contrived the storm and was enthusiastic over the acting of the hero. Through the wintry blast he staggered, half falling to reach the door where he collapsed. The light caught the agony on his pale face. He lay a moment, half fainting, then reached up a feeble hand to the knob of the door. It was one of the annoyances incident to screen-art that he could not go in at that moment to finish his great scene. But this must be done back on the lot, and the scene could not be secured until the next day. Once more he became the pitiful victim of a great city, crawling back to the home shelter on a wintry night. It was Christmas Eve he now learned. He pushed open the door of the little home and staggered in to face his old mother and the little sister. They sprang forward at his entrance. The sister ran to support him to the homely old sofa. He was weak, emaciated, his face an agony of repentance as he mutely pled forgiveness for his fate. His old mother had risen, had seemed about to embrace him fondly when he knelted her feet, but then had drawn herself sternly up and pointed commandingly to the door. The prodigal, anguished anew at this repulse, fell weakly back upon the couch with a cry of despair. The little sister placed a pillow under his head and ran to plead with the mother. A long time she remained obdurate, but at last relented. Then she, too, came to fall upon her knees before the wreck who had returned to her. Not many rehearsals were required for this scene difficult though it was. Merton Gill had seized his opportunity. His study of agony expressions in the film course was here rewarded. The scene closed with the departure of the little sister. Resolutely, showing the light of some fierce determination, she put on hat and wraps, spoke words of promise to the stricken mother and son, and darted out into the night. The snow whirled in as she opened the door. Good work, said Baird to Merton. If you don't hear from that little bitch you can call me a swede. Some later scenes were shot in the same little home, which seemed to bring the drama to a close. While the returned prodigal lay on the couch, nursed by the forgiving mother, the sister returned in company with the New York society girl, who seemed aghast at the wreck of him she had once wooed. Slowly she approached the couch of the sufferer. Tenderly she reached down to unfold him. In some manner, which Merton could not divine, the lovers had been reunited. The New York girl was followed by her father. It would seem they had both come from the hotel, and the father, after giving an order for more of mother's grape juice, examined the son's patents. Two of them he exclaimed with delight over, and at once paid the boy a huge roll of bills for a tenth interest in them. Now came the grasping man, who held the mortgage, and who had counted upon driving the family into the streets this stormy Christmas Eve. He was overwhelmed with confusion when his money was paid from an ample hoard, and slunk, shame-faced, out into the night. It could be seen that Christmas Day would dawn bright and happy for the little group. To Merton's eye there was but one discord in this finale. He had known that the cross-eyed man was playing the part of a hotel clerk at the neighboring resort, but he had watched few scenes in which the poor fellow acted, and he surely had not known that this man was the little sister's future husband. It was with real dismay that he averted his gaze from the embrace that occurred between these two, as the clerk entered the now happy home. One other detail had puzzled him. This was the bundle to which he had clung as he blindly plunged through the storm. He had still fiercely clutched it after entering the little room, clasping it to his breast even as he sank at his mother's feet in physical exhaustion and mental anguish to implore her forgiveness. Later the bundle was placed beside him as he lay, pale and wan, on the couch. He supposed this bundle to contain one of his patents, a question to Baird when the scene was over-proved him to be correct. Sure, said Baird, that's one of your patents. Yet he still wished the little sister had not been made to marry the cross-eyed hotel clerk. And another detail lingered in his memory to bother him. The actress playing his mother was wont to smoke cigarettes when not engaged in acting. He had long known it, but he now seemed to recall, in that touching last scene of reconciliation, that she had smoked one while the camera actually turned. He hoped this was not so. It would meet a mistake. And Baird would be justly annoyed by the old mother's carelessness. They were six long weeks doing the new piece. The weeks seemed long to Merton Gill because there were so many hours, even days, of enforced idleness. To pass an entire day his face stiff with the makeup without once confronting a camera in action seemed to him a waste of his own time and a waste of Baird's money. Yet this appeared to be one of the unavoidable penalties incurred by those who engaged in the art of photodrama. Time was needed to create that world of painted shadows so swift, so nicely consecutive when revealed, but so incoherent, so brokenly inconsequent, so meaningless in the recording. How little an audience could suspect the vexatious delays ensuing between, say, a knock at a door and the admission of a visitor to a neat little home where a fond old mother was trying to pay off a mortgage with the help of her little ones. How could an audience divine that a wait of two hours had been caused because a polished city villain had forgotten his spats, or that other long waits had been caused by other forgotten trifles, while an expensive company of artists lounged about in bored apathy, or smoked, gossiped, bantered. Yet no one ever seemed to express concern about all these waits. Rarely were their causes known, except by some frenzied assistant director, and he, after a little, would cease to be frenzied and fall to loafing calmly with the others. Merton Gill's education in his chosen art was progressing. He came to loaf with the unconcern, the vacuous boredom, the practiced nonchalance of more seasoned artists. Sometimes when exteriors were being taken, the sky would overcloud, and the sun be denied them for a whole day. The monigu girl would then ask Merton how he liked sunny cafeteria. He knew this was a jesting term that would stand for sunny California and never failed to laugh. The girl kept rather closely by him during these periods of waiting. She seemed to show little interest in other members of the company, and her association with them, Merton noted, was marked by a certain restraint. With them she seemed no longer to be the girl of free ways and speech. She might occasionally join a group of the men who indulged in athletic sports on the grass before the little farmhouse, for the actors of Mr. Baird's company would all betray acrobatic tendencies in their idle moments, and he watched one day, while the simple little country sister turned a series of handsprings and cartwheels that evoked sincere applause from the four New York villains who had been thus solid-seen their ennui. But oftener she would sit with Merton on the back seat of one of the waiting automobiles. She not only kept herself rather aloof from other members of the company, but she curiously seemed to bring it about that Merton himself would have little contact with them. Especially did she seem to hover between him and the company's feminine members. Among those impersonating guests at the hotel were several young women of rare beauty with whom he would have been not unwilling to fraternize in that easy comradeship which seemed to mark studio life. These were far more alluring than the New York society girl who wooed him and who had secured the part solely through Baird's sympathy for her family misfortunes. They were richly arrayed and charmingly mannered in the scenes he watched. Moreover, they not too subtly betrayed a pleasant consciousness of Merton's existence. But the monigu girl, noticeably monopolized him when a better acquaintance with the beauties might have come about. She rather brazenly seemed to be guarding him. She was always there. This very apparent solicitude of hers left him feeling pleasantly important, despite the social contacts it doubtless deprived him of. He wondered if the monigu girl could be jealous and cautiously one day as they lulled in the motor-car he sounded her. Those girls in the hotel scenes, I suppose they're all nice girls of good family, he casually observed. Huh! demanded Miss Monigu, engaged with a pencil at the moment and editing her left eyebrow. Oh, that bunch? Sure, they all come from good old southern families. Virginia and Indiana and those places. She tightened her lips before the little mare she held and renewed their scarlet. Then she spoke more seriously. Sure, kid, those girls are all right enough. They work like dogs and do the best they can when they ain't got jobs. I'm strong for them, but then I'm a wise old trooper. I understand things. You don't. You're the real country wild rose of this piece. It's good thing you got me to ride heard on you. You're far too innocent to be turned loose on a comedy lot. Listen, boy, she turned a sober face to him. The straight lots are fairly decent. But get this, a comedy lot is the toughest place this side of the bad one. Any comedy lot. But this isn't a comedy lot. Mr. Barrett isn't doing comedies any more, and these people all seem to be nice people. Of course, some of the ladies smoke cigarettes. The girl had averted her face briefly, but now turned to him again. Of course, that's so. Jeff is trying for the better things, but he's still using lots of his old people. They're all right for me, but not for you. You wouldn't last long if Mother here didn't look out for you. I'm playing your dear little sister, but I'm playing your mother too. If it hadn't been for me, this bunch would have taught you a lot of things you'd better learn some other way. Just for one thing, long before this you'd probably been hopping up your reindeer's and driving all over in a Chinese sleigh. He tried to make something of this, but found the words meaningless. They merely suggested to him a snowy winter scene of Santa Claus and his innocent equipage, but he would intimate that he understood. Oh, I guess not, he said knowingly. The girl appeared not to have heard this bit of pretense. On a comedy lot, she said, again becoming the oracle, you can do murder if you wipe up the blood. Remember that. He did not again refer to the beautiful young women who came from fine old southern homes. The monogue girl was too emphatic about them. At other times during the long waits, perhaps while they ate lunch brought from the cafeteria, she would tell him of herself. His old troubling visions of his wonder-woman, of Bula Baxter the Daring, had well nigh fated, but now and then they would recur as if from long habit, and he would question the girl about her life as a double. Yeah, I could see that Baxter business was a blow to you, kid. You'd kind of worshiped her, hadn't you? Well, I—yes, in a sort of way. Of course you did. It was very nice of you. She reached over to Pat his hand. Mother understands just how you felt watching the films back there in Gooseberry. He had quit trying to correct her as to Gashwiler and Simsbury. She had hit upon Gooseberry as a working composite of both names, and he had wearily come to accept it. And I know just how you felt, again she pat at his hand, that night when you found me doing her stuff. It did kind of upset me. Sure it would, but you ought to have known that all these people use doubles when they can, men and women both. It not only saves them work, but even where they could do the stuff if they had to, and that ain't so often, it saves them broken bones and holding up a big production two or three months. Find business that would be. So when you see a woman, or a man either, doing something that someone else could do, you can bet someone else is doing it. What would you expect? Would you expect a high-priced star to go out and break his leg? And at that most of the doubles are men, even for the women's stars, like Kitty Carson always carries one who used to be a circus acrobat. She couldn't hardly do one of the things you see her doing, but when old Dan gets on her blonde transformation and a few of her clothes, he's her to the life in a long shot, or even in mediums if he keeps his map covered. Yeah, most of the doublers have to be men. I'll hand that to myself. I'm about the only girl that's been doing it, and that's out with me hereafter, I guess, the way I seem to be making good with Jeff. Maybe after this I won't have to do stunts, except of course some writing stuff, probably, or a row of flips or something light. Anything heavy comes up, me for a double of my own. She glanced sideways at her listener. Then you won't like me any more, hey, kid, after you find out I'm using a double. He had listened attentively, absorbed in her talk, and seemed startled by this unforeseen finish. He turned anxious eyes on her. It occurred to him for the first time that he did not wish the Montague girl to do dangerous things any more. Say, he said quickly, amazed at his own discovery. I wish you'd quit doing all those stunts to your column. Why, she demanded there were those puzzling lights back in her eyes as he met them. He was confused. Well, you might get hurt. Oh, you might get killed sometime, and it wouldn't make the least difference to me you're using a double. I'd like you just the same. I see it wouldn't be the way it was with Baxter when you found it out. No, you're different. I don't want you to get killed, he added rather blankly. He was still amazed at this discovery. All right, kid, I won't, she replied soothingly. I'll like you just as much, he again assured her, no matter how many doubles you have. Well, you'll be having doubles yourself sooner or later, and I'll like you, too. She reached over to his hand, but this time she held it. He returned her strong clasp. He had not like to think of her as being mangled, perhaps by a fall into a quarry when the cable gave way, and the cameramen would probably keep on turning. I always been funny about men, she presently spoke again still gripping his hand. Lord knows I've seen enough of all kinds, bad and good, but I always been kind of afraid, even of the good ones. Anyone might not think it, but I guess I'm just natural-born shy. Man shy, anyway. He glowed with a confession of his own. You know, I'm that way, too, girl shy. I felt awful awkward when I had to kiss you in the other piece. I never did, really. He floundered a moment, but was presently blurting out the meager details of that earlier moor with a dwinna-may pulver. He stopped this recital in a sudden panic that the girl would make fun of him. He was immensely relieved when she merely renewed the strength of the hand-clasp. I know, that's the way with me. Of course I can put over the acting stuff, even vamping, but I'm afraid of men offstage. Say, would you believe it, I ain't ever had but one bow. That was Burt Stacey. Poor old Burt. He was lots older than me, about thirty, I guess. He was white all through. You always kind of remind me of him. Sort of a feckless dub he was, too. Kind of honest and awkward, you know. He was the one got me doing stunts. He wasn't afraid of anything. Didn't know it was even in the dictionary. That old scout would go out night or day and break everything but his contract. I was twelve when I first knew him and he had me doing twisters in no time. I caught on to the other stuff pretty good. I wasn't afraid, either. I'll say that for myself. First I was afraid to show him I was afraid, but pretty soon I wasn't afraid at all. We pulled off a lot of stuff for different people, and of course I got to be a big girl, and three years ago when I was eighteen Burt wanted us to be married, and I thought I might as well. He was the only one I hadn't been afraid of. So we got engaged. I was still kind of afraid to marry anyone, but being engaged was all right. I know we'd got along together, too, but then he got his with a motorcycle. Kind of funny. He'd do anything on that machine. He'd jump clean over an auto and he'd leap a thirty foot ditch and he was all set to pull a new one for Jeff Baird when it happened. Jeff was going to have him ride his motorcycle through a plate glass window. The set was built and everything ready, and then the merry old son don't shine for three days. Every morning Burt would go over to the lot and wait around in the fog. And this third day, when it got too late in the afternoon to shoot even if the son did show, he says to me, Come on, hop up and let's take a ride down to the beach. So I hopped to the back seat and off we start and on a ninety foot paved boulevard. What does Burt do but get caught in a jam? It was an ice wagon that finally bumped us over. I was shook up and scraped here and there, but Burt was finished. That's the funny part. He'd got it on this boulevard, but back on the lot he'd have rode through that plate glass window probably without a scratch. And just because the sun didn't shine that day I wasn't engaged any more. Burt was kind of some old sea-captain that comes back to shore after risking his life on the ocean in all kinds of storms and falls into a duck pond and gets drowned. She sat a long time staring out over the landscape, still holding his hand. Inside the fence before the farmhouse three of the New York villains were again engaged in athletic sports, but she seemed oblivious of these. At last she turned to him again with an illuminating smile. But I was dead in love once before that, and that's how I know just how you feel about Baxter. He was the preacher where we used to go to church. He was a good one. Pa copied a lot of his stuff that he uses to this day if he happens to get a preacher part. He was the loveliest thing. Not so young, but dark, with wonderful eyes and black hair, and his voice would go all through you. I had an awful case on him. I was twelve, and all week I would think of how I'd see him the next Sunday. Say, when I'd get there and he'd be working, doing pulpit stuff, he'd have me in kind of a trance. Sometimes after the pulpit scene he'd come right down into the audience and shake hands with people. I'd almost keel over if he'd notice me. I'd be afraid if he would, and afraid if he wouldn't. If he said, and how is the little lady this morning? I wouldn't have a speck of voice to answer him. I'd just tremble all over. I used to dream I'd get a job working for him as extra, blacking his shoes or fetching his breakfast and things. It was the real thing all right. I used to try to pray the way he did, asking the Lord to let me do a character bit or something with him. He had me going all right. You must have been that way about Baxter. Sure you were. When you found she was married and used to double in everything, it was like I'd found this preacher shooting hop or using a double in his pulpit stuff. She was still again looking back upon this tremendous episode. Yes, that's about the way I felt, he told her. Already his affair with Mrs. Rosenblatt seemed a thing of his childhood. He was wondering, rather, if the preacher could have been the perfect creature the girl was now picturing him. It would not have displeased him to learn that this refulgent being had actually used to double in his big scenes or had been guilty of mere human behavior at odd moments. Probably after all, he had been just a preacher. Little Sylvester used to want me to be a preacher, he said, with apparent irrelevance, even if he was his own worst enemy. He added presently as the girl remained silent. I always say my prayers at night. He felt vaguely that this might raise him to the place of the other who had been adored. He was wishing to be thought well of by this girl. She was aroused from her musing by his confession. You do? Now ain't that just like you? I'd have bet you did that. Well, keep on, son, it's good stuff. Her serious mood seemed to pass. She was presently exchanging tart repartee with the New York villains who had perched in a row on the fence to be funny about that long-continued holding of hands in the motor-car. She was quite unembarrassed, however, as she dropped the hand with a final pat and vaulted to the ground over the side of the car. Get busy there, she ordered. Where's your understander? Where's your top-mounter? She became a circus-ring master. Three up in a roll for yours, she commanded. The three villains aligned themselves on the lawn. One climbed to the shoulders of the other and a third found footing on the second. They balanced there, presently to lean forward from the summit. The girl played upon an imaginary snare drum with a guttural throaty imitation of its roll, culminating in the boom of a bass drum as the tower toppled to earth, its units completing their turn with somersaults against it in line, bowing and smirking their acknowledgments for imagined applause. The girl a moment later was doing handsprings. Merton had never known that actors were so versatile. It was an astounding profession, he thought, remembering his own registration card that he'd filled out at the Holden office. His age, height, weight, hair, eyes, and his chest and waist measures. These had been specified, and then he had been obliged to write the short no after ride, drive, swim, dance, to write no after ride even in the artistically photographed presence of Buck Benson on horseback. Yet, in spite of these disabilities, he was now a successful actor at an enormous salary. Baird was already saying that he would have a contract for him to sign at a still larger figure. Seemingly it was a profession in which you could rise even if you were not able to turn handsprings, or were more or less terrified by horses and deep water and dance music. And the monogue girl, who he now fervently hoped would not be killed while doubling for Mrs. Rosenblatt, was a puzzling creature. He thought his hand must still be warm from her enfolding of it, even when work was resumed and he saw her, with sun bonnet pushed back, stand at the gate of the little farm house and behave in an utterly brazen manner toward one of the New York clubmen who was luring her up to the great city. She, who had just confided to him that she was afraid of men, was now practically daring an undoubted scoundrel to lure her up to the great city and make a lady of her. And she had been afraid of all but a clergyman and a stunt actor. He wondered interestingly if she were afraid of Merton Gill. She seemed not to be. On another day of long waits they ate their lunch from the cafeteria box on the steps of the little home and discussed stage names. I guess we better can that Clifford Armitage stuff, she told him as she seriously munched a sandwich. We don't need it. That's out. Merton Gill is a lot better name. She had used we quite as if it were a community name. Well, if you think so, he began regretfully. For Clifford Armitage still seemed superior to the indistinction of Merton Gill. Sure, it's a lot better, she went on. That Clifford Armitage, say, it reminds me of just another such feckless dub as you that acted with us one time when we were all trooped in a rep show, playing East Lynn and such things. He was just as wise as you are, and when he joined out at Kansas City they gave him a whole book of the piece instead of just his sides. He was a quick study at that, only he learned everybody's part as well as his own. And that slowed him. They put him on in Waco and the manager was laid up, so they told him that after the third act he was to go out and announce the bill for the next night, and he learned that speech, too. He got on fine till the big scene in the third act. Then he went bloody because that was as far as he'd learned, so he just left the scene cold and walked down to the foots and bowed and said, Ladies and gentlemen, we thank you for your attendance here this evening and to-morrow night we shall have the honor of presenting Lady Oddly's secret. With that he gave a cold look to the actor's back of him that were gasping like fish and walked off. And he was like you in another way because his real name was Eddie Duffy and the lovely stage name he'd picked out was Clyde Maltreverse. Well, Clifford Armitage is out then, Merton announced, feeling that he had now buried a part of his dead self in a grave where Bula Baxter, the Wonder Woman, already lay interred. Still, he was conscious of a certain relief. The stage name had been bothersome. It ain't as if you had a name like mine, the girl went on. I simply had to have help. He wondered what her own name was. He had never heard her called anything but the absurd and undignified flips. She caught the question he had looked. Well, my honest to God name is Sarah Nevada Montague. Sarah Fermat and Nevada for Reno where Ma had to stop off for me. She was out of the company two weeks, and if you ever tell a soul, I'll have the law on you. That was a fine way to abuse a helpless baby, wasn't it? But Sarah is all right, I like Sarah. Do you kid? She patted his hand. All right then, but it's only for your personal use. Of course the Nevada, he hesitated, it does sound kind of like a geography lesson or something, but I think I'll call you Sarah, I mean when we're alone. Well, that's more than Ma ever does, and you bet it'll never get into my press notices, but go ahead if you want to. I will, Sarah. It sounds more like a true woman than flips. Bless the child's heart, she murmured, and reached across the lunchbox to pat his hand again. You're a great little patter, Sarah, he observed with one of his infrequent attempts at humor. On still another day, while they idled between scenes, she talked to him about salaries and contracts, again with her important air of mothering him. After this picture, she told him, Jeff was going to sew you up with a long-time contract, probably at a hundred and fifty per, but I've told him plain I won't stand for it. No five-year contract, and not any contract at that figure. Maybe three years at two hundred and fifty, I haven't decided yet. I'll wait and see. She broke off to regard him with that old puzzling light far back in her eyes. Wait and see how you get over in these two pieces. But I know you'll go big, and so does Jeff. We've caught you in the rushes enough to know that. And Jeff's a good fellow, but naturally he'll get you for as little as he can. He knows all about money even if he don't keep Yom Kippur. So I'm watching over you, son. I'm your manager, see? And I've told him so plain. He knows he'll have to give you just what you're worth. Of course, he's entitled to consideration for digging you up and developing you. But a three-year contract will pay him out for that. Trust mother. I do, he told her. I'd be helpless without you. It kind of scares me to think of getting all that money. I won't know what to do with it. I will. You always listen to me and you won't be camping out on the lot any more. And don't shoot dice with these roughnecks on the lot. I won't. I won't, he assured her. I don't believe in gambling. He wondered about Sarah's own salary, and was surprised to learn that it was now double his own. It was surprising because her acting seemed not so important to the pieces his. It seems like a lot of money for what you have to do, he said. There, she smiled warmly. Didn't I always say you were a natural-born trooper? Well, it is a lot of money for me. But you see, I've helped Jeff dope out both of these pieces. I'm not so bad at gags. I mean, the kind of stuff he needs in these serious dramas. This big scene of yours where you go off to the city and come back a wreck on Christmas night, that's mine. I doped it out after the piece was started, after I'd had a good look at the truck driver that plays opposite you. Truck driver? It appeared that Miss Monogue was actually applying this term to the New York society girl who in private life was burdened with an ailing family. He explained now that Mr. Baird had not considered her ideal for the part, but had chosen her out of kindness. Again, there flickered far back in her eyes those lights that baffled him. There was incredulity in her look, but she seemed to master it. But I think it was wonderful of you, he continued, to write that beautiful scene. It's a strong scene, Sarah. I didn't know you could write, too. It's as good as anything Tessie Kerns ever did, and she's written a lot of strong scenes. Miss Monogue seemed to struggle with some unidentified emotion. After a long puzzling gaze, she suddenly said, Merton Gill, you come right here with all that makeup on and give mother a good big kiss. Astonishingly to himself, he did so in the full light of day and under the eyes of one of the New York villains who had been pretending that he walked a tightrope across the yard. After he had kissed the girl, she seized him by both arms and shook him. I'd ought to have been using my own face in that scene, she said. Then she padded his shoulder and told him that he was a good boy. The pretending tightrope walker had paused to applaud. Your act's flopping bow, said Miss Monogue, work fast. Then she again addressed the good boy. Wait till you've watched that scene before you thank me, she said shortly. But it's a strong scene, he insisted. Yes, she agreed. It's strong. He told her of the other instance of Baird's kindness of heart. You know I was a little afraid of playing scenes with a cross-eyed man, but Mr. Baird said he was trying so hard to do serious work, so I wouldn't have him discharged. But shouldn't you think he'd save up and get his eyes straightened? Does he get a very small salary? The girl seemed again to be harassed by conflicting emotions, but mastered them to say, I don't know exactly what it is, but I guess he draws down about $12.50 a week. Only $12.50 a week. $12.50, said the girl firmly. $12.50 a week! This was monstrous, incredible. But then why doesn't he have his eyes? Miss Monogue drew him to her with both her capable arms. My boy, my boy, she murmured, and upon his painted forehead she now imprinted a kiss of deep reverence. Run along and play, she ordered. You're getting me all nervous. Fourth with, she moved to the center of the yard where the tight rope walker still endangered his life above the heads of a vast audience. She joined him. She became a performer on the slack wire. With a parasol to balance her, she ran to the center of an imaginary wire that swayed perilously, and she swung there, cunningly maintaining a precarious balance. Then she sped back to safety at the wire's end, threw down her parasol, caught the handkerchief thrown to her by the first performer, and daintly touched her face with it, breathing deeply the while and bowing. He thought Sarah was a strange child. One minute, one thing, and the next minute, something else. END OF CHAPTER XVI. CHAPTER XVII. Work on the peace dragged slowly to an end. In these latter days the earnest young leading man suffered spells of concern for his employer. He was afraid that Mr. Baird, in his effort to struggle out of the slew of low comedy, was not going to be wholly successful. He had begun to note that the actors employed for this purpose were not invariably serious even when the cameras turned. Or, if serious, they seemed perhaps from the earnestness of their striving for the worthwhile drama to be a shade too serious. They were often, he felt, overemphatic in their methods. Still they were he was certain good actors. One could always tell what they meant. It was at these times that he especially wished he might be allowed to view the rushes. He not only wished to assure himself, for Baird's sake, that the peace would be acceptably serious, but he wished, with a quite seemingly curiosity, to view his own acting on the screen. It occurred to him that he had been acting a long time without a glimpse of himself. But Baird had been singularly firm in this matter, and the Montague girl had sided with him. It was best, they said, for a beginning actor not to see himself at first. It might affect his method before this had crystallized, make them self-conscious, artificial. He was obliged to believe that these well-wishers of his knew best. He must not, then, trifle with his screen success that seemed assured. He tried to be content with this decision. But always the misgivings would return. He would not really be content until he had watched his own triumph. Soon this would be so securely his privilege that not even Baird could deny it, for the first piece in which he had worked was about to be shown. He looked forward to that. It was toward the end of the picture that his intimacy with the Montague girl grew to a point where, returning from location to the studio late, they would dine together. Hurry and get on Greece, son, she would say, and you can take an actress out to dinner. Sometimes they would patronize the cafeteria on the lot, but often, or in a spirit of adventure, they would search out exotic restaurants. A picture might follow, after which by streetcar he would escort her to the Montague home in a remote, flat region of palm-lined avenues sparsely set with new bungalows. She would disquiet him at these times by insisting that she pay her share of the expense, and she proved to have no mean talent for petty finance, for she remembered every item down to the streetcar fairs. Even to Merton Gill she seemed very much a child once she stepped from the domain of her trade. She would stare into shop windows, wonderingly, and never failed to evince the most childish delight when they ventured to dine at an establishment other than a cafeteria. At times when they waited for a car after these dissipations, he suffered a not unpleasant alarm at sight of a large worded advertisement along the back of a bench on which they would sit. You furnished the girl, we furnished the house, screamed the bench to him above the name of an enterprising tradesman that came in time to bite itself deeply into his memory. Of course it would be absurd, but stranger things he thought had happened. He wondered if the girl was as afraid of him as of other men. She seemed not to be, but she couldn't tell much about her. She had kissed him one day with a strange warmth of manner, but it had been quite publicly in the presence of other people. When he left her at her door now it was after the least sentimental of partings, perhaps a shake of her hard little hand, or perhaps only a salong see at the show-shop. It was on one of these nights that she first invited him to dine with the Montague family. I tried last night to get you on the telephone, she explained, but they kept giving me someone else, or maybe I called wrong. Ain't these six-figured Los Angeles telephone numbers the limit? When you called 208972 or something it sounds like paging a box-car. I was going to ask you over. Ma had cooked a lovely mess of corned beef and cabbage. Anyway, you come eat with us to-morrow night, will you? She'll have something else cooked up that will stick to the merry old slats. You can come home with me when we get in from work. So it was that on the following night he enjoyed a home evening with the Montague's. Mrs. Montague had indeed cooked up something else and had done it well, while Mr. Montague offered at the side-board a choice of amateur distillations and brews which he warmly recommended to the guest. While the guest timidly considered, having had but the slightest experience with intoxicants, it developed that the confidence placed in his product by the hospitable old craftsman was not shared by his daughter. Keep off it, she warned, and then to her father, say, listen, Pa, have a heart. That boy's got to work to-morrow. So be it, my child, replied Mr. Montague with a visible stiffening of manner. Sylvestre Montague is not the man to urge strong drink upon the reluctant over the overcautious. I shall drink my aperitif alone. Go to it, old Pippin, rejoined his daughter as she vanished into the kitchen. Still, a little dish of liquor at this hour continued the host suggestively when they were alone. Well, Merton wished the girl had stayed. Perhaps just a few drops. Precisely, my boy, precisely, a mere dram. He poured the mere dram and his guest drank. It was a colorless, fiery stuff with an elusive taste of metal. Merton contrived an expression of pleasure under the searching glance of his host. Ah, I knew you would relish it. I fancy I could amaze you if I told you how recently it was made. Now here, he grasped another bottle purposely, is something a full ten days older. It has developed quite a bouquet, just a drop. The guest graciously but firmly waved a negation. Thanks, he said, but I want to enjoy the last it. It has so much flavor. It has, it has, indeed. I'll not urge you, of course. Later, you must see the simple mechanism by which I work these wonders. Alone, then, I drink to you. Mr. Montague alone drank of two other fruits of his loom before the ladies appeared with dinner. He was clean-shaven now, and his fine face glowed with hospitality as he carved roast chickens. The talk was of the shop, of what Mr. Montague scornfully called grind shows when his daughter led it, and of the legitimate haul show when he gained the leadership. He believed that moving pictures had sounded the knell of true dramatic art and said so in many ways. He tried to imagine the sensations of Lawrence Barrett or Louis James could they behold Sylvester Montague, whom both these gentlemen had proclaimed to be no mean artist enacting the role of a bar room rowdy five days on end by reclining upon a sawdust floor with his back supported by a spirit's barrel. The supposititious comments of the two placed upon the motion picture industry the black guilt of having degraded a sterling artist to the level of a peep-show manabank. They were frankly disgusted at the spectacle, and their present spokesman thought it as well that they had not actually lived to witness it. Even the happier phases of this so-called art in which a mere chit of a girl might earn a living wage by falling downstairs for a so-called star or the he-doll whippersnapper, Merton Gill flinched in spite of himself, could name his own salary for merely possessing a dimpled chin. Further an artist in the so-called art received his payment as if he had delivered groceries at one's back door. You, I believe, the speaker addressed his guest, are at present upon a payroll, but there are others, your elders, possibly your betters, though I do not say that. You better not, remarked his daughter, only to be ignored. Others, who must work a day and at the close of it receive a slip of paper emblazoned, talent paycheck. How more effectively could they cheapen the good word talent? And at the foot of this slip you are made to sign before receiving the pittance you have earned, a consent to the public exhibition for the purpose of trade or advertising, of the pictures for which you may have posed. Could tradesmen descend to a lower level, I ask you. I'll have one for twelve-fifty to-morrow night, said Mrs. Montague, not too dismally. I gotta do a duchess at a reception, and I certainly hope my feet don't hurt me again. Cheer up, old dears, pretty soon you can pick both your parts, chirped their daughter. Jeff's going to give me a contract, and then you can loaf forever for all I care. Only I know you won't, and you know you won't. Both of you'd act for nothing if you couldn't do it for money. What's the use of pretending? The chit may be right, she may be right, conceded Mr. Montague sadly. Later, while the ladies were again in the kitchen, Mr. Montague, after suggesting something in the nature of an after-dinner cordial, quaffed one for himself and followed it with the one he had poured out for a declining guest who still treasured the flavor of his one at Perotif. He then led the way to the small parlor, where he placed an action on the phonograph, a record said to contain the ravines of John McCullough in his last hours. He listened to this emotionally. That's the sort of technique, he said, that the so-called silver screen has made but a memory. He lighted his pipe and identified various framed photographs that enlivened the walls of the little room. Many of them were of himself at an earlier age. My dear mother-in-law, he said pointing to another, a sterling artist, and in her time an ornament of the speaking stage. I was on tour when her last days came. She idolized me and passed away with my name on her lips. Her last request was that a photograph of me should be placed in her casket before it went to its final resting place. He paused, his emotion threatening to overcome him. Presently he brushed a hand across his eyes and continued. I discovered later that they had picked out the most wretched of all my photographs, an atrocious thing I had supposed was destroyed. Can you imagine it? Apparently it was but the entrance of his daughter that saved him from an affecting collapse. His daughter removed the record of John McCullough's ravings, sniffed at it, and put a foxtrot in its place. He's got to learn to dance, she explained, laying hands upon the guest. Dancing, murmured Mr. Monogue, as if the very word recalled bitter memories. With brimming eyes he sat beating time to the foxtrot measure, while Merton Gill proved to all observers that his mastery of this dance would, if ever at all, achieved the only after long and discouraging effort. You forget all about your feet, remarked the girl as they paused, swaying to the rhythm. Remember the feet, they're important in a dance. Now. But it was hard to remember his feet, or when he did recall them, to relate their movements even distantly to the music. When this had died despairingly, the girl surveyed her pupil with friendly but doubting eyes. Say, Pa, don't he remind you of someone? Remember the squirrel that joined out with us one time in the rep show and left East Lynn flat right in the middle of the third act while he went down and announced the next night's play? The one that his name was Eddie Duffy and he called himself Clyde Maltrievers? In a way, in a way, agreed Mr. Monogue dismally. A certain lack of finish in the manner, perhaps. Remember how Charlie Dickman, the manager, nearly murdered him for it in the wings? Not that Charlie didn't have a right to. Well, this boy dances like Eddie Duffy would have danced. He was undeniably awkward and forgetful, said Mr. Monogue. Well, do I recall a later night? We played under the gas light. Charlie feared to trust him with a part, so we kept the young man off stage to help with the train noise when the down express should dash across. But even in this humble station he proved inefficient. When the train came on, he became confused, seized the coconut shells instead of the sandpaper, and our train that night entered to the sound of a galloping horse. The effect must have been puzzling to the audience. Indeed, many of them seemed to consider it ludicrous. Charlie Dickman confided in me later. Still, my boy, says he, this bird Duffy has caused my first gray hairs. It was little wonder that he persuaded young Duffy to abandon the drama. He was not meant for the higher planes of our art. Now, our young friend here, he pointed to the perspiring Merton Gill, doesn't even seem able to master a simple dance step. I might say that he seems to out Duffy Duffy, for Duffy could dance after a fashion. He'll make the grade yet, replied his daughter grimly, and again the music sounded. Merton Gill continued unconscious of his feet, or, remembering them, he became deaf to the music. But the girl brightened with a sudden thought when they next rested. I got it, she announced. We'll have about two hundred feet of this for the next picture. You try to dance just the way you've been doing with me. If you don't close to a good hand, I'll eat my last paycheck. The lessons ceased. She seemed no longer to think it desirable that her pupil should become proficient in the modern steps. He was puzzled by her decision. Why should one of Baird's serious plays need an actor who forgot his feet in a dance? There were more social evenings at the Montague Home. Twice the gathering was enlarged by other members of the film colony. A supper was served and poker played for inconsiderable stakes. In this game of chance the Montague Girl proved to be conservative, not to say miserly, and was made to suffer genuinely when Merton Gill displayed a reckless spirit in the bedding. That he amassed winnings of ninety-eight cents one night did not reassure her. She pointed out that he might easily have lost this sum. She was indeed being a mother to the defenseless boy. It was after a gambling session that she demanded to be told what he was doing with his salary. His careless hazarding of poker chips had caused her to be fearful of his general money sense. Merton Gill had indeed been reckless. He was now, he felt, actually one of the Hollywood set. He wondered how Tessie Kerns would regard his progress. Would she be alarmed to know he attended those gay parties that so often brought the film colony into unfavorable public notice? Jolly dinners, dancing, gambling, drinking with actresses. For Mr. Montague had at last turned out a beer that met with the approval not only of his guests, but of his more exacting family. The vivacious brew would now and again behave unreasonably at the moment of being released. But it was potable when subdued. It was a gay life, Merton felt. And as for the Montague girl's questions and warnings about his money, he would show her. He had, of course, discharged his debt to her in the first two weeks of his work with Baird. Now he would show her what he really thought of money. He would buy her a gift whose presentation should mark a certain great occasion. It should occur on the eve of his screen debut and would fittingly testify his gratitude. For the girl, after all, had made him what he was. And the first piece was close to its premiere. Already he had seen advanced notices in the newspapers. The piece was called Hearts on Fire and in it, so the notices said, the comedy manager had at last realized an ambition long nourished. He had done something new and something big, a big thing done in a big way. The Montague girl would see that the leading man who had done so much to ensure the success of Baird's striving for the worthwhile drama was not unforgettable of her favors and continuous solicitude. He thought first of a ring, but across the blank brick wall of the jewelry shop he elected to patronize was an enormous sign in white, the House of Lucky Wedding Rings. This staring announcement so alarmed him that he not only abandoned the plan for a ring, any sort of ring might be misconstrued, he saw, but in an excess of caution chose another establishment not so outspoken. If it kept wedding rings at all, it was decently reticent about them, and it did keep a profusion of other trinkets about which a possible recipient could entertain no false notions. Wristwatches, for example. No one could find subtle or hidden meanings in a wristwatch. He chose a bobble that glittered prettily on its black silk bracelet and was not shocked in the least when told by the engaging salesman that its price was a sum for which in the old days Gashwiler had demanded a good ten weeks of his life. Indeed, it seemed rather cheap to him when he remembered the event it should celebrate. Still, it was a pleasing trifle and did not look cheap. Do you warn it to keep good time? he sternly demanded. The salesman became diplomatic, though not without an effort of genial man-to-man frankness. Well, I guess you and I both know what women's bracelet watches are. He smiled a superior, masculine smile that drew his customer within the informed brotherhood. Now, here, there's a platinum little thing that costs seven hundred and fifty, and this one you like will keep just as good time as that one that costs six hundred more. What could be fairer than that? All right, said the customer, I'll take it. During the remaining formalities attending the purchase, the salesman, observing that he dealt with the tolerant man of the world, became even franker. Of course, no one, he remarked pleasantly while couching the purchase in a chaste bed of white satin, expects women's bracelet watches to keep time, not even the women. Wantom for looks, said the customer. You've hit it, you've hit it, exclaimed the salesman delightedly, as if the customer had expertly probed the heart of a world-old mystery. He had now but to await this great moment. The final scenes of the new piece were shot. Again he was resting between pictures. As the date for showing the first piece drew near, he was puzzled to notice that both Baird and the Montague girl curiously avoided any mention of it. Several times he referred to it in their presence, but they seemed resolutely deaf to his, well, I see the big show opens Monday night. He wondered if there could be some reckonedight bit of screen etiquette which he was infringing. Actors were superstitious he knew. Perhaps it boated bad luck to talk of a forthcoming production. Baird and the girl not only ignored his reference to hearts on fire, but they left Baird looking curiously secretive and the Montague girl looking curiously frightened. It perplexed him. Once he was smitten with a quick fear that his own work in this serious drama had not met the expectations of the manager. However, in this he must be wrong, for Baird not only continued cordial but, as the girl had prophesied, he urged upon his new actor the signing of a long-time contract. The Montague girl had insisted on being present at this interview after forbidding Merton to put his name to any contract of which she did not approve. I told Jeff right out that I was protecting you, she said. He understands he's got to be reasonable. It appeared, as they said about Baird's desk in the Buckeye office, that she had been right. Baird submitted rather gracefully, after but slight demure, to the terms which Miss Montague imposed in behalf of her protégé. Under her approving eye Merton Gill affixed his name to a contract by which Baird was to pay him a salary of $250 a week for three years. It seemed an incredible sum. As he blotted his signature, he was conscious of a sudden pity for the manager. The Montague girl had been hard, hard as nails, he thought, and Baird, a victim to his own good nature, would probably lose a great deal of money. He resolved never to press his advantage over a man who had been caught in a weak moment. I just want to say, Mr. Baird, he began, that you needn't be afraid I'll hold you to this paper if you find it's too much money to pay me. I wouldn't have taken it at all if it hadn't been for her. He pointed an almost accusing finger at the girl. Baird grinned. The girl patted his hand. Even at grave moments she was a patter. That's all right, son, she said soothingly. Jeff's got all the best of it, and Jeff knows it too. Don't you, Jeff? Well, Baird considered. If his work keeps up I'm not getting any the worst of it. You said it. You know very well what birds will be looking for this boy next week and what money they'll have in their mitts. Maybe, said Baird. Well, you got the best of it and you deserve to have. I ain't ever denied that, have I? You've earned the best of it the way you've handled him. All I'm here for I didn't want you to have too much the best of it. See, I think I treated you well. You're all right, flips. Well, everything's Jake then? Everything's Jake with me. All right, and about his work keeping up, trust your old friend and well-wisher. And say, Jeff, her eyes gleamed reminiscently, you ain't caught him dancing yet. Well, wait, that's all. We'll put on a foxtrot in the next picture that will sure hog the footage. As this dialogue progressed, Merton had felt more and more like a child in the presence of grave and knowing elders. They had seemed to forget him, to forget that the amazing contract just signed bore his name. He thought the Monogue girl was taking a great deal upon herself. Her face, he noted, when she had stated terms to Baird, was the face she wore when risking a small bet at poker on a high hand. She seemed old indeed, but he knew how he was going to make her feel younger. In his pocket was a gift of rare beauty, even if you couldn't run railway trains by it. And pretty things made a child of her. Baird shook hands with him warmly at parting. It'll be a week yet before we start on the new piece. Have a good time. Oh, yes, and drop around some time next week if there's any little thing you want to talk over, or maybe you don't understand. He wondered if this were a veiled reference to the piece about to be shown. Certainly nothing more definite was said about it. Yet it was a thing that must be of momentous interest to the manager, and the manager must know that it would be thrilling to the actor. He left with the Monogue girl, who had become suddenly grave and quiet. But outside the Holden lot, with one of those quick transitions he had so often remarked in her, she brightened with a desperate sort of gaiety. I'll tell you what, she exclaimed. Let's go straight downtown. It'll be six by the time we get there and have the best dinner money can buy. Lobster and chicken and vanilla ice cream and everything, right in a real restaurant, none of this tray stuff, and I'll let you pay for it all by yourself. You've got to write to after that contract, and we'll be gay and all the extra people that's eating in the restaurant'll think we're a couple of prominent film actors. How about it? She danced at his side. We'll have soup, too, he amended, one of those thick ones that costs about sixty cents. Sixty cents just for soup, he repeated, putting a hand to the contract that now stiffened one side of his coat. Well, just this once, she agreed, it might be for the last time. Nothing like that, he assured her. The more you spend, more you make. That's my motto. They waited for a city-bound car, sitting again on the bench that was so outspoken. You furnished the girl, we furnished the home, it shouted. He put his back against several of the bold words and felt of the bracelet watch in his pocket. It might be the last time for me, insisted the girl. I feel as if I might die most any time. My health's breaking down under the strain. I feel kind of a fever coming on right this minute. Maybe you shouldn't go out. Yes, I should. They boarded the car and reached the real restaurant, a cozy and discreet resort up a flight of carpeted stairs. Side by side on a seat that ran along the wall, they sat at a table for two and the dinner was ordered. Imagine yourself if you want to, said the girl as her host included celery and olives in the menu. Go on and order prunes, too, for all I care. I'm reckless. Maybe I'll never have another dinner the way this fever's coming on. Feel my hand. Under the table she wormed her hand into his and kept it there until food came. Do my eyes look very feverish? she asked. Not so very, he assured her, covering an alarm he felt for the first time. She did appear to be feverish, and the anxiety of her manner deepened as the meal progressed. It developed quickly that she had but scant appetite for the choice food now being served. She could only taste bits here and there. Her plates were removed with their delicacies almost intact. Between courses her hand would seek his, gripping it as if in some nameless dread. He became worried about her state. His own appetite suffered. Once she said as her hot hand clung to his, I know where you'll be to-morrow night. Her voice grew mournful, despairing, and I note perfectly well it's no good asking you to stay away. He let this pass. Could it be the girl was already babbling in delirium? And all the time she presently went on I'll simply be sick of bed picking at the covers and blew all around the gills. That'll be me while you're off to your old motion picture, the so-called art of the motion picture, she concluded, with the careful imitation of her father's manner. He tried to determine whether she were serious or jesting. You never could tell about this girl. Whatever it was, it made him uneasy. Outside he wished to take her home in a taxi cab, but she would not hear to this. We'll use the town-car Gaston, she announced with the flash of her old manner as she waved to an oncoming street-car. During the long ride that followed she was silent but restless, tapping her foot, shifting in her seat, darting her head about. The one thing she did steadily was to clutch his arm. During the walk from the car to the Montague house she twice indulged in her little dance-step even as she clung to the arm. But each time she seemed to think little of it and resumed a steady pace her head down. The house was dark. Without speaking she unlocked the door and drew him into the little parlour. Stand right on that spot she ordered with a final pat of his shoulder and made her way to the dining-room beyond where she turned on a single light that faintly illumined the room in which he waited. She came back to him, removed the small cloth hat, tossed it to a chair, and faced him silently. The light from the other room shone across her eyes and revealed them to him shadowy and mysterious. Her face was set in some ominous control. At last she looked away from him and began in a strained voice. If anything happens to me—he thought it time to end this nonsense. She might be feverish, but it could be nothing so serious as she was intimating. He clutched the gift. Sarah, he said lightly, I got a little something for you. See what I mean? He thrust the package into her weekly yielding hands. She studied it in the dusk, turning it over and over. Then with no word to him she took it to the dining-room where under the light she opened it. He heard a smothered exclamation that seemed more of dismay than the delight he expected, though he saw that she was holding the watch against her wrist. She came back to the dusk of the parlor, beginning on the way one of her little skipping dance-steps which she quickly suppressed. She was replacing the watch on its splendid couch of satin and closing the box. I never saw such a man, she exclaimed, with an irritation that he felt to be artificial. After all you've been through I should think you'd have learned the value of money. Anyway, it's too beautiful for me. And anyway I couldn't take it. Not tonight anyway. And anyway her voice had acquired a huskiness in this speech that now left her incoherent, and the light revealed a wetness in her eyes. She dabbed at them with a handkerchief. Of course you can take it to-night, he said in masterful tones, after all you've done for me. Now you listen, she began. You don't know all I've done for you. You don't know me at all. Suppose something came out about me that you didn't think I'd have been guilty of. You can't ever tell about people in this business. You don't know me at all, not one little bit. I might have done lots of things that would turn you against me. I'd tell you you gotta wait and find out about things. I haven't the nerve to tell you, but you'll find out soon enough. The expert in photo plays suffered a sudden illumination. This was a scene he could identify. A scene in which the woman trembled upon the verge of revealing to the man certain sinister details of her past spurred thereto by a scoundrel who blackmailed her. He studied the girl in a new light. Undoubtedly from her words he saw one panic stricken by the threatening exposure of some dreadful complication in her own past. Certainly she was suffering. I don't care if this fever does carry me off, she went on. I know you could never feel the same toward me after you found out. Again she was dabbing at her eyes, this time with the sleeve of her jacket. A suffering woman stood before him. She, who had always shown herself so competent to meet trouble with laughing looks, was being overthrown by this nameless horror. Suddenly he knew that to him it didn't matter so very much what crime she had been guilty of. I don't care what you've done, he said, his own voice husky. She continued to weep. He felt himself grow hot. Listen here, kid. He now spoke with more than a touch of the bully in his tone. Stop this nonsense. You, you come here and give me a good big kiss. See what I mean? She looked up at him from wet eyes and amazingly through her anguish she grinned. You win, she said, and came to him. He was now the masterful one. He took her protectingly in his arms. He kissed her, though, with no trace of the Parmalie technique. His screen experience might never have been. It was more like the dead days of Edwin and May Pulver. Now you stop it, he soothed, all this nonsense. His cheek was against hers and his arms held her. What do I care what you've done in your past? What do I care? And listen here, kid. There was again the brutal note of the bully in his voice. Don't ever do any more of those stunts. See what I mean? None of that falling off street cars or houses or anything. Do you hear? He felt that he was being masterful indeed. He had swept her off her feet. Probably now she would weep violently and sob out her confession. But a moment later he was reflecting, as he had so many times before reflected, that you never could tell about the girl. In his embrace she had become astoundingly calm. That emotional crisis threatening to beat down all her reserves had reached up and almost meditatively pushed back the hair from his forehead regarding him with eyes that were still shadowed but dry. Then she gave him a quick little hug and danced away. It was no time for dancing, he thought. Now you sit down, she ordered. She was almost gay again yet with a nervous desperate gaiety that would at moments die to a brooding solemnity. And listen, she began when he had seated himself in bewilderment at her sudden change of mood. You'll be off to your old motion picture to-morrow night, and I'll be here sick in bed. I won't go if you don't want me to, he put in quickly. That's no good. You'd have to go some time. The quicker the better, I guess. I'll go myself some time if I ever get over this disease that's coming on me. Anyway, you go, and then if you ever see me again you can give me this. She quickly came to put the watch back in his hands. Yes, yes, take it. I won't have it till you give it to me again if I'm still alive. She held up repulsing hands. Now we've had one grand little evening, and I'll let you go. She went to stand by the door. He arose and stood by her. All this nonsense, he grumbled. I won't stand for it. See what I mean. Very masterfully again he put his arms about her. Say, he demanded, are you afraid of me like you said you'd always been afraid of men? Yes, I am. I'm afraid of you a whole lot. I don't know how you'll take it. Take what? Oh, anything. Anything you're going to get? Well, you don't seem to be afraid of me. I am, more than any one. Well, Sarah, you needn't be, no matter what you've done. You just forget it and give me a good big. I'm glad I'm using my own face for this scene, murmured Sarah. Down at the corner, waiting for his car, he paced back and forth in front of the bench with its terse message. You furnished the girl, we furnished the house. Sarah was a funny little thing with all that nonsense about what he would find out. Will he cared if she'd done something? Forgery, murder, anything. He paused in his stride and addressed the vacant bench. Well, I've done my part.