CHAPTER IVMRS. VERNON ALL BUT ABANDONS HOPE
John Compton had vainly attempted to get any details in regard to Bobby’s rescue. It had been a bad day for swimmers at Long Beach. The waters had been unusually rough, and in consequence several bathers were drowned and nearly a score in imminent danger rescued. Over the telephone he got a complete list of those whom the life-savers had brought safely in, but in that list was no name in any wise corresponding with that of Bobby Vernon. Had not the earthquake come along at the wrong moment, Bobby would not, unconsciously breaking his promise, have run away, and Mrs. Vernon would not have been whisked into the Pullman and been borne northward on the wings of steam. No; Bobby would have waited and Mrs. Vernon would have remained. They would have come together very shortly, and this story would not, failing that earthquake, be worth the writing.
Nor would Mrs. Vernon have gone on toward San Luis Obispo utterly broken in spirit. In reply to telegrams and long-distance telephone calls made by Mrs. Sansone and the big-hearted nurse, they learned that no boy corresponding to hers had been rescued, and that it was impossible at the moment to give any adequate report of those who had met death in the angry waters.
As for Bobby’s rescuer, when he returned to the beach and failed to find the boy awaiting him, he was highly disgusted. The boy had broken his promise and gone off without so much as a word of thanks. Being a native, so to speak, it did not occur to him that an earthquake might put a lone little lad into a panic. Meditating grimly on the ungratefulness of mankind in general and of a certain small boy in particular, he turned himself with a glum face to the bathing house. He was already long overdue in the city, and putting the incident out of his mind as an unpleasant memory, he went his way, telling no man of his morning’s adventure. Thus it came about that Bobby’s rescue was recorded only in heaven.
Thus too it came about that Barbara Vernon gave up all hope of her son’s having been rescued. He was dead, and she was alone in the world. In vain did Mrs. Sansone beg her to hope; equally in vain did Mrs. Feehan fold her to her generous heart and whisper in her ear those sweet nothings which love makes more valuable in such circumstances than pearls of great price. Mrs. Vernon, dry-eyed and with set face, speaking nothing, apparently hearing nothing, gazed into vacancy. Even Mrs. Feehan, whose hope was as strong as her love, began to lose courage. Something must be done or the poor bereaved widow might go mad.
Resigning the unhappy lady to the care of the Italian, Mrs. Feehan walked through the car, scanning quickly the face of each passenger. Disappointed in her inspection, she went into the next car, and as she entered, the smile returned to her face.
Seated in a section near her entry was a venerable priest. His thick spectacles failed to conceal the kindly old eyes; while the large, red, weather-beaten face seemed somehow to tell the tale of myriad deeds of consolation and kindness. To look upon him with unprejudiced eyes was by way of loving him. He was sitting with folded hands.
“Oh, Father,” exclaimed the nurse, “pardon me for disturbing you. But there is a woman in the next car who, I fear, will go mad unless some one can reach her. She is a widow, and her only boy has just been drowned. She is a devout Catholic, and I am almost certain that if any one can bring her out of her despair a Catholic priest can do it. I’ve dealt with a number of like cases, and I know it.”
The priest arose, and, as Mrs. Feehan observed, slipped his beads, concealed in his folded hands, into his pocket.
“I’ll talk to her, my good woman, and while I talk, do you pray.”
As they entered the car the porter met them.
“You will find the lady in the drawing-room. I put her in there myself.”
“You’re a trump!” said the priest, patting the porter on the back.
Mrs. Vernon, as they entered, was showing once more some signs of improvement. She was gazing not without a touch of tenderness down upon the tear-stained, almost despairing face of the beautiful little child Peggy, who on her knees was imploring forgiveness.
“I’m so sorry, Mrs. Vernon. I lost my wits. But do forgive me.”
“She’s as good a girl as I know,” said the priest. “How are you, Peggy?”
“Oh, Father Galligan, ask her to forgive me!”
“I don’t know what it’s all about,” said the priest, “but I’m sure little Peggy would not wilfully do anything wrong. As you expect God’s help, my dear lady, in this trying hour, send this child away in peace and quiet.”
Mrs. Vernon raised herself up and threw her arms about the little one’s neck.
“There’s nothing to forgive, little dear. But pray, pray for me.”
“I think, madam,” observed the priest, “that if ever you were fit to receive all that comes with the blessing of the Church now is the time. Here, Peggy, kneel down and pray; and you too, Mrs. Sansone. And you too,” he added, addressing himself to the nurse; “though I’m thinking that Peggy’s prayers are worth all yours and mine put together. Now, speed her up, Peggy, while I recite the Gospel of St. John.”
It was, in all seriousness, an exquisite prayer-meeting. If angels can be influenced by human beauty, delicate innocence, and the awful faith of childhood, legions of them must have pressed about the great White Throne to tell the wondrous tale of Peggy’s praying. It is doubtful, also, whether they could have been insensible to the ardent petitions of the nurse and Peggy’s mother. However this may be, one thing is certain: the authorized prayer of a priest uttered in the name of the Church has an efficacy behind it which pierces high heaven. Such a prayer goes flying upward, winged by the power of that Church, in whose name it is uttered.
“Now,” said Father Galligan, closing his little book and gesturing the suppliants to rise from their knees, “you may all go outside and talk about your neighbors; and the more you talk about them the better—provided you speak of their good qualities. This lady is going to entertain me.”
“Well, we’ve all got to go now anyhow,” said Mrs. Sansone. “Los Angeles is our home, and Mrs. Feehan with her dear little daughter is stopping to visit a relation—”
“But if you say the word, Father,” put in Mrs. Feehan, “I’ll go on and see Mrs. Vernon through.”
“I don’t think it will be necessary,” said the Father. “Take your holiday and God bless you all. And don’t you forget, Peggy, to go to communion every day you can. You need it, dear child.”
“Indeed I won’t forget, Father. Good-by, Mrs. Vernon. You are just lovely, and I’ll pray for you every day and for Bobby.”
As Peggy left the compartment the priest lightly laid his hand on the child’s raven-black hair and blessed her.
“Poor child!” he remarked to Mrs. Vernon. “She’s as lovely now and as good as an angel. But she has the fatal gift of beauty, and she’s going to grow up. Lovely, untainted children—and the world is full of them—quite upset me. I don’t want them to die and I don’t want them to grow up. Confound original sin anyway!”
“I’m sure my little boy is in heaven. But I am a mother. Oh, how I want him! I can’t give him up!”
“You don’t know what you can do. None of us knows till we try. Remember, there is a faith that moves mountains.”
“Thank you so much, Father,” said Mrs. Vernon. “A moment ago I was tempted to take my life.”
“I’m sure the angels didn’t notice it, and so it won’t go on the recording book. You have had a great sorrow. But listen to the words of an old priest who has spent his priestly life of forty-three years supping with sorrow—other people’s mainly. When God sends us a great sorrow, He sends us a great strength, if we will only accept it. And more: if we bear our sorrows in simple faith, somehow, somewhere, God will turn our sorrow into joy.”
“Ah, Father, He can never give me back my son!”
“I don’t know about that,” demurred the Father, taking a pinch of snuff. “Didn’t Christ say, ‘Out of these stones I can raise up children to Abraham?’ Never say can’t when you’re talking about God.”
“I see, Father; you want of me the deepest faith.”
“Exactly, my good woman, the faith that moves mountains. ‘Earth has no sorrow that heaven cannot heal.’ ”
“Father, I will try.” As she finished these words, Mrs. Vernon fell to weeping.
“Good for you!” commented the priest. “What alarmed me most when I first saw you was the fact of your being so dry-eyed. But let us talk about something else. You don’t belong out here.”
“No, Father. I come from Cincinnati. My name is Barbara Vernon. Almost two years ago I lost my husband. He died a good death; but he was a poor business man, and the thing that bothered him most at his last hour was that he had neglected to renew his life insurance. It lapsed just two weeks before the day of his death.”
“An artist, possibly?”
“I think you might call him so, Father. He was an actor, and, if God had given him a longer life, would have become a playwright. He was engaged on the third and last act of a play when he took sick. I am confident, not only on my own judgment, but on the authority of several critics, that had he lived to complete it he would have made a fortune.”
“These artists are all alike,” commented the priest. “They see everything in the heavens above and the waters under the earth but their own interests. They all die uninsured—most of them, anyhow. But what brings you out here?”
“The hope of straightening out my affairs. You see, my husband, on the strength of his play, borrowed twenty-five hundred dollars on a note which falls due September the first. I want to pay it. I feel it is my duty. He borrowed from a friend who now needs the money. I have been teaching elocution to private pupils ever since my husband’s death, and have managed to put aside seven hundred dollars. Three months ago it became clear to me that I could not possibly get the full amount together. Now, there happens to live in San Luis Obispo a wealthy relation of mine, an uncle whom I have not seen since I was a little girl. He was very fond of me then, and he more than once asked me to call on him if I were ever in trouble.”
“You did very well to come, Mrs. Vernon. He lives, you say, in San Luis Obispo?”
“Yes, Father.”
“Perhaps I know him. I spent three years at San Luis. In fact, I was there all of last year.”
“His name, Father, is Pedro Alvarez.”
The start which the priest gave was almost imperceptible. Not for nothing had he heard over four hundred thousand confessions.
“Do you know him, Father?”
“I do.”
“And is he well?”
“I am just wondering,” mused the priest evasively, “whether he has much money. He was wealthy once, but he lost heavily on some oil investments.”
“But is he well, Father?”
“It is two months,” pursued the priest, “since I was in residence at San Luis Obispo.”
At this moment the train stopped at a small station, and there was heard a commotion without.
“There’s something wrong, I fear,” said the Father, glad of an opportunity to change the subject. He now regretted that he had bidden Mrs. Feehan take her holiday at Los Angeles.
“Reverend,” said the porter, entering suddenly, “there’s a man at the station who’s been injured by a freight, and he is calling for a priest. He may die any moment.”
“Excuse me,” said Father Galligan, rising quickly. “When I come back I have something to tell you.”
Father Galligan did not return. The dying man needed him, and Mrs. Vernon saw the priest no more. He only came and went, and touched her life into a higher faith.
That evening Mrs. Vernon stepped off the car at San Luis Obispo. The station was almost deserted. However, she had little trouble in getting information about Alvarez, once very prominent in the city. He was dead. He had died seven months before almost penniless and prepared by Father Galligan. This it was that Father Galligan had intended telling her.
The train, while Mrs. Vernon was getting this information, departed.
The poor woman was almost beside herself. Wringing her hands, she paced up and down the deserted platform, calling upon the Mother of Sorrows to come to her aid. Five minutes or more passed when she was interrupted.
“I beg your pardon, Miss,” said a plainly dressed man to whose hands were clinging a girl of twelve and a boy who evidently was her younger brother; “but do you know anything about nursing?”
The man’s face was troubled and eager. The two children had been recently crying. Indeed, so it seemed to Mrs. Vernon, it had been a day of calamity.
“I took nearly two years’ course of training.”
“Oh!” cried the girl, breaking into a smile.
“Then for the love of God, come to my help. My wife will die unless she gets good nursing. The doctor has said it. Look at these two children. Think of them without a mother. I’m a ranchman living thirty miles from here. Money is no object. Name your own terms. I know you won’t refuse. All afternoon I’ve looked and looked for a nurse. Before you say no, look at these little ones.”
“Please!” cried the girl, clasping her hands.
“Come on!” entreated the boy, catching her arm.
Could the Mother of Sorrows have sent them?
“I hardly know how to refuse you, sir; but my own little boy has this day been taken from me by drowning, carried out by the undertow at Long Beach. I was not with him at the time, and I must go back and find whether his body has been recovered.”
The ranchman took a careful and appraising look at Barbara.
“Madam,” he said, “I think I understand. I know how you feel. But let me make a suggestion. You are in no condition to return to Long Beach; nor would you know what to do when you got there. Now, I’m familiar with the place and the conditions. I have, in fact, some influence there. Now I’ll tell you what I’ll do. If for the sake of saving my dear wife’s life you will come with me, I’ll take you at once to our home and will return in time to get the next train to Long Beach. And I promise you that I will do all that you could do and more, to learn anything, however trivial it may seem, concerning your boy. Oh, madam, for the love of God, give your consent. I am sure He has sent you to us.”
“Please, ma’am,” implored the girl.
“My mama needs you,” added the boy.
“In God’s name!” said the ranchman.
Taking everything into consideration, Barbara Vernon could not resist these sweet children, this fond husband, and so a few minutes later she was on her way in the ranchman’s machine to enter upon a new phase of life.
Thus it fell that when the telegram from John Compton reached San Luis Obispo the following afternoon no claimant for it could be discovered.
CHAPTER VA NEW WAY OF BREAKING INTO THE MOVIES
Your true cloister of to-day is a moving-picture studio. The sign “No Admittance,” or some wording of similar meaning, greets the stranger at every door. There is, too, at each entry a dragon on guard, sometimes in the guise of a gracious but firm young woman, sometimes, it may be, in that of a forbidding old man; but no matter how various be the form of these dragons, they are there to see that you don’t go in. To enter without the Open Sesame incurs an excommunication seldom incurred, for the reason that the dragons are always on duty.
As John Compton, holding the hand of Bobby, made to enter the sacred precincts of the Lantry Studio at the entryway provided for the actors, the man on guard cast a severe and forbidding look at the youth.
“You know my orders,” he grumbled, still gazing at Bobby while addressing Compton.
“Sure I do. But this boy is an aunt of mine—er—that is, an uncle. Oh, dash it! what am I talking about? He’s my little nephew, Bobby Compton.”
“Why don’t you get it right?” observed a bright young lady, one of the “stars,” as she passed through the sacred gate. “Don’t you think, on second thought, Mr. Compton, that he’s your grandfather? He looks more like that than an aunt of yours.”
The surly keeper of the gate perceived the joke. It was on record that he had seen through a joke on three distinct occasions during his two years of guardianship. To-day he scored for the fourth time. Bobby as an aunt was really funny. But as a grandfather! The keeper dropped his pipe and lost his scowl, and holding up both hands, palms outward, roared with laughter. He was still in the throes of his mammoth mirth when Compton pushed through the stile—I know no better word for it—and drew Bobby after him. The cloister was violated.
Now, Bobby had by this time wearied of holding Compton’s hand. Moreover he had noticed a certain peculiarity in Compton’s walk which he desired to study to better advantage. So, loosening his hold, and saying, “I’ll follow you,” he dropped behind his newly-discovered uncle.
Mr. Compton, dressed for his part in the rehearsal, wore a nondescript jacket and a vest of startling color. Into the armholes of this vest his thumbs were thrust, the free fingers of his hand extended and waving in unison at each step. Bobby had already studied this peculiarity. Now he was to study the secret of Compton’s strides. They were, to begin with, notably long strides. But most striking of all was the part his feet played. The right foot at each step was turned in, the left out. In justice to Mr. Compton, this was not his proper gait. He was practicing for his part. Bobby, however, liked it. In fact, he liked anything connected with John Compton, and because John Compton did it Bobby saw nothing funny in it at all. It was easy for Bobby to insert his real thumbs into imaginary armholes and to wiggle his fingers with each step. It was not so easy, by reason of the shortness of his legs, for Bobby to catch his uncle’s stride. But he thought it worth while, and he did it. Then Bobby, with surprisingly little difficulty, got his feet to working as though one were going in one direction and the other in another; and so serenely moved on the procession of two, a spectacle for angels and Miss Bernadette Vivian, the young star who had brought to life once more the gate-keeper’s sense of humor.
It was Bernadette’s turn to laugh.
“Look,” she cried to a busy and jaded-looking official, who was hurrying past her with a sheaf of papers in his hands and a lead pencil in his mouth. “Set your eyes on that boy. That’s Compton’s aunt or grandfather—he’s not quite clear which—and of the two, I think, with all respect to Compton, the aunt is the better comedian.”
The official looked and grinned.
“Maybe you’re right,” he observed, removing the pencil from his mouth. “You’re working with Compton. Keep your eye on the kid. We may need him if he’s not engaged already.”
“Come on here, Bobby; you take my hand,” said Compton, turning sharply and detecting his understudy in action. Another man might have been annoyed, Compton was tickled beyond measure.
Threading their way through a maze of sets and scenery, among which busy men—carpenters, electricians, secretaries and what not—were winding in what appeared to be inextricable confusion, they finally arrived at a set arranged to represent the lobby of a hotel.
To the left was a cigar counter, and beyond it an exit, or, possibly, an entryway to some other part of the hotel. The rest, save for a bellhop’s bench, was space. Seated or lounging about were several actors; among them a young lady dressed as a salesgirl; a boy of about Bobby’s size, though evidently several years older, gay in the buttons and livery of a bellhop; a young man in society clothes; and finally a young woman who was evidently a lady.
Hurrying from one to the other of these and speaking quickly certain instructions, was a young man whose intense face expressed infinite patience and strong, though jaded, energy. He was tired—had been tired for six months—but had no time to diagnose the symptoms. This was the stage director, Mr. Joseph Heneman.
“Halloa, John! Glad you’ve come. Everything’s set, and we’re going to move like a house afire. Who’s that fine little boy with you?”
“I’m his aunt,” said Bobby seriously.
Heneman nearly exploded on the spot.
“You young screech-owl!” said Compton, turning a severe face, though his eyes twinkled, upon Bobby. “Who taught you how to lie?”
“You said I was your aunt,” countered Bobby.
“Your uncle—nephew, I mean. This young monkey,” he went on, addressing the manager, the vision of Bobby’s latest mimicry still vivid in his memory, “is my nephew, Bobby Compton.”
“Why, I didn’t know you had a nephew,” said Heneman, still laughing. As he spoke he shook hands with the interesting youth.
“Neither did I till a while ago,” chuckled Compton. “Fact is I adopted him and christened him on the way in. It’s a long story, but he’s in my charge now. He’ll sit still and watch us working. Won’t you, Bobby?”
“I’ll watch you working all right,” said Compton’s new relation. Bobby had no intention of sitting still.
“Halloa, aunty!” said Bernadette, suddenly appearing on the scene, and smiling at Bobby, showing in the act a perfect and shining set of teeth.
“How do you do?” returned Bobby, bowing gravely. “You’ve got it wrong, though. He’s my uncle. He says so himself, and he ought to know.”
Before the rehearsal began every one there heard the story from the fair lady’s cupid-painted lips of the circumstances connected with Bobby’s admission into the Lantry cloister. The story filled with joy all the listeners save one. The bellhop did not even smile. The fact is, the bellhop, yielding to a long-fought temptation, had obtained a quid of tobacco from a stage carpenter, had indulged in his first and probably his last chew, and was just now filled with feelings of wild regret and a desire to lie down in some obscure spot and die.
As a result of Bernadette’s story every one, excepting of course the unhappy bellhop, was in a state of almost hilarious good humor when the rehearsal was called; in such humor that even when the star halted everything for several minutes by insisting that one of her shoes was improperly laced—though to the naked eye there was nothing out of order—and having her attendant do it all over again, no one grumbled.
Mr. Heneman had counted on going on with the rehearsal “like a house afire.” He had reckoned without his host, and the host was the bellhop.
Before going further it may be well to observe that a picture in the making is far from resembling a picture in the viewing. The former is a very slow process. It may require a whole day to produce what one sees on the screen in three or four seconds. Before the camera men “shoot” there may be a dozen or more rehearsals; and the shooting may be repeated seven or eight times.
“Ready!” cried Mr. Heneman. “Positions!”
At the word the salesgirl got behind the cigar counter and, to make everybody understand that she was only a salesgirl, proceeded to chew gum violently. In real life saleswomen sometimes do chew gum; but it is rare to discover one who makes it an almost violent physical exercise. Standing to the right of the saleslady—in the lobby—the young man in the dresscoat, facing the young lady with not enough clothes on her back to make a bookmark, began offering such original remarks as the state of the weather generally evokes. Back of them all, in an alcove near the exit, sat the bellhop, gloom and desolation upon his face.
“Here, you! Don’t stand so the lady can’t be seen. Let the lady turn a little to the right. That’s it. Go on and talk, both of you, and smile as if you were each saying awfully witty things. Bellhop, hold up your head! You look like a drowned rat. Look tough; you’re looking dismal.” Here the director paused, and while the camera men were placing their machines in position, and their assistants were arranging reflectors, and an electrician, perched on high above the shooting line, arranged a powerful light over the head of the salesgirl, he went over to the bellhop, showed him how to sit, how to hold his hands, cross his legs and drop one corner of his mouth. There was some improvement.
“Now, once more!” ordered the director. “Positions! Smile, you two. Talk, talk! Don’t overdo that chewing-gum stuff. Give a yawn, bellhop. Good! Now come on, Compton.”
From off scene to the right enters Compton. He is befuddled with liquor, and on his face is an expression of utmost stupidity. It is doubtful, indeed, if any live human being could be as stupid as he looked. In his right hand he is balancing a cane with a crook. His walk is a marvel of indecision. He hasn’t the least idea, apparently, as to whither he is going.
Bobby, just back of the director, is watching all this with breathless interest. Previous to Compton’s entrance he had assumed the attitude and pose of the “lady,” arms akimbo, head thrown back and a full smile. Upon Compton’s appearance Bobby could at first hardly restrain the exuberance of his delight. The highest admiration often expresses itself in imitation. To the amazement and amusement of several actors stationed behind him, the lad with scarcely an effort threw his features into a close replica of Compton’s.
“He’s as good a nut as Compton,” observed an old actor to a companion.
“I’ll say so!” rejoined the other.
Compton almost jostled the young lady in his onward progress. As it was, the crook of his cane caught upon her elbow and hung there. Without his cane, Compton showed a dim consciousness of feeling that something was wrong. He felt his clothes, his pockets, his face, and then looking for the nonce dimly intelligent, turned around, removed the cane from its improvised hook, raised his hat, dropped it, stooped to get the cane, picked it up, reached for his hat, dropped the cane, and so on. It was simple fun, but made worth while by the manner of the actor. Bobby by this time had a stick and a hat, and without knowing it was giving a capital performance for the exclusive benefit of sixteen actors and several outsiders.
“Hey, salesgirl!” ordered Heneman, “call the bellhop, and tell him to request with all possible politeness the gentleman in liquor to leave the premises.”
The bellhop came at her call, received her message, and strode towards Compton.
“Get back there and do it again!” bawled the director. “You walk as though you were going to church or to your grandmother’s funeral. Turn your shoulders in, drop your mouth, swing your arms. Just imagine you’re going to lick somebody.”
The bellhop tried again, with no sign of improvement. Again and again he failed. No moving-picture actor in that studio, it is probable, ever received such minute directions. But they were all lost on him. However, they were not lost on Bobby. Utterly unconscious of the attention he was exciting, Bobby was following out to the letter every hint coming from Heneman’s mouth.
Among the spectators was a wag. The parts he always figured in were tragic or romantic roles, but in real life he was the most notorious practical joker in the Lantry Studio.
“See here, Johnny,” he said, whispering into the boy’s ear. “Would you like to do an act of kindness?”
“Sure,” said Bobby.
“I’ve been watching you for some time. You know how that bellhop should do his part. Go and show him. It’s no use telling him how. He doesn’t understand. But you just go and show him.”
“Will it be all right?” asked Bobby.
“An act of kindness is always right,” answered the wag, with tragic solemnity. “Look; he’s starting now, and he’s worse than ever. Don’t tell any one I suggested your showing him. Keep it a dead secret. Now, go to it.”
In perfect good faith Bobby stepped forward, passed the director, saying as he went, “Excuse me, sir,” and ignoring Compton and the “lady” and “gentleman,” strode over to the bellhop. All this, happening though it did in a few seconds, produced an unheard-of effect. The saleslady stopped chewing, the lady and gentleman ceased smiling, Compton looked surprised and intelligent, the director let his jaw drop, and the audience, now swollen to double its size, pressed forward to the cameras. The bellhop himself put on a human expression of inquiry. As Bobby came face to face with the victim every one on the stage seemed to be momentarily paralyzed.
“You poor fish,” said Bob, kindness and energy ringing in his accents, “just let me show you. It’s so easy!”
The bellhop sank back into his seat.
“Now look,” continued Bobby. The left-hand corner of his mouth sagged, his shoulders bent in, and with a walk and a swerve redolent of the old Bowery, Bobby advanced towards Compton, whose eyes were protruding.
“You boob!” announced Bobby. “You are politely requested to make a noise like a train and rattle out of here. Get me?” And as Bobby, not in the way of kindness, laid his hand on Compton, cheers and laughter and hand-clapping disturbed scandalously the quiet of the Lantry cloister.
Bobby, nothing disconcerted, bowed, laying his hand over his heart, and smiled affably. But when the star, Bernadette, came running over, her face beaming with delight, and exclaimed, “Aunty, I’m going to kiss you for that,” he blanched and fled to Compton’s arms.
There was a pause and a deliberation. Compton and the manager conferred together for five minutes. The result of their talk was that Bobby was hired on the spot and the victim of tobacco given a vacation till further notice.
Thus did Bobby Vernon “break into the movies.”
CHAPTER VIBOBBY ENDEAVORS TO SHOW THE ASTONISHED COMPTON HOW TO BEHAVE
“Well,” observed John Compton as, holding Bobby’s hand, he sauntered along that Bagdad of a street, Hollywood Boulevard, “you’ve scored the first time at the bat, Bobby. You’re under a contract at thirty-five dollars a week, and a bonus of two hundred dollars if you make good.”
“I like to make money,” cried Bobby.
“Oh, you do? Have you made much?”
“No. I never made a cent in my life; but I like to, just the same.”
“Are you fond of money?”
Bobby did not make an immediate reply. He was trying, not unsuccessfully, to “take off” the mincing gait of a young lady in front of him, who, considering the tightness of her skirt and the height of her truncated cone heels, was doing very well.
“No. I don’t care for money; but mother needs it. Say, this is a nice place. I like flowers, lots of them, and nice white houses and palm trees and bright sunshine.”
“All these things,” observed John Compton “are our long suit in Hollywood. If there ever was a paradise on earth, it must have been here.”
“Is that all you know?” inquired the lad, his lip curling in scorn. “Why, of course there was a paradise! Didn’t you ever study catechism?”
“Well—er, no.”
“That’s all right,” said Bobby, relaxing from scorn to benevolence, “I’ll teach you myself.”
“Upon my word!” ejaculated Compton, and fell into meditation, from which he was presently aroused by the strange behavior of the people on the street. Were they staring and laughing at him? Turning, he discovered Bobby, a little to the rear of him, doing the Bowery walk and wearing a face becoming a hardened pickpocket.
“See here, you young imp! You’re giving our show away.”
“Oh, I never thought of that!” cried Bobby, putting on the air of a Sunday-school superintendent. “I just can’t help it,” he went on. “I just love to act.”
“Why, have you ever acted before?”
“No; but I just love to.”
“Did you ever see a church more charmingly situated?” asked the comedian.
They were passing the Church of the Blessed Sacrament, a church hardly to be seen from the sidewalk. It stood well back from the street, hidden by large palms, pepper trees, and a profusion of flowers and foliage.
“Is that a Catholic church?” the boy inquired.
“It certainly is.”
“Let’s go in and pay a visit,” suggested the lad.
“I don’t go to church,” returned Compton.
Once more Bobby’s lip curled.
“You must be crazy,” he said. “Now, you come on in.”
Bobby, it was clear, was in no mood for argument. Catching Compton by the hand, he led that astonished young man along the lovely path towards the church.
“What’s that sign about up there?” asked Bobby.
“It says,” answered Compton, “that it was here or in the immediate vicinity that Father Junipero Serra said the Mass of the Holy Cross.”
“I’ve heard of him and read a book about him,” said Bobby. “He must have been a great man.”
“Yes?” interrogated the skeptic. “I’ve heard it said that the Mass of the Holy Cross is the same as the Mass of the Holy Wood; and that’s the reason we call this section Hollywood.”
“I like that name now more than ever, uncle.”
On entering the vestibule Bobby hunted for and quickly found the holy-water font. Dipping his finger in, he devoutly made the sign of the cross, while Mr. Compton gazed at him as though he were seeing for the first time an unusually occult rite.
Bobby motioned him; then pointed to the font. Compton came forward obediently enough, but he would not or could not understand what the child further expected.
“Here!” whispered Bobby, with unsmiling face. And catching Mr. Compton’s reluctant right hand, he dipped its index finger in the font.
“Now say what I say,” he adjured.
Standing on tiptoe, Bobby placed the captive finger on Compton’s forehead, brought it down to the breast, then to the left and the right shoulder, while Compton, his face red as a Los Angeles geranium, repeated after his young mentor, “In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost. Amen.”
“You’ll do it better next time,” remarked Bobby consolingly.
“Now come on!” And Bobby, pushing the comedian in front of him, proceeded fully half way up the center aisle.
“Now you genuflect,” he whispered.
“Eh?” said Compton, looking like the “nut” he played.
“Sh-h-h!” warned Bobby. “Look.”
And Bobby bent his right knee, holding himself quite erect, till it touched the floor. “Now do that.”
Compton made the effort; and Compton, who could turn handsprings and bend the crab and stop a grounder and catch a fly with a grace that had won the hearts of the fair sex in many a city, bent his knee with the effect of one suffering from locomotor ataxia.
Once more Bobby’s lip curled. He was minded to make Mr. Compton do it again, but on second thought changed his mind.
“Get in that pew,” he whispered, in manifest disgust.
There was nothing for Compton to do but obey. Bobby followed after him and, a second time signing himself with the sign of the cross, knelt down. Compton, looking, as he felt, inexpressibly stupid, seated himself.
Bobby stared at him severely, arose, and catching his friend by the arm coaxed him to his knees.
Once more Bobby made an elaborate sign of the cross, during the performance of which the comedian, leaning back, braced himself comfortably against the end of the seat. It came home to Bobby by this time that he was “instructing the ignorant.” He must do it in all kindness. After all, it might not be Compton’s fault. So, smiling sweetly but with the severe restraint proper to a church where the Lord of all was present in the tabernacle, he reached forward a tiny hand, applied it to the small of Compton’s back, and pressed forward till Compton was kneeling erect.
“That’s the proper way to kneel,” he whispered kindly. “Now just keep that way, and say your prayers.”
There was a sound so like a giggle that it really could not have been anything else proceeding from the back of the church, and three young ladies, their handkerchiefs at their mouths, incontinently left the church. Several other worshipers left, clearly for the same reason. Only one worshiper remained, a man whose romances had thrilled hundreds of thousands of readers. Restraining his features, he tiptoed up the aisle, and knelt at an angle where he could see Bobby’s face.
In no wise realizing that he had emptied the church, Bobby for the third time crossed himself and, undisturbed by Compton, began to pray. It had been for Compton a day of many surprises. But now it was a moment of astonishment. Glancing sidewise, he took in Bobby’s face. Just a few minutes before, he had reprehended Bobby for wearing the air of a criminal; and now—-he was looking upon the face of an angel! And there was a difference, too, of another kind, as Compton at once realized. Looking like a criminal, Bobby was acting; looking like an angel Bobby was himself, his natural self touched by faith into something strange and rare. The boy’s eyes, large, earnest, beseeching, were fastened upon the tabernacle; his lips were moving in a silent eloquence. His head, erect, was motionless. So, for that matter, was his whole person—all save those eloquent lips. At that moment, as Compton felt, there existed for Bobby only two persons, God and himself. For the first time in his life Compton was seized with a sense of the supernatural. He bowed his head upon his hands and looked no more. It was the most sacred moment of his life. If Compton did not pray orally, he did something better. He meditated.
The eminent author saw the vision, too. He had stayed for curiosity’s sake; he remained to pray. Like Compton, the vision of lovely faith—and what is there out of heaven so lovely as the faith of a child?—quite overcame him. He gazed no more, but, lowering his eyes, prayed with a new devotion.
“I saw a little boy praying in church,” he said to his wife an hour later, “and I understood as I never understood before that saying of our Lord’s, ‘Unless you become as little children you shall not enter the kingdom of heaven.’ ”
Several minutes passed. A light touch brought Compton out of a virgin land of thought. Bobby, tranquil and with a subdued cheerfulness, was motioning him out.
“Watch!” whispered Bobby, and genuflected. “Now try it again. Fine!”
At the vestibule five minutes were spent, by which time Compton really knew how to make the sign of the cross.
“Bobby,” he said, as they got outside, “that’s my first visit to a Catholic church, and I’ll never forget it as long as I live.”
CHAPTER VIITHE END OF A DAY OF SURPRISES
“Well, here we are, young man,” announced Compton half an hour later and turned into a rather pretentious apartment building.
“It looks very fine from the outside,” commented Bobby.
“And I think you’ll like it inside, too,” returned Compton as they entered the elevator.
Compton had an apartment on the third floor—sitting room, bathroom, bedroom and guest chamber. Bobby examined the suite with manifest delight. Everything was modern and in a sense elegant. If there were anything lacking to John Compton’s comfort, John Compton did not know it, nor did Bobby discover it. Bobby’s critical faculty was not as yet strongly developed. He had nevertheless an abundance of enthusiasm which he was not slow in expressing, and which failed him only in his survey of the pictures and photographs clustered thickly upon the walls of the sitting room. They were, with the exception of several photographs of Compton himself, all women, mainly actresses and all in every variety of dress and the contrary.
“Say, are all your friends women?” exclaimed the youth.
Compton colored and looked uneasy.
“You’remy friend,” he replied.
“There’s something queer about a lot of these pictures,” the boy went on. “I don’t like them.”
Mr. Compton changed the subject. Within twenty-four hours, nevertheless, a good many of those pictures found their way to a place where they properly belonged, and were seen no more in the land of sunshine.
“By the way, Bobby,” he resumed presently, “You haven’t said a word about your mother to-day.”
“I know it,” said Bobby cheerfully.
“Well, I have bad news to tell you.”
“I’ll bet you haven’t.”
“That telegram I sent may not be received by her.”
“No?”
“No. It was delayed. A lot of messages were delayed. You know, it was to have been delivered to her at the station at San Luis Obispo. But there’s no knowing whether it will be forwarded in time to catch her.”
“Look here, uncle; I’ll tell you a secret. I have prayed, and I’m sure—I just know—my prayer is all right. No harm will come to my mother. She is safe; and she will come back when God wants her to.”
“You seem to be on intimate terms with the Almighty!”
“With who?”
“With God.”
“Why not?” inquired Bobby simply. “Don’t you believe in prayer?”
“Upon my word!” gasped the comedian. “I could have answered that question easily enough yesterday; but now I don’t know what I believe and what I don’t.”
What gem of wisdom might have dropped from Bobby’s lips in commenting upon this strange declaration was lost forever when the janitor of the building suddenly entered the room.
“Beg pardon, sir. I wasn’t sure you were here. But I think there’s some mistake. There’s a wagon down below with some furniture and a lot of stuff directed to you, and you—not being a family man—”
“Correct, Johnson. All the same, send them up. There’s no mistake. You see, this boy is Bobby Compton, and he’s going to stay with me. He’s a cousin of mine.”
“Oh, I say!” cried Bobby. “If I’m your aunt or your nephew, I want to know how I’m your cousin.”
“Johnson,” said Compton magnificently, “when I say cousin I always mean nephew. It’s the habit of a lifetime.”
“Oh,” observed Johnson, scratching his head. “Well, I’ll bring them things up anyhow.”
“Well,” sighed Compton, throwing himself back in his chair, crossing his legs, and cupping his hands behind his head, “I’m glad that’s settled. I was afraid they wouldn’t come.”
Bobby took the chair facing his uncle, crossed his legs, and cupped his hands behind his head.
“Afraid what wouldn’t come, uncle?”
“Never you mind, little monkey. Just wait.”
Bobby’s patience was not sorely tried. Up the stairs toiled four men just then, Johnson in the lead, all laden with bundles and various articles of furniture.
“This way, boys,” said Compton, opening the door to the guestroom. “Just wait one moment, Bobby.” And Compton, having seen to each one’s getting through, entered himself and closed the door. He was out a moment later, holding in his hand an attractively bound book.
“Have you ever read ‘Through the Desert,’ by Sienkiewicz, Bobby?”
“No. But I just love any good story.”
“Here, take it. I’ll be busy for a while. The book is yours.”
“Mine for good?” cried Bobby, raising his eyes from the charming frontispiece.
“Of course.”
“Uncle, you’re a dandy!”
The dandy blushingly withdrew, and Bobby forthwith entered into that fairyland of childhood to be found in few books as in the one in his hand. Perhaps one of the strangest phenomena of child life is the power of complete absorption so many little ones possess when they read a good story. People may come and go, laugh, talk and carry on in various ways, while the child buried in his book follows the windings of the story as though he were alone on a desert island. Now for fully three quarters of an hour there went on in the guestroom a moving of furniture, loud hammering, excited conversation, and all manner of noises. But to Bobby’s ears came no sound, and time itself stood still.
When the four men, followed by Mr. Compton, the latter breathing hard and perspiring freely, issued forth, Bobby, seated in a chair with his legs curled under him, was buried in the precious volume. The four men gratefully received various coins and went their way, leaving Mr. Compton gazing wonderingly at the juvenile bookworm. So far as Bobby was concerned, he might without interruption have gone on gazing indefinitely.
“Bobby!” he finally called.
Bobby’s eyes remained fastened on the page.
“Bobby!” he bawled.
The boy raised his eyes.
“Oh, it’s great!” he said. “I’ve read fifty-four pages.”
“You have read enough. Come, I want to show you your room.”
“All right, uncle,” returned the boy, wistfully laying down the story. “You’ve stopped me in a most exciting part.”
Throwing open the guestroom door, Compton said, “Walk in; it’s all yours.”
With an attempt at enthusiasm, Bobby complied. In a moment the forced enthusiasm became genuine. A small shining brass bed, a snow-white counterpane, a case of books filled with the best juveniles, an electric railroad, a baseball equipment, a tiny rocker, an easy chair, and a variety of games—all these and more charmed his eyes into a new brightness and marshaled out upon his features a myriad elves of happiness.
Before Mr. Compton could prepare for the worst Bobby jumped into his arms and caught him a kiss square upon his unprepared mouth.
For two hours Bobby flitted from toy to game, from game to book. He was possibly at that moment the happiest boy in the State of California.
“Now, look you, Bobby, it’s ten o’clock. Don’t you think you might give that bed a tryout?”
“Why, I never thought of that! Gee, but I’m tired!”
Mr. Compton thought, as he closed the door upon his ward, that his dealings with the boy were over till morning. He was mistaken. Presently, clad in rainbow pajamas, Bobby came forth.
“Now I’m ready,” he declared.
“Well, if you’re ready, why don’t you go to bed?”
“Ready,” explained the child, with reproach in his eyes, “for my night prayers.”
“Oh!” exclaimed the comedian. “I never thought of that!”
The lad’s curling lip warned Mr. Compton that his remark was not particularly happy.
“Of course, of course!” he added hastily. “How very absent-minded I am getting! By all means, Bobby, go on and say your prayers.”
As Mr. Compton thus spoke he was lying restfully on a lounge, a cigar in his mouth, a newspaper in his hands, and, within easy reach, a glass filled almost to the brim with a golden liquid. What was his surprise, thus situated, when Bobby plumped down on his knees and, planting his elbows in the softest part of the comedian’s anatomy, made the sign of the cross and recited the Our Father, the Hail Mary, and the Acts. And he did not stop there. Raising his sweet voice a little higher, and glancing during the first line about the walls of the room, Bobby recited: