There was no need for Ruth and Alice to ask their father what had happened. One look at his ashen face when he came home from the theater was enough.
"Oh, Daddy!" cried Alice. "Couldn't you make it go?"
He answered with a shake of the head. The strain of the rehearsal had pained him.
"Did—did they put in someone else?" asked Ruth.
"Yes, I'm out of it for good—at least for this engagement."
"The mean things!" burst out Alice "I think that Mr. Cross is rightly named. I wish I could tell him so, too!"
"Alice!" reproved Ruth, gently.
"I don't care!" cried the younger girl, her brown eyes sparkling. "The idea of not waiting a few days with their show until papa was better; and he the leading man, too."
"They couldn't wait, Alice, my dear," explained Mr. DeVere. "Cross did all he could for me, and allowed me two days. But it is out of the question. Dr. Rathby was right. I need a long rest—and I guess I'll have to take it whether I want to or not."
Then, seeing the anxious looks on the faces of his daughters, he went on, in more cheerful, though in no less husky tones:
"Now don't worry, girls. There'll be some way out of this. If I can't act I can do something else. I'm well and strong, for which I must be thankful. I'm not ill and, aside from my voice, nothing is the matter. I'll look for a place doing something else beside stage work, until my voice is restored. Then I'll take up my profession again. Come, there is nothing to worry about."
There was—a-plenty; but he chose to ignore it for the time being. He knew, as well as did the girls, that there was little money left, and that pressing bills must soon be met. Added to them, now, would be one from the physician and Mr. DeVere would need more medical attention.
"I'm going to start out, the first thing in the morning, and look for a place," went on the actor.
"Oh, but you must be careful of your voice," said Alice. "If you don't you may harm it permanently."
"Oh I'll be careful," her father promised. "I'll take along a pad and pencil, and pretend to be dumb. But I'll speak if it's absolutely necessary. Now that there is no particular object in holding myself for the place in 'A Matter of Friendship,' and with the strain of rehearsal over, I won't be so afraid of talking. Yes, in the morning I'll start out."
"I wish we could start out," said Alice to Ruth in the latter's room, later that night. "Why can't we do something to earn money?"
"We may have to—if it comes to that," agreed Ruth. "There are some bills that must be paid or——"
"Or what, Sister?"
"Never mind, don't you worry. Perhaps it will come out all right, after all. Father may get a place. He knows many persons in the theatrical business, and if he can't get behind the footlights he may get a place in front—in the box office, or something like that."
"Fancy poor father, with all his talents as an actor, taking tickets, though!"
"Well, it will be a humiliation, of course,"agreed Ruth. "But what can be done? We have to live."
"Oh, if only I were a boy!" cried Alice, with a flash of her brown eyes. "I'd do something then!"
"What would you do?" asked Ruth.
"I—I'd turn the crank of a moving picture machine if I couldn't get anything else to do. Look at Russ—he earns good money at the business."
"Yes, I know. But we can't be boys, Alice."
"No—more's the pity. But I'm going to do something!"
"What, Alice? Nothing rash, I hope," said the older sister, quickly. "You know father—"
"Oh, don't worry. I won't cause any sensation. But I'm going to do something. There's no use in two strong, healthy girls sitting around, and letting poor old daddy, with a voice like a crow's, doing all the work and worrying."
"No, I agree with you, and if there is anything I could do I'd do it."
"That's it!" exclaimed Alice, petulantly. "Girls ought to be brought up able to do something so they could earn their living if they had to, instead of sitting around doing embroideryor tinkling on the piano. I wouldn't know even how to clerk in a store if I had to."
"I hope you won't have to, Alice."
"So do I. I shouldn't like it, but there are worse things than that. I know what I am going to do, though."
"What?"
"I'm going to look through the advertisements in the paper to-morrow, and start out after the most promising places."
"Oh, Alice!"
"Well, what else is there to be done?" asked the younger girl, fiercely. "We've got to live. We've got to have a place to stay, and we've got to pay the bills that are piling up. Can you think of anything else to do?"
"No, but something may—turn up."
"I'm not going to wait for it. I'm not like Mr. Micawber. I'm going out and turn up something for myself. There's one thing I can do, and that's manicure. I could get a place at that, maybe," and Alice looked at her pretty and well-kept nails, while Ruth glanced at her own hands.
"Yes, dear, you do that nicely. But isn't it—er—rather common?"
"All work is 'common,' I suppose. It's also common to starve—but I'm not going to do it ifI can help it. Good-night!" and she flounced into her own room.
"Oh, dear!" sighed Ruth. "I wish Alice were not so—so lively" and she cried softly before she fell asleep.
Mr. DeVere was up early the next morning. He seemed more cheerful, though his voice, if anything, was hoarser and more husky than ever.
"Here's where I start out to seek my fortune!" he said raspingly, though cheerfully, after a rather scanty breakfast. "I'll come back with good news—never fear!"
He kissed the girls good-bye, and went off with a gay wave of his hand.
"Brave daddy!" murmured Ruth.
"Yes, he is brave," said Alice "and we've got to be brave, too."
"Where are you going?" asked Ruth, as she saw her sister dressing for the street.
"Out."
"Out where? I must know."
"Well, if you must, I'm going to make the rounds of the manicuring parlors."
"Oh, Alice, I hate to have you do it. Some of those places where men go——"
"I'm only going to apply at the ladies' parlors."
"Oh, well, I—I suppose it's the only thing to do."
"And if worse comes to worst!" cried Alice, gaily, "I'll get some orange-sticks and we'll stew them for soup. It can't be much worse than boot-leg consomme."
"Oh, Alice!" cried Ruth. "You are hopeless."
"Hopeless—but not—helpless!Auf Wiedersehen!"
But in spite of her gay laugh as she closed the hall door after her, Alice DeVere's face wore a look of despondency. She knew how little chance she stood in New York—in big New York.
And perhaps it was this despondent look that caused Russ Dalwood to utter an exclamation as he met her down at the street door of the apartment house.
"What's the matter?" Alice replied to his startled ejaculation. "Is my hat on crooked; or did one of my feathers get into your eye? Foolish styles; aren't they?"
"No—nothing like that; only you looked—say, Alice, has anything happened?"
"Yes, Russ, there is something the matter," replied Alice, frankly. "Do you know of anybody who wants a young lady to do anything—that a young lady, such as I, could do?"
He laughed.
"I'm serious," she said, and a glance at her pretty face confirmed this. There was a resolute look in her brown eyes.
"Are you looking for work?" Russ asked.
"I am. I was thinking of trying to be a manicurist——"
He made a gesture of disapproval.
"Well, what can I do? I must do something. Poor daddy's voice has failed utterly. He can't take his new part in the play unless he does it in pantomime, and I'm afraid that would hardly be the thing. He simply can't speak his lines, though he can act them."
"That's too bad," said Russ, sympathetically.
"So they had to get another actor in his place," went on Alice, "and poor father has started out to look for something else to do. That's my errand this morning, also."
Russ was in deep thought for a moment. Then he exclaimed:
"I have it!"
"What? A place for me?" demanded Alice. "Tell me at once, and I'll hurry there."
"No, Alice, not a place for you; but a placefor your father. You say he can't speak, but he can act?"
"Yes."
"Then the movies is the very place for him! He won't have to say a word—just move his lips. He can act parts in photoplays as well as if he never had a voice. I just thought of it. It will be the very thing he can do. Say, I'm glad I met you. We must get busy with this at once.
"Come on! I'm on my way now to see about my new patent, and I can take you to the manager of the film company. I know him well. I'm sure he'll give your father a place in the company, and it pays well. If Mr. DeVere can't act at the New Columbia he can in the movies! Come on!"
Filled with enthusiasm over his new project for aiding Mr. DeVere, Russ Dalwood caught Alice by the hand, and guided her steps with his. She had been about to turn off at a corner, to carry out her intention of seeking employment in one of the many manicure parlors on a certain street. Now she hesitated.
"Well," asked Russ, impatiently, "don't you like the idea?"
"Oh, it's fine—it's splendid of you!" Alice replied, with fervor, "but you know——"
She hesitated, her cheeks taking on a more ruddy hue. There was an uncertain look in her brown eyes.
"Well, what?" asked Russ, smilingly. "Surely you don't mind going with me to the manager's office? It's a public place. Lots of girls go there, looking for engagements."
"Oh, no, it isn't that!" she hastened to assure him.
"Or, if you don't like going with me, I can give you a note to Mr. Pertell, the manager. I know him quite well, as I've been negotiating with him about my patent."
"Oh, Russ, you know it isn't that!" she exclaimed.
"And, if you like, we'll go back and get Ruth. Maybe that would be better!" he exclaimed eagerly, and as Alice looked into his honest gray eyes she read his little secret, and smiled at him understandingly.
"Oh, never that!" she cried gaily. "Ruth would be the last one in the world to be let into this secret, until it is more assured of success. Besides, I guess when you walk with Ruth you don't want me," she challenged.
"Oh, now——" he began.
"That's all right. I understand," she laughed at him. "No, we won't tell Ruth."
"Then you'll go and see the manager—I know he'll give your father a trial, and that's all that's needed, for I'm sure he can do the acting. And they're always looking for new characters. Come on!"
Once more, in his enthusiasm, he tried to lead her down the street. But she hung back.
"No, really, Russ," she said earnestly enough now, and her eyes took on a more grave andserious look. "It isn't that. It's only—well, I might as well tell you, though it may be rather mean after your kindness. But my father thinks the movies are so—so vulgar! There—I've said it."
She looked at her companion anxiously. To her surprise Russ laughed.
"So, you were afraid of hurting my feelings; were you?" he asked.
"Yes," she answered, in a low voice.
"Nothing like that!" he assured her. "I've heard worse things than that said about the movies. But I want to tell you that you're wrong, and, with all due respect to him, your father is wrong too. There's nothing vulgar or low about the movies—except the price."
He was becoming really enthusiastic now. His voice rang, and his eyes sparkled.
"I'm not saying that because I make my living at them, either," Russ went on. "It's because it's true. The moving picture shows were once, perhaps, places where nice persons didn't go. But it's different now. All that has been changed. Why, look at Sarah Bernhardt, doing her famous plays before the camera? Even Andrew Carnegie consented to give one of his speeches in front of the camera, with a phonograph attachment, the other day."
"Did he, really?" cried Alice.
"He certainly did. And a lot of the best actors and actresses in this and other countries aren't ashamed to be seen in the movies. They're glad to do it, and glad to get the money, too, I guess," he added, with a grin.
"I think it would be the very thing for your father. Of course, if his voice had held out he might like it better to be an actor on the real stage. But in the movies he won't have to talk. He'll just have to act. Then, when his voice gets better, as I hope it will, he can take up the legitimate again."
"Oh, I know his heart is set on that!" exclaimed Alice.
"But don't you think he'd consider this?" asked Russ. He was very anxious to help—Alice could tell that.
"I—I'm afraid he wouldn't," confessed the girl. "He thinks the movies too common. I know, for I've heard him say so many times."
"They're not common!" defended Russ, sturdily. "The moving pictures are getting better and better all the while. Of course some poor films are shown, but they're gradually being done away with. The board of censorship is becoming more strict.
"Common! Why do you know that it costsas much as $20,000, sometimes, to stage one of the big plays—one with lots of outdoor scenes in it, burning buildings, railroad accidents made to order, and all that."
"Really?" cried Alice, her eyes now shining with excitement.
"That's right!" exclaimed Russ. "I'm just at the beginning of the business. I've learned the projecting end of it so far. Almost anyone can put the film in the machine, switch on the light, get the right focus and turn the handle. But it's harder to film a real drama with lots of excitement in it—outdoor stuff—cattle stampeded—the sports of cowboys—a fake Indian fight; it takes lots of grit to stand up in front of an oncoming troop of horsemen, and snap them until they get so close you can see the whites of their eyes. Then if they turn at the right time—well and good. But if there's a slip, and they ride into you—good-night! Excuse my slang," he added, hastily.
"Did that ever happen?" she asked, eagerly.
"Well, if not that, something near enough like it. I've heard the operators—those who take the negatives—tell of 'em many a time. That's what I'm going to be soon—a taker of the moving picture plays instead of just projecting them on the screen. Mr. Pertell has promised to give me achance. He's organizing some new companies.
"Just as soon as I get my patent perfected he's promised to put it on his machines. Then I'm going with his company."
"Did you hear any more about that man you say tried to steal your invention?" asked Alice.
"Who, Simp Wolley? Oh, yes, he's been sneaking around after me, and I told him what I thought of him. He's got another fellow in with him—Bud Brisket—and he's about the same type. But I'm not going to worry about it."
"Don't be too confident," warned Alice. "I've heard of many inventors whose patents were gotten away from them."
"Thanks, I'll be careful. But just now I'm interested in getting your father to take up this work. I know he'll like it, once he tries it. Won't you come and see the manager? I'm sure he'll give your father a trial."
Alice stood in deep thought for a moment. Then with a little gesture, as though putting the past behind her, she exclaimed:
"Yes, Russ, I will, and I thank you! I told Ruth I was going to do something, and I am. If father can get an engagement I won't have to go to work. Not that I'm ashamed to work—I love it!" she added hastily. "But I wouldn't like to be a public manicurist, and that's the onlysituation that seemed open to me. I will go see your manager, Russ, and I'll do my best to get father to take up this work. It's quite different from what I thought it was."
"I knew you'd say that," chuckled Russ. "Come on."
"What would Ruth say if she saw me now?" Alice asked, as she and Russ walked off together. "She would certainly think I was defying all conventionality."
"Don't worry." Russ advised her. "It's the sensible thing to do. And I'll explain to Ruth, too."
"Oh, I believe you could explain to anyone!" Alice declared with enthusiasm. "You've made it so clear and different to me. But how do they make moving pictures?"
"You'll soon see," he answered. "We're going to one of the film studios now. This is about the time they begin to make the scenes. It's very interesting."
Soon they found themselves before a rather bare brick building. It had nothing of the look of a theater about it. There were no gaudy lithographs out in front, no big frames with the pictures of the actors and actresses, or of scenes from the plays. There was no box office—no tiled foyer. It might have been a factory. Alice'sface must have shown the surprise she felt, for Russ said:
"This is where the films are made. It's all business here. They make the inside scenes here—anything from the interior of a miner's shack to a ballroom in a king's palace. Of course, for outside scenes they go wherever the scenery best suits the story of the play. And here the film negatives are developed, and duplicate positives made for the projecting machines. This is Mr. Pertell's principal factory."
"Fancy a play-factory!" exclaimed Alice.
"That's exactly what it is—a play-factory," agreed Russ. "Come on in."
If Alice was surprised at the exterior appearance of the building the interior was more bewildering. They passed rapidly through the departments devoted to the mechanical end of the business—where the films were developed and printed. Russ promised to show her more of that later.
"We'll go right up to the theatre studio," he said.
Alice looked about the big room, that seemed filled with all sorts of scenery, parts of buildings, rustic bridges—in short, all sorts of "props." She had been behind the scenes often in some of the plays in which her father took part, so this wasnot startlingly new to her. Yet it was different from the usual theatre.
And such strange "business" seemed going on. There were men and women going through plays—Alice could tell that, but the odd part of it was that in one section of the room what seemed a tragedy in a mountain log cabin was being enacted; while, not ten feet away, was a parlor scene, showing men in evening dress, and women in ball costumes, gliding through the mazes of a waltz. Next to this was a scene representing a counterfeiter's den in some low cellar, with the police breaking through the door with drawn revolvers, to capture the criminals.
And in front of these varied scenes stood a battery of queer cameras—moving picture cameras, looking like flat fig boxes with a tube sticking out, and a handle on one side, at which earnest-faced young men were vigorously clicking.
And, off to one side, stood several men in their shirt sleeves superintending the performances. They gave many directions.
"No, not that way! When you faint, fall good and hard, Miss Pennington!"
"Hurry now, Mr. Switzer; get in some of that funny business! Look funny; don't act as though this was your funeral!"
"Come on there Mr. Bunn; this isn't 'Hamlet.' You needn't stalk about that way. There's no grave in this!"
"Hold on, there! Cut that part out. Stop the camera; that will have to be done over. There's no life in it!"
And so it went on, in the glaring light that filtered in through the roof, composed wholly of skylights, while a battery of arc lamps, in addition, on some of the scenes, poured out their hissing glare to make the taking of the negatives more certain.
Alice was enthralled by it all. She stood close to Russ's side, clasping his arm. Many of the men engaged in taking the pictures knew the young operator, and nodded to him in friendly fashion, as they hurried about. Some of the actors and actresses, too, bowed to the young fellow and smiled. He seemed a general favorite.
"Isn't it wonderful?" whispered Alice. "I had no idea the making of a moving picture was anything like this!"
"I thought you'd change your mind," replied Russ, with a laugh. "But you haven't seen half of it yet. Here comes Mr. Pertell now. I'll speak to him about your father."
Alice liked the appearance of Mr. Pertell, manager of the Comet Film Company, from her first glimpse of him. He seemed so sturdy, kind and wholesome. He was in his shirt sleeves, and his clothing was in almost as much disorder as his ruffled hair. But there was a kindly gleam in his snapping eyes, and a firm look about his mouth that showed his character.
"Oh, Mr. Pertell, can you spare a moment?" Russ called to him.
"Oh, hello, Russ; is that you?" was the cordial greeting. "How is the patent? I could use it if I had it now. Spare a minute? Yes, several of 'em. They've spoiled that one act and it's got to be done over. I don't see why they can't do as they're told instead of injecting a lot of new business into the thing! I've got to sit stilland do nothing now for ten minutes while they fix that scene up over again. Go ahead, Russ—what can I do for you?"
He sat down on an overturned box, and motioned for Russ and Alice to occupy adjoining ones. Clearly there was not much ceremony about this manager. He was like others Alice had observed behind the scenes in real theatres, except that he did not appear so irascible.
"This is Miss Alice DeVere," began Russ, "and she has come to you about her father. He has lost his voice, and she and I think he might fit in some of your productions, where you don't need any talking."
"Yes, sometimes the less talking in the movies the better," agreed Mr. Pertell. "But you do need acting. Can your father act, Miss?"
"He is Hosmer DeVere," broke in Russ. "He was with the New Columbia Theatre Company. They were to open in 'A Matter of Friendship,' but Mr. DeVere's throat trouble made him give it up."
"Hosmer DeVere! Yes, I've heard of him, and I've seen him act. So he wants an engagement here; eh?"
"Oh, it isn't exactly that!" interrupted Alice, eagerly. "He—he doesn't know a thing about it yet."
"He doesn't know about it?" repeated the manager, wonderingly.
"No. He—I—Oh, perhaps you'd better tell him, Russ," she finished.
"I will," Russ agreed, with a smile. And, while Alice looked at some of the other dramas being enacted before the clicking eyes of the cameras, her companion told how it had been planned to overcome the prejudice of Mr. DeVere and get him to try his art with the "movies."
Alice was tremendously interested, and looked on with eager eyes as the actors and actresses enacted their rôles. Some of them spoke, now and then, as their lines required it, for it has been found that often audiences can read the lips of the players on the screen. But there was no need for any loud talking—in fact, no need of any at all—whispering would have answered. Indeed some actors find that they can do better work without saying a word—merely using gestures. Others, who have long been identified with the legitimate drama, find it hard to break away from the habit of years and speak their lines aloud.
"Oh, I'm sure father would like this," thought Alice. "And he wouldn't have to use his poor throat at all. I must tell him all about it."
She looked at two girls—they did not seemmuch older than herself and Ruth, who were playing a scene in a "society" drama. They were both pretty, but Alice thought they were rather too flippant in manner when out of the scene. They laughed and joked with the other actors, and with the machine men.
But the latter were too busy focusing their cameras, and getting all that went on in the scenes, to pay much attention to anything else. The least slip meant the spoiling of many feet of film, and while this in itself was not so expensive, it often meant the making of a whole scene over again at a great cost.
"Well," Mr. Pertell said at length, "I am greatly interested in Mr. DeVere. I know him to be a good actor, and I greatly regret his affliction. I think I can use him in some of these plays. Can he ride a horse—does he know anything about cowboy life, or miners?" he asked Alice.
"Oh, I'm sure daddy wouldn't want to do any outdoor plays," the girl exclaimed. "He is so used to theatrical scenes."
"Well, I might keep him in "parlor" drama," Mr. Pertell remarked. "Please tell him to come and see me," he went on. "I would like to talk to him."
"Thank you, so much!" returned Alice, gratefully. "I shall tell him, and—well, there's no use saying I'm sure he'll come," she went on with a shrug of her shoulders. "It's going to be rather difficult to break this to him. It—it's so—different from what he has been used to."
"I can understand," responded Mr. Pertell. "But I think if he understood he would like it. Tell him to come here and see how we do things."
"I will!" Alice promised.
Russ escorted her to the street, and then, as he had to see about some changes in the working of his proposed patent, he bade her good-bye. She said she would find her way home all right.
"Well?" asked Ruth, as Alice entered the apartment a little later, "did you do anything rash?"
"Perhaps!" Alice admitted, as she took off her hat, jabbed the pins in it and tossed it to one chair, while she sank into another.
"Oh, Alice! You—aren't going to be one of those—manicures; are you?"
"I hope not, though there are lots worse things. A manicure can be just as much a lady as a typist. But, Ruth, I have such news for you! I have found an engagement for dad!"
"An engagement for daddy?"
"Yes. In the movies! Listen. Oh, it was so exciting!"
Then, with many digressions, and in rather piece-meal manner, interrupting herself often to go back and emphasize some point she had forgotten, Alice told of her morning trip with Russ. She enlarged on the manner in which the moving pictures were made, until Ruth grew quite excited.
"Oh, I wish I could see how it is done!" she cried.
"You may—when dad takes this engagement," said Alice.
"He never will," declared her sister. "You know what he thinks of the movies."
"But he thinks wrong!" exclaimed Alice. "It's so different from what I thought."
"He'll never consent," repeated Ruth. "Hark! Here he comes now. Perhaps he has found something to do."
Footsteps were heard coming along the hallway. Alice glanced at the table before which her sister was sitting.
"What are you doing?" she asked.
"Looking over our bills, and trying to make five dollars do the work of fifteen," answered Ruth, with a wry smile. "Money doesn't stretch well," she added.
Mr. DeVere came in. It needed but a look at his face to show that he had been unsuccessful, but Ruth could not forbear asking:
"Well, Daddy?"
"No good news," he answered, hoarsely. "I could hardly make myself understood, and there seem few places where one can labor without using one's voice. I never appreciated that before."
"But I have found a place!" cried Alice, with girlish enthusiasm. "I have a place for you Daddy, where you won't have to speak a word."
"Where—where is it?" he whispered, and they both noted his pitiful eagerness.
"In the movies!" Alice went on. "Oh, it's the nicest place! I've been there, and the manager——"
"Not another word!" exclaimed Mr. DeVere. "I never would consent to acting in the moving pictures. I would not so debase my profession—a profession honored by Shakespeare. I never would consent to it. The movies! Never!"
There was a knock at the door.
"I'll see who it is," offered Ruth, with a sympathetic glance at Alice, who seemed distressed. Then, as Ruth saw who it was, she drew back. "Oh!" she exclaimed, helplessly.
"Who is it?" asked Mr. DeVere, rising.
"I've come for the rent!" exclaimed a rasping voice. "This is about the tenth time, I guess.Have you got it?" and a burly man thrust himself into the room from the hall.
"The rent—Oh!" murmured Mr. DeVere, helplessly. "Let me see; have we the rent ready, Ruth?"
"No," she answered, with a quick glance at the table where she had been going over the accounts, and where a little pile of bills lay. "No, we haven't the rent—to-day."
"And I didn't expect you'd have it," sneered the man. "But I've come to tell you this. It's either pay your rent or——" He paused significantly and nodded in the direction of the street.
"Three days more—this is the final notice," and thrusting a paper into the nerveless hand of Mr. DeVere, the collector strode out.
Mr. DeVere sank into a chair. Ruth looked distressed as her father glanced over the dispossess notice, for such it was. But on the face of Alice there was a triumphant smile. For she saw that this was the very thing needed to arouse her father to action. Despite the distastefulness of the work, she felt sure he would come finally to like acting before the camera.
The collector's call had been very opportune, though it was embarrassing.
"This—this," said Mr. DeVere, haltingly—"this is very—er—very unfortunate. Then we are behind with the rent, Ruth?"
"Yes, Dad. You know I told you——"
"Yes, I suppose so," he added, with a sigh. "I had forgotten. There have been so many things——"
He was lost in thought for a moment.
"Do we owe much more, Ruth?" he asked.
"Quite some, Daddy. But don't worry. You are not well, and——"
"No, I am not well. I feel very poorly, but it is mainly mental, and not physical—except for my throat. And even that does not really hurt. It is only—only that I cannot speak."
His voice trailed off into a hoarse whisper, which the girls could barely distinguish.
"I—I must find something to do," went on the stricken actor. "I'll go out again this afternoon. Let us have a little lunch and I will try again. I'll do anything——"
"Then, Daddy, why don't you let me tell about the moving pictures?" broke in Alice. "I'm sure——"
"Alice, dear, you know that isn't in my line," replied her father. "It is very good of you to suggest it; but it will not do. I could not bring myself to it——"
He paused, and looked dejectedly at the dispossess notice in his hand.
"I—I could not do it," he added with a sigh. "I must try to get something in the line of my profession. Perhaps I might get a place in some dramatic school. I have trained you girls in the rudiments of acting, and I'm sure I could do it with a larger class. I did not think of it before. Get me some lunch, Ruth, and I'll go out again."
"But what about the rent?" asked Alice. "We can't be put out on the street, Dad."
"No, I suppose not. I'll see Mr. Cross, and get another loan. I'll pay him back out of my first salary. We must have a roof over us. Oh, girls, I am so sorry for you!"
"Don't worry about us, Daddy! You just get better and take care of your throat!" urged Alice. "You might try the movies, just for a little while, and then——"
"Never! Never!" he interrupted with vigor. "I could not think of it!"
Again there came a knock at the door.
"I'll go," offered Alice.
"No, let me," said Ruth, quickly.
She slipped out into the hall, and closed the door after her. There was a low murmur of voices, gradually growing louder on the part of the unseen caller. Ruth seemed pleading. Then Mr. DeVere and Alice heard:
"It's no use. The boss says he won't send around any more meat until the bill is paid. He told me to tell you he couldn't wait any longer—that's all there is to it!"
"Oh!" 'said Alice, in a low voice.
"What does that mean?" asked Mr. DeVere, from the reverie into which he had fallen.
"I think it means," replied Alice, with a laughin which there was little mirth, "think it means that we won't have any meat for lunch, Dad."
"Bless my soul!" exclaimed the actor.
Ruth came in with flushed face.
"Who was it?" asked her father, though there was no need.
"Only the butcher's boy. He said——"
"We heard," interrupted Alice, significantly. "Have we any eggs?" she asked, grimly.
"This—this is positively too much!" said Mr. DeVere. "I shall tell that meat man——"
"I'm afraid he wouldn't listen to you, Daddy," interposed Ruth, gently. "We do owe him quite a bill. I suppose we can't blame him," and she sighed.
"I—I'll go at once and see Mr. Cross, my former manager," exclaimed Mr. DeVere. "He will make me a loan, I'm sure. Then I'll pay this butcher bill, and tell the insulting fellow that we shall seek a new tradesman."
"Then there's the rent, Daddy," said Ruth, in a low voice.
"Oh, yes—the rent. I forgot about that." The dispossess notice rustled in his hand. "The rent—Oh, yes. That must be paid first. I—I will have to get a larger loan. Well, get me what lunch you can, Ruth, my dear, and I'll go out at once."
Alice did not say "movies" again, not even when the very modest and frugal lunch was set. And it was about the "slimmest" meal, from a housekeeper's standpoint, that had ever graced the DeVere table, used as they had become to scanty rations of late. Mr. DeVere said little, but he appeared to be doing considerable thinking and Alice allowed him to do it without interruption. She seemed to know how, and when, to hold her tongue.
When he had gone out Ruth and Alice talked matters over. First they counted up what money they had, and figured how far it would go. If they paid the rent they would not have enough to live on for a week, and food was almost as vital a necessity as was a place to stay. There were other pressing bills, in addition to those of the butcher and the landlord.
"Don't you see, Ruth, that daddy's going into the movies will be our only salvation?" asked Alice.
"It does seem so. Yet could he do it?"
"He could—if he would. I saw some very poor actors there to-day."
"But is the pay sufficient?"
"It is very good, Russ says. And it increases with the fame of the actor. I wish I could get into the movies myself."
"Alice DeVere!"
"I don't care; I do! It's just lovely, I think. You don't have to act before a whole big audience that is staring at you. Just some nice men, in their shirt sleeves, turning cranks——"
"In their shirt sleeves?"
"Why, yes. It's quite warm, with all those arc lights glowing, you know. And besides, what are shirt sleeves? Didn't dad act in his during the duel scene in "Lord Graham's Secret?" Of course he did! Shirt sleeves are no disgrace. Oh, Ruth, what are we to do, anyhow? What is to become of us?"
Alice put her head down on the table.
"There, dear, don't cry," urged her sister. "There must be a way out. Father will get a loan—his voice will come back, and——"
"It will be too late," replied Alice, in a low voice. "We will be put out—disgraced before all the neighbors! I can't stand it. I'm going to do something!"
She arose quickly, and there was a look on her face that caused Ruth to give start and to cry out:
"Alice! What do you mean?"
"I mean I'm going to see Russ Dalwood and ask him if I can't get work in the movies. If father won't, I will! And I'll ask Russ for theloan of some money. I can pay him back when I get my salary!"
"Alice, I'll never let you do that!" and Ruth planted herself before the door.
For a tense moment the sisters confronted each other.
"But we—we must do something," faltered Alice.
"Yes, but not that—at least, not yet. We have some pride left. Wait—wait until father comes back."
With a gesture Alice consented. She sank wearily into a chair.
It was tedious waiting. The girls talked but little—they had no heart for it. Around them hummed the noise of the apartment house. Noises came to them through the thin, cheap walls. The crying of babies, the quarrels of a couple in the flat back of them, the wheeze of a rusty phonograph, and the thump-thump of a playerpiano, operated with every violation of the musical code, added to the nerve-racking din.
Ruth made a gesture of despair.
"Beautiful!" murmured Alice as the paper roll in the mechanical piano got a "kink," and played a crash of discords. Ruth covered her ears with her hands.
There was a step in the corridor.
"There's father!" exclaimed Ruth.
"I wonder what success he had negotiating a loan?" observed Alice.
Mr. DeVere entered wearily.
The girls waited for him to speak, and it was with an obvious effort that he croaked:
"I—I didn't get it. Mr. Cross wouldn't even see me. He sent out word that he was too busy. He is getting ready for the first performance of 'A Matter of Friendship,' to-night."
"A matter of friendship," repeated Alice. "What a play on the words!"
"I sent in my card," explained Mr. DeVere, "and told him I must have a little money. He sent back word that he was sorry, but that he had invested so much in the play that he could spare none."
There was a period of silence. The girls looked pityingly at their father.
"Something must be done," he declared, finally. "I can try elsewhere. I will go see——"
A knock at the door interrupted him. Before Alice could speak Ruth had gained it. She tried to close it, but was not in time to prevent the caller from being heard.
"The boss says there's no use orderin' any more groceries, until youse has paid for whatyouse has got," said a coarse voice. "Take it from me—nothin' doin'!"
"Oh!" Ruth was heard to murmur.
Mr. DeVere started from his chair.
"The insulting——" he began.
Alice touched him on the arm.
"Don't!" she begged, softly.
Mr. DeVere turned aside. He slipped his arm around Alice, and, as Ruth came in, with tears in her eyes, she, too, found a haven in her father's embrace. Then the actor spoke.
"Alice, dear," he faltered, "What is the address of that—that moving picture manager?"
Let it be said of Alice that, even in this moment of triumph, she did not gloat over her victory—for victory it was. Had she planned it, events could not have transpired to better purpose. The combination of circumstances had forced her father along the line of least resistance into the very path she would had chosen for him, and she felt in her soul that it was best.
But she did not say: "There, I knew you'd come to it, Daddy!" Many a girl would, and so have spoiled matters. Alice merely looked demurely at her father—and gave him the address.
The girl was perhaps wiser than her years would indicate, and certainly in this matter she was more resourceful than was Ruth. But then chance had played into her hands. That meeting with Russ had done much.
"Yes, I think I must come to it," sighed Mr.DeVere. "It is being forced on me—the movies. I never thought I would descend to them!"
"It isn't a fall at all, Daddy!" declared Alice, stoutly. "I'm glad you are going into them. You'll like them, I'm sure."
"The actors—and actresses—if one can call them such—who take parts in moving picture plays must be very—very crude sort of persons," he said.
"Not at all!" cried Alice. "I was there and saw them, and there were some as nice as you'd want to meet. They were real gentlemen and ladies, even if the men were in their shirt sleeves."
"But they can't act!" asserted Mr. DeVere. "I have seen bills up advertising the moving pictures—all they seemed to be doing—the so-called actors, I mean—was falling off horses, roping steers—I believe "roping" is the proper term—or else jumping off bridges or standing in the way of railroad trains. And they call that acting!"
"Oh, you wouldn't have to do that, Daddy!" cried Alice, with a laugh. "Mr Pertell is putting on some real dramas—just like society plays, you know. Of course all the scenes won't take place in a parlor, I suppose. You won't have to do outdoor work, though, and I'm sure youwon't have to catch a wild steer, or stop a runaway locomotive."
"I should hope not," he replied, with a tragic gesture.
"But that is real acting, all the same," went on Alice. In that little while she had come to have a great liking and interest in the moving picture side of acting. "You should see some of the scenes I saw. Why, Daddy, some of the men and women were just as good as some of the actors with whom you have been on the road."
"Oh, yes, if you include the road companies of the barn-storming days, perhaps," admitted Mr. DeVere. "But I refer to the real art of the drama, Alice. However, let us not discuss it. The subject is too painful. I have decided to take up the work, since I can do nothing else on account of my unfortunate voice—and I will do my best in the movies. It is due to myself that I should, and it is due to you girls that I provide for you in any way that I can."
"Oh, Dad!" exclaimed Ruth. "It is too bad if you have to sacrifice your art to mere bread and butter."
"Tut! Tut!" he exclaimed, smiling and holding up a chiding hand. "I don't look at it that way at all. I am not so foolish. Art may be a very nice thing, but bread and butter isbetter. We have to live, my dear. And, after all, my art is not so wonderful. I hope I have not exaggerated my worth to myself. I am very willing to try this new line, and I am very glad that Alice suggested it. Only it—it was rather a shock—at first. Now let us consider."
They talked it all over, and Alice went more into detail as to what she had seen at the moving picture theatre. Mr. DeVere grew more and more interested.
"It is very kind of Russ and Mr. Pertell to think of me," he said. "I will go and see this manager to-morrow."
The interview must have been a very satisfactory one, for Mr. DeVere returned from it with a smiling face—something he had not worn often since the failure of his voice.
"Well, Daddy?" queried Alice, as she entered the dining room, where she and Ruth were trying to make the most of a scanty supply of food. "How was it?"
For answer he pulled out a roll of bills—not a large one, but of a size to which the girls had not been accustomed of late.
"See, it is real money!" he cried, and he struck an attitude of one of the characters in which he had successfully starred. He was the old Hosmer DeVere once more.
"Where did you get it?" asked Ruth, with a little laugh. She foresaw that some of her housekeeping problems bade fair to be solved.
"It is an advance on my salary as a moving picture actor," he replied, hoarsely, but still with that same gay air. "See, I have put my other life behind me. Henceforth—or at least until my voice promises to behave," he went on, "I shall live, move and have my being on the screen. I have signed a contract with Mr. Pertell—a very fair contract, too, much more so than some I have signed with managers of legitimate theaters. This is part of my first week's salary. I have taken his money—there is no going back now. I have burned my bridges."
"And—are you sorry?" asked Alice, softly.
"No, little girl—no! I'm glad!" And truly he seemed so.
"Tell us about it," suggested Ruth, and he did—in detail.
"Then it wasn't so bad as you expected; was it, Daddy?" asked Alice.
"No, I found many of the company to be very fine characters, and some with exceptional ability. Mr. Wellington Bunn, by the way, is a man after my own heart."
"Oh, yes. He seemed very anxious to play Shakespeare," remarked Alice, with a smile."I heard Mr. Pertell caution him about not letting Hamlet get into the parlor scene they were presenting," and she laughed at the recollection.
"Of course it was rather new and strange to me," went on Mr. DeVere, "but I dare say I shall get accustomed to it. There were some of the young ladies, though, for whom I felt no liking—Miss Pearl Pennington, who plays light leads, and her friend, Miss Laura Dixon, the ingenue."
"They were in vaudeville until recently," remarked Alice. "So Russ told me. Miss Pennington seemed very pretty."
"Passably so," agreed Mr. DeVere. "Well, our living problem is solved for us, anyway. Now I must study my new part. It is to be a sort of society drama, and will be put on in a few days. Mr. Pertell gave me some instructions. I shall have to unlearn many things that are traditional with those who have played all their parts in a real theatre. It is like teaching an old dog new tricks, but I dare say I shall master them."
"You're not really old, Daddy!" said Alice, slipping her arms about him, and nestling her cheek against his.
"There—there!" he returned, indulgently, "don't try to flatter your old father. You are just like your dear mother. Run along now,I must take up this new work. What a relief not to have to declaim my lines! I shall only move my lips, and who knows but, in time, my voice may come back?"
"I hope it will," answered Ruth, with a sigh. Somehow she could not quite bring herself to like her father in moving picture rôles. Alice was entirely different.
"But, even if it does come back," said the younger girl, "you may like this new work so well, Dad, that you'll keep at it."
"Perhaps," he assented. "Here, Ruth, take care of this money—my first moving picture salary," and he handed her the bills.
As he went to his room with the typewritten sheets of his new part, Alice whispered to her sister:
"Hurray! Now we can have a real dinner. I'll go and buy out a delicatessen store."
The meal was a great success—not only from a gastronomic standpoint, but because of the jollity—real or assumed—of Mr. DeVere. He went over the lines of his new part, telling the girls how at certain places he was to "register," or denote, different emotions. "Register" is the word used in moving picture scenarios to indicate the showing of fear, hate, revenge or other emotion. All this must be done by facial expression or gestures, for of course no talking comes from the moving pictures—except in the latest kind, with a phonographic arrangement, and with that sort we are not dealing.
"Oh, I'm sure it will be fine!" cried Alice. "Can we go and see you act for the camera, Daddy?"
"Yes, I guess so," he replied. "Would you like it, Ruth?"
"I believe I should!" she exclaimed, with more interest than she had before shown. "It sounds interesting."
"Maybe we'll act ourselves, some day," added Alice.
"Oh, no!" protested her sister. "But let's sit down. The meal is spoiling. Oh!" she cried, with a hasty glance at the table. "Not a bit of salt. I forgot it. Alice, dear, just slip across the hall and borrow some from Mrs. Dalwood."
Humming, in the lightness of her heart, a little tune, Alice crossed to the apartment of their neighbor, not pausing after her first knock at the rear kitchen door.
She heard a rattling among the pots and pans, and naturally supposed Mrs. Dalwood was there.
"May we have some salt?" Alice called, as she entered the kitchen, but the next moment she drew back in surprise and fear, for a strange man,rising suddenly from under the sink, confronted her.
He, too, seemed startled.
"Oh—Oh!" gasped Alice. "Isn't Mrs. Dalwood here?"
"I—I believe not," stammered the man. "I—I'm the plumber—there's a leak——"
"Oh, excuse me," murmured Alice, but even in her embarrassment she could not help thinking that the man looked like anything but a plumber. She backed out of the kitchen, after picking up a salt cellar, and was more startled as she observed the man following her.
Alice was racking her brain to recall where she had seen the man before. If he was a plumber, as he said he was, it might be that he had been in the apartment house on other occasions to repair breaks. But Alice was not certain.
"And yet I've seen him before, and lately, too," she thought. The girls was in the hall, now. The man, who seemed ill at ease, had followed and stood near.
"The leak wasn't a bad one; it is repaired now," he said.
"I—I didn't know Mrs. Dalwood was out," faltered Alice. And then, as the man turned to go down the stairs, like a flash it came to her who he was.
"The man Russ had the trouble with that day—Simp Wolley—who tried to get his patent!" Alice almost spoke the words aloud.
"The—the leak is fixed," the man went on.
"You—you—" stammered Alice. But the man did not stay to hear, but hurried downstairs.
Alice burst in on her sister and father.
"Oh!" she exclaimed. "That man—he—he was in the Dalwood kitchen!"
"What man?" asked Mr. DeVere, starting forward.
"The one who was after Russ's patent! Quick, can't you get him?"
Mr. DeVere ran into the hall, but the man had gone. The Dalwood kitchen door was still open, and a hasty look through the apartment showed none of the family could be at home.
"Could he have stolen the patent?" cried Alice, when the excitement had quieted down.
"We can't tell until Russ comes home," replied her father. "I'll leave our door ajar, and we can hear if anyone goes into the Dalwood rooms. As soon as some of them return we will tell them what has taken place."
Alice helped herself to the needed salt, and the meal began, with pauses now and then to learn if there was any movement in the flat across the hallway. Presently footsteps were heard, and proved to be those of Russ himself.
"Plumber!" he exclaimed. "So he was masquerading as that; eh?" the moving pictureoperator exclaimed when Alice told him what had occurred. "You're right, he was after my patent," and a worried look came over his face.
"Did he get it?" asked Ruth, anxiously.
"No, for it isn't here. The model is at a machine shop on the East Side, and several of the attachments are being made from it to be tested."
"Then it's all right," declared Alice, in a tone of relief.
"Yes—and no," returned Russ. "It's all right, for the time being, but I don't like what has happened. Simp Wolley must be getting desperate to come here in broad daylight and rummage the house under the pretense of being a plumber. It shows, too, that he must be watching this place, or he wouldn't have known when I went out."
"Hadn't you better notify the police?" suggested Mr. DeVere.
"I'll think about it," agreed Russ. "Of course he hasn't really done anything yet that they could arrest him for, unless coming into our apartment without being invited is illegal, and he could wriggle out of a charge of that sort. No, I'll keep my eyes open. In a little while, after I obtain my patent, and the attachment is on the market, he can't bother me. But I don't mind admitting that I'm worried."
"Then sit down and have something to eat with us," urged Alice, and Ruth, with a nod and a blush, seconded the request. "You'll be eating some of your own salt, anyhow," Alice suggested, in fun.
Russ lost a little of his apprehensive air as the meal progressed. Perhaps it was because Ruth sat opposite. Alice said as much to her sister afterward, when they were getting ready for bed.
"Don't be silly!" was Ruth's sole reply.
Mr. DeVere attended several rehearsals at the moving picture theater and, one morning, said:
"Girls, how would you like to come and see me in my new rôle? We have a dress rehearsal to-day, so to speak, and we'll "film" the play, as they call it, to-morrow."
"Oh, let's go, Ruth!" cried Alice, clapping her hands. "I know you'll enjoy it!"
"I'm sure I will," agreed Ruth. Her attitude toward the movies was also changing.
Together father and daughters went. It did Alice good to see how Mr. DeVere was welcomed by his fellow actors. He had already made himself friendly with most of them.
As Alice and Ruth came into the big studio,where a battery of cameras were clicking away, the two girls became aware of the looks cast at them by those not actually engaged in some scene. And, while most of the looks were friendly, those from two of the players were not.
Miss Pennington and Miss Dixon, standing together at one side of a section of a log cabin, whispered to each other.
"Ah, Mr. DeVere!" called Mr. Pertell. "Glad you're here; we were waiting for you."
"I hope I'm not late!" replied the actor, huskily, with a proper regard for not delaying a rehearsal.
"Oh, no. You're ahead of time if anything, and I'm glad of it. We'll have to set the smuggling play aside for a time. One of my men isn't here, and I can slip in your scenes now, and be that much ahead. So if you'll get ready we'll go on with 'A Turn of the Card.'"
"Yes, Mr. Pertell—certainly. Let me present you to my daughters. I believe you have met one."
"Yes—Miss Alice. I am glad to know the other one," and he bowed to Ruth. Then he hurried away. Mr. Pertell always seemed to be in a hurry.
Mr. DeVere went to his dressing room to don the costume of the character he was to represent—a wealthy banker—and Ruth and Alice gazed with interest at the various scenes going on about them.
While there were many persons connected with the Comet Film Company, there were certain principals who did most of the work. Among them, excepting Mr. DeVere, was Wellington Bunn, an old-time actor, who had long aspired to Hamlet, but who had given it up for the more certain income of the movies. Then there was Mrs. Margaret Maguire (on the bills as Cora Ashleigh) who did "old women" parts, and did them exceedingly well. She had two grandchildren, Tommy and Nellie, who were often cast for juvenile rôles.
Carl Switzer was a joy to know. A German, with an accent that was "t'icker dan cheese," to use his own expression, he was a fund of happy philosophy under the most adverse circumstances. And on his round face was always a smile. He did the "comic relief," when it was needed, which was often.
Exactly opposite him in character was Pepper Sneed, the "grouch" of the company. Nothing ever went the way Pepper wanted it to go, from the depiction of a play to the meals he ate. No wonder he had dyspepsia. He was always apprehensive of something going to happen andwhen it did—well, they used to say that Pepper was the original "I told you so!"
Pearl Pennington and Laura Dixon have already been mentioned. Paul Ardite, who played opposite to Miss Dixon, was a good looking chap, with considerable ability. It was rumored that he and the ingenue—but there, I am not supposed to tell secrets.
Had it not been for "Pop" Snooks, I am sure the Comet Film Company would never have enjoyed the success it did. For Pop was the property man—the one of all work and little play. On him devolved the task of manufacturing at short notice anything from a castle to a police station.
And the best part of it was that Pop could do it. He was ingenuity itself, and they tell the story yet of how, when on the theatrical circuit, he made a queen's throne out of two cheese boxes and a board, and a little later in the same play, made from the same materials a very serviceable dog-cart.
As usual in the studio, several plays were going on at the same time—or, rather, parts of plays.
"Come on now!" called Mr. Pertell, sharply. "Get ready for that safe robbery scene. Pop, where's that safe?"
"It's being used as part of the wall in the dungeon in that 'Lord Scatterwait' scene," answered the property man.
"Well, hustle it over here, and get something else for the dungeon wall. I need that safe."
"That's the way it goes!" grumbled Pop as he scurried about. But that was all the fault he found, and presently the hole in the dungeon wall, caused by the removal of the safe with a painted canvas on it to represent stones, was filled by some boards taken from a fence used in a rural love drama.
"I say now, dot's not right!" spluttered Mr. Switzer, who as a country boy was making love to a country lass, (Miss Dixon). "Dot's not right, Pop. You dake our fence avay, und vat I goin' t' lean on ven I makes eyes at Miss Dixon? Ve got t' haf dot fence, yet!"
"I'll make you another in a minute!" cried Pop. "You don't go on for ten minutes."
"Mine gracious! Vot a business!" exclaimed the German, his round face showing as much woe as he ever allowed it to depict. "Dot vos a fine fence, mit der evening-glory vines trailing 'round mit it. Ach, yah!"
"Never mind," said Miss Dixon, "Pop will fix us up," and while she was waiting she strolled over to where Paul Ardite was talking to Alice.Russ Dalwood had come in and had greeted Ruth and Alice, and then, in response to an unseen gesture from Paul, had introduced him. Both girls liked the young fellow, who seemed quite interested in Alice.
"Are you going to play parts here?" asked Miss Dixon, with the freemasonry of the theater, speaking without being introduced.
"Oh, no!" replied Ruth, quickly. "We just came to see my father."
"Maybe they think they're too good for the movies," sneered Pearl Pennington, but only Russ heard her, and he glanced at her sharply.
"All ready for 'A Turn of the Card' now!" called Mr. Pertell, as Mr. DeVere came out of his dressing room. "Is your camera all ready, Russ?" for Russ had obtained a place with the film company, and had given up his position in the little moving picture theatre.
"All ready," was the answer. "I've got a thousand-foot reel in."
"Well, I don't want this particular scene to run more than eighty feet. Got to save most of the film for the bigger scenes. Now, watch yourselves, ladies and gentlemen. This is going to be one of our best yet, or I'm mistaken. Pop—where's Pop?"
"Here I am. What is it?"
"Get me a big armchair. I want Mr. DeVere to be sitting in that when the adventuress comes in. Miss Pennington, you're the adventuress, and I wish you'd look the part more."
"I'm doing the best I can."
"Well, fix your hair a little differently—a little more fluffy, you know—I don't know what you call it."
"Oh, that's easily remedied," she laughed. "I'm ready now," and with dexterous use of a side-comb she produced the desired result.
"Got that chair, Pop?" called the manager.
"Yep. Just as soon as I fix that fence for the rural scene."
"Yah! Py gracious, ve got t' haf our fence or dot love scene mit der evening-glory flowers vill be terrible!" insisted Mr. Switzer.
"All ready, now!" Mr. Pertell said, as the chair was placed in what was to represent a parlor. Mr. DeVere took his seat, and the action of the drama began. Ruth and Alice looked on with interest.