Mr. DeVere was an excellent actor. In his time he had played many parts, so the necessary action, or "business," as it is called, was not hard for him. He had learned readily what was expected of him, and though it seemed rather odd to make his gestures, his exits and entrances before nothing more than the eye of a camera, he soon had become accustomed to it after the days of rehearsal. And the great point was that he did not have to use his voice. Or, at the most, when some vital part of the little play called for speaking, he had only to whisper to give the "cue" to the others.
The plot was not a very complicated one, telling the story of a wealthy young fellow (played by Paul Ardite) the son of a wealthy banker, (Mr. DeVere) getting into bad company, and how he was saved by the influence of a good girl.
The "card" in question, was a visiting card, which seemed to compromise the young man, but the "turn" of it cleared him.
To save time, different scenes had already been set up in various parts of the big studio, and to these scenes—mere sections of rooms or offices—the actors moved.
With them moved Russ Dalwood, who was "filming" this particular play. He placed his little box-machine, on its tripod, before each scene, and used as many feet of film to get the succeeding pictures as Mr. Pertell thought was necessary.
I presume all my readers have seen moving pictures many times, and perhaps many of you know how they are made. But at the risk of repeating what is already known I will give just a little description of how the work is done.
In the first place there has to be a play to be "filmed," or taken. It may be a parlor drama an outdoor scene—anything from a burning building to a flood. With the play decided on, the actors and actresses for the different parts are selected and carefully rehearsed. This is necessary as the camera is instantaneous and one false move or gestures may spoil the film.
Next comes the selection of the location for the various scenes. Indoor ones are comparatively easy, for the scenic artist can build almost anything. But to get the proper outdoor setting is not so easy, and often moving picture companies go many miles to get just the proper scenery for a background.
So careful are some managers that they will send to California, or to the Holy Land, in order that their actors may have the proper historical surroundings. This costs many thousands of dollars, so it can be seen how important it is to get the film right at first.
There are two main parts to the moving picture business—the taking of the pictures and later the projection, or showing, of them on a white screen in some theatre.
For this two different machines are needed. The first is a camera, similar in the main principle to the same camera with which you may have taken snapshots. But there is a difference. Where you take one picture in a second, the moving picture camera takes sixteen. That is the uniform rate maintained, though there may be exceptions. And in your camera you take a picture on a short strip of celluloid film, or on a glass plate, but in the moving picture machine the pictures are taken on a narrow strip of celluloid film perhaps a thousand feet long.
The camera consists of a narrow box. On oneside is a handle, and there is a lens that can be adjusted or focused. Inside is varied machinery, but I will not tire you with a description of it. Sufficient to say that there are two wheels, or reels. On one—the upper—is wound the unexposed film. One end of this film is fastened to the empty, or lower, reel. The film is passed back of lens, which is fitted with a shutter that opens and closes at the rate of sixteen times a second.
Turning a handle on the outside of the camera operates it. So that when the scene is ready to be photographed the actors, whether men or animals, begin to move. The handle turns, and the unexposed film is wound from one reel to the other, inside the camera, passing behind the lens, so that the picture falls on it in a flash, just as you take one snapshot. But, as I have said, the moving picture camera takes snapshot after snapshot—sixteen a second—until many thousands are taken, so that when the pictures are shown afterward they give the effect of continuous motion.
The film is moved forward by means of toothed sprocket wheels inside the camera, the shutter opening and closing automatically.
When the reel of film has all been exposed, it is taken to the dark room, and there developed,just as a small roll from your camera would be. This film is called the negative. From it any number of positives can be made, all depending on the popularity of the subject.
To make positives, the negative film is laid on another strip of sensitive celluloid of the same size. The two films are placed in a suitable machine, and then set in front of a bright light. The two films are then moved along so as to print each of the thousands of pictures previously taken.
The positive film is then developed, "fixed" to prevent it from fading, and it is then ready for the projecting machine. This latter is like the old-fashioned stereopticon, and by means of suitable lenses, and a brilliant light, the small pictures, hardly more than an inch square, are so magnified that they appear life-size on the screen.
That, in brief, is how moving pictures are made and shown, but it tells nothing of the hard work involved, on the part of operators, and actors and actresses. Often the performers risk their lives to make a "snappy" film, and many accidents have occurred where daring men and women took parts with wild beasts in the cast, or dared serious injury by long jumps.
Ruth and Alice watched their father enact hisrôle. He did it well, and the girls were gratified to hear Mr. Pertell say from time to time:
"Good! That's the way to do it! Oh, that's great!"
The play was not a long one, but if it had taken three times the half-hour it consumed Ruth and Alice would not have been weary.
The last scene had been "filmed" by Russ, who was getting ready to take his camera to the dark room for development, when there came a crash from where Mr. Switzer was going through a love scene with Miss Dixon.
"Look out!" someone called.
There was a sound as of rending, splintering wood.
"Oh!" screamed Miss Dixon.
"Py gracious goodness!" ejaculated Mr. Switzer. "I am caught fast!"
"Oh, what has happened?" gasped Ruth, clinging to Alice.
"It sounded like an explosion!" the latter answered.
"Don't be alarmed," Russ assured them. "It's nothing. Only Switzer leaned too hard on that fence and it went down with him."
And that was what had happened. Amid the wreckage of the property fence, which had collapsed with the weight of the German actor,sat he and Miss Dixon, while the manager, with a gesture of despair exclaimed:
"That's another scene to be done over."
"I knew that would happen!" observed Pepper Sneed, gloomily.
Amid laughter, now that it was seen that nothing serious had happened, the wreckage was cleared away, and the German actor, and his partner in the rural love scene, were assisted to their feet.
"Are you hurt?" asked Mr. Pertell, anxiously, when quiet had in a measure been restored.
"Only my feelings iss hurted!" replied Mr. Switzer, with an odd look on his round, fat face. "It iss not seemly und proper dot ven a feller is telling a nice girl vot he dinks of her, dot he should be upset head ofer heels alretty yet; ain't it?"
"It certainly is," agreed Miss Dixon, a little spasm of pain flitting across her face as she limped to one side.
"Oh, dear, I hope you're not hurt!" exclaimed Miss Pennington, hastening to her friend's side,and supporting her with an arm about her waist.
"It's only my ankle; it's a bit sprained, I think. A good thing I haven't a dancing part," said Miss Dixon.
"Will you be able to go on, when we make the film over again?" asked the manager anxiously. He did not make this inquiry because he was heartless, but the foremost thought with those who provide amusement for the public—whether they be managers or actors—is that "the show must go on." For that reason sickness, and even the death of loved ones, often does not stop the player from appearing on the stage. And, in a measure, this is no less so with those who help to make the moving pictures.
"Oh, I think I'll be able to go on after a bit," declared Miss Dixon, sinking into a chair that Pepper Sneed pushed forward for her.
"Go on! You'll never be able to go on inside of a week, little girl!" exclaimed the actor with the perpetual "grouch." He looked gloomily at those about him. "This is the worst business in the world," he went on. "Something is always happening. I know something will go wrong in that safe-blowing act I'm to do next. I——"
"Say, you go do that act, and then let us know if anything happens!" interrupted the manager. "They're waiting for you over there," and hemotioned to an office setting, in which a safe robbery, one of the scenes of another play, was to take place.
"All right!" sighed Pepper Sneed, as he moved off to take his part. "But, mind what I'm telling you," he said to Miss Dixon. "You'll be laid up for a week."
"An' it all de fault of dot property man!" exclaimed Mr. Switzer. "He made dot fence like paper yet alretty! It vouldn't holt up a fly!"
"That was a good fence!" defended Pop Snooks. "The trouble was you leaned your ton weight on it."
"Ton veight! Huh! Vot you tink I am? A hipperperpotamusses? A ton veight—huh!" spluttered Mr. Switzer.
"Never mind now!" called the manager sharply, with a reassuring glance at Ruth and Alice, who were regarding this little flurry with anxious eyes. They glanced over toward their father. "Pop, make a new fence—a strong one—and we'll film that scene over again," went on Mr. Pertell. "To your places, the rest of you. Mr. DeVere, I think that will be all we will require of you to-day. But come into the office. I have a new play I'm thinking of filming, and I'd like your advice on some of the scenes. Miss Dixon, shall I send for a doctor?"
"Oh, no, indeed, I'll be all right!" was her hasty answer.
"If you're not, don't be afraid to say so," spoke Mr. Pertell. "I can understudy you——"
"Oh, no, indeed!" she exclaimed, energetically. If there is one thing more than another that an actor or actress fears, it is being supplanted in a rôle. Of course, all the important parts in a play are "understudied"; that is, some other actor or actress than the principal has learned the lines and "business" so, in case the latter is taken ill, the play can go on, after a fashion. But players are jealous of one another to a marked degree, and rather than permit their understudy to succeed him, many a performer has gone on when physically unfit. Perhaps it was this that induced Miss Dixon to conceal the pain she was really suffering.
Mr. Pertell glanced sharply at her, and then his gaze roved to Ruth and Alice, who were standing with their father. A musing look was on the face of the manager. Miss Dixon saw it, and arose.
"I am perfectly able to go on, Mr. Pertell," she said, quickly. "There is no need of getting anyone in my place."
She walked across the room, with a slight limp, and the spasm of pain that showed on her facewas quickly replaced by a smile. But it was an obvious effort.
Miss Dixon staggered, and would have fallen had not Alice stepped forward quickly and caught her.
"You really ought to have a doctor," Alice said, anxiously. "A sprained ankle is sometimes quite serious."
"I don't need a doctor!" exclaimed the ingenue, sharply. "I shall be all right. It will take some little time to repair the fence, and by then——"
"You must let me attend to you," broke in a motherly voice, and Mrs. Maguire, who, as Cora Ashleigh, had finished her part in a little drama, came bustling over. "I'll put some hot compresses on your ankle, and that will take out the pain," went on the elderly actress. "Come along."
And Miss Dixon was glad enough to go. Mrs. Maguire was really a sort of "mother" to the others of the company, and many a physical ache and pain, as well as some mental ones, yielded to her ministering care.
"Now, then, Pop, how are you coming on with that fence?" asked the manager a little later.
"Oh, I'll get her done some time to-day if you don't give me too much else to do," was the answer. "But I've had to quit work on that trick auto you wanted—the one that turns into an airship."
"Pshaw! And I needed that, too. Well, go ahead. Do the best you can, and when you've finished I want a fake stone tower made for that fairy picture we're going to do next week."
"All right," agreed Pop. "I'll do it."
Nothing seemed too hard for him. He responded to the most exacting and diverse commands as easily as to the smallest. He was an invaluable property man.
"Oh, Mr. Ardite," continued the manager to the leading juvenile, "I'm going to change your part in that runaway drama. I'll want some exterior scenes. One on the Brooklyn Bridge and another at the Grand Central Terminal. Get ready to go up there. Miss Fillmore will be here soon. She's in that with you. I'll send Charlie Blake up to film it. Here's the "register" list—look it over," and he tossed a sheaf of typewritten sheets to the young actor.
"I wish we could go see that taken," whispered Alice.
"You can, if you like," responded the manager, overhearing her.
"I—I'll be delighted to take you along," said Paul, coloring as he glanced at Alice.
Miss Dixon, who had come back from her room, after having her ankle bathed, looked up quickly at these words. She glanced from Alice to Paul, and back again, and then said something in a low voice to Miss Pennington.
"May I go, Daddy?" asked Alice. "I'm so interested in these moving pictures."
"Oh, yes, I think so," he assented. "Perhaps Ruth——"
"No, I'll go home with you," Ruth answered. "I'm a bit tired to-day."
"I'd never tire of this!" exclaimed Alice, with enthusiasm.
"Come along then!" invited Paul. "Here's Miss Fillmore now," he added, as another member of the company entered.
There was a sudden cry of pain from the other side of the studio, and a moving picture camera ceased clicking.
"What's the matter now?" asked the manager, as he looked to where the safe robbery scene was being filmed.
"Oh, I caught my hand in the safe door!" exclaimed Pepper Sneed. "Nearly took my finger off! I just knew something would happen to me to-day!"
"Great Scott! Another scene spoiled!" groaned Mr. Pertell. "Well, do it over. Hadyou run out much film?" he asked the operator.
"No, only a few feet."
"Well, try again. And, Pepper, look out for your head this time, that you don't get that caught in the safe. You might lose it."
"Uh!" grunted the human grouch.
Russ Dalwood came out of the developing room.
"That's going to be a great film!" he declared. It's one of the best I've ever seen. The pictures will show up fine."
"Glad to hear it," remarked the manager. "That's some good news in this day of trouble."
"Did I do all right?" asked Mr. DeVere, hoarsely. "I would like to see myself—as others see me—and that's possible now, in the movies."
"Your pictures are fine," answered Ross.
"And I want to congratulate you," went on Mr. Pertell. "You are doing splendid work, and we are glad to have you with us. It is not everyone who can come from the legitimate stage and go into the movies with success; but you have."
"I am glad to hear it," declared the actor. "There was great necessity, or I should not have done it; but I am not sorry now. It is a great relief not to have to speak my lines."
"And you mustn't do much talking now,Daddy," cautioned Ruth. "You want your throat to get well, you know."
"Yes, I know, dear," replied her father, patting her on the shoulder.
"Good-bye!" called Alice, who with Paul, Miss Fillmore, and the camera operator, were going out for the exterior scenes. "I'll be home soon."
"I'll take care of her," promised Paul, and, as he and Alice went out, side by side, Ruth caught a sharp glance from Miss Dixon, who was narrowly watching the two.
"Well, everything seems to be going on all right now," observed Mr. Pertell. "Here's Pop with the fence. Now, Mr. Switzer, and Miss Dixon——well, what is it?" he broke off with, as he saw Wellington Bunn approaching with an irritated air.
"I must refuse, sir, positively refuse, to go on with the part you have assigned to me!" exclaimed the former Shakespearean player, striking what he thought was a dignified attitude. "I cannot do it, Mr. Pertell, and I wonder that you expect it of me."
"What part is it you object to?" asked the manager. "Let's see, you're in 'A Man's Home;' aren't you?"
"Yes, and in one scene I am supposed to come home from the office, and get down on the floorto play with blocks with the children. I do not mind that so much, but I have to play horse, and ride the children around on my back, and then, to cap the climax, I have to turn a somersault."
"Well?" asked the manager, as the actor paused.
"Well, I positively refuse to do that somersault! The idea of me—Wellington Bunn—who has played in Shakespearean dramas, groveling on the floor and turning somersaults! The somersaults positively must be cut out."
"But they can't very well, Mr. Pertell!" broke in one of the other actors in the same drama. "Because when Mr. Bunn goes over that way he is supposed accidentally to upset the table, and the supper things fly all over, and the children laugh and think it's a great joke. The whole scene will be spoiled if Mr. Bunn doesn't turn his somersault."
"Then he'll turn it!" announced the manager, grimly.
"What! But I protest, sir! I protest!" cried the tragedian. "I will not do it! The idea of me—Wellington Bunn——"
"Somersault—or look for another engagement," was the terse rejoinder, and with a gesture of despair Mr. Bunn turned aside murmuring;
"Oh, that I should come to this! Oh, the pity of it! The pity! I'll never do it!"
But a little later, for the sake of his salary, he turned the somersault.
"Did you enjoy yourself, Alice?" asked Ruth, a little later that afternoon, when her sister had returned from her trip to the Brooklyn Bridge, and the Grand Central Terminal, with Paul.
"Indeed I did!" replied the younger girl. "It was really exciting. And Paul is so nice!"
"Do you call him Paul?"
"Certainly—why not."
"And does he call you Alice?"
"Yes. He asked me if he couldn't, and I don't see any harm. He's just like a brother would be."
"Oh," remarked Ruth, with a little smile. "Tell me about it."
"Oh, there isn't much to tell. We went up in a car until we got to where the scenes were to be filmed. Then Paul and Miss Fillmore did what they had to do, and the pictures were taken.
"There was quite a crowd looking, on, too, and some of them got in the pictures," Alice went on.
"Purposely, do you mean—to spoil them?" asked Ruth.
"Oh, no, they belonged in. You see this was supposed to be a natural scene of Paul and Miss Fillmore meeting on the bridge. They walk along a little way, and part of the plot develops there. So there had to be other persons walking along to make it look natural. How odd it must be if those same persons happen to see the film play later, and recognize themselves in the pictures."
"Rather, I should say," agreed Ruth. "What next?"
"Oh, then we went up to the Grand Central, and there Paul had to pretend to get on a train, and Miss Fillmore bade him a tearful good-bye. She's quite an emotional actress, too.
"It was quite exciting. Paul had some work getting the station master to let us out on the train platform without tickets. But when he explained about the moving pictures, it was all right.
"It was as real as anything—just as if it wasn't for the films at all. Paul got on the platform, and a porter took someone else's gripto make it look as though he were going on a journey.
"That porter enjoyed it more than anyone else. He grinned so much that Paul had to tell him to stop, or the top of his head might come off. And laugh! I wish you could have heard him laugh at that. It took us a little longer to get those films, for there was such a crowd. But it was all right. I've had a lovely time!" cried Alice, her brown eyes brilliant with excitement, and her cheeks flushed.
"And what happened next?" asked Ruth, after a pause.
"Oh, Miss Fillmore had an engagement, so Paul and I went and had lunch together. He's an awfully nice boy!"
"Alice!"
"I don't care; he is! And he's in papa's company, so I don't see any harm—especially as it was in daylight, and it was only in one of those dairy lunches, you know. Paul wanted to take me to a better place, but I know he doesn't earn much yet, and I wasn't going to have him waste his money."
"Thoughtful of you," murmured Ruth.
"Wasn't it. Where's daddy?"
"Oh, he went back to the studio. There was some mistake in one of his acts and he wantedto have it corrected so he could study over it to-night."
"Oh, hasn't it been a day!" exclaimed Alice, as she laid aside her hat. "Do you know, I think outdoor pictures are better, and more interesting. I'd like to be in some myself."
"It is interesting," agreed Ruth. "And really it doesn't seem like acting when you don't have any audience except a camera. But I suppose that makes it all the more difficult. Russ was in a little while ago."
"What did he want?" asked Alice with a quick glance at her sister.
"Oh, he just called to say that all the films in which dad appears came out fine. He mentioned that his patent was coming on all right, and he expects soon to have it out on royalty."
"That's nice. I do hope those horrid men won't get it away from him. What have we to eat? I'm nearly starved."
"Why, I thought you had lunch."
"I did, but we—we took a walk afterward, and my appetite came back."
Ruth looked curiously at Alice, sighed and then went out to the kitchen.
As the days went on Mr. DeVere grew to like his new occupation more and more. At first he had talked and mused over the coming time whenhe could go back to the regular theatre. But his voice showed no tendency to lose its whispering hoarseness, and he was, perforce, compelled to do his acting for the camera. Then came a gradual change of feeling, and he grew really to like his new occupation. Besides, it paid almost as well as a legitimate rôle, and was more certain.
The girls and their father enjoyed a private view of the film in which Mr. DeVere was depicted. It was an absorbing play, and while it seemed a bit uncanny, at first, to look at yourself moving about, Mr. DeVere grew accustomed to it.
"And it is surprising what faults one can see in onesself," he remarked, after the film had been thrown on the screen for him. "I can pick out a number of places where I can improve in my gestures. And I see places where the action can be more easily and plainly explained to the audience."
"I am glad you do," spoke Mr. Pertell. "It is a good thing to try to improve the movies. They have, in my opinion, a great lesson to teach to the masses, as well as to provide amusement for them. And all we can do, individually, to help, adds to it.
"I am thinking of greatly broadening my fields, I am not satisfied to film merely parlordramas and a few city scenes. I want a larger scenic background, and I'm working to that end."
"I hope I shall be able to fit into some of them," observed Mr. DeVere. "I, too, begin to think I would like to get out in the open."
"I intend to have you with me," declared the manager. "I am looking around for a locality to serve as a background for certain rural plays. But I have not found it yet."
Ruth and Alice paid many visits to the film studio, and watched the making of many plays. Their father had parts in a number of them, and for others new actors were engaged temporarily.
Russ was becoming an expert operator, and meanwhile was working on his patent. It was nearly perfected.
They were exacting days that followed. Many dramas had to be filmed, and all the actors and actresses were kept busy. Ruth and Alice spent many afternoons in the studio, growing more and more interested all the while. There was much fun, as well as much hard work, for Mr. Switzer, with his odd expressions and mishaps, was a source of considerable amusement.
Then, too, the "human grouch," Pepper Sneed, seemed always to find some new objection to raise, or some dire calamity to predict. Andas for Mr. Bunn, he made many protests at rôles he considered incongruous with his dignity.
Once he wanted the story of a play so changed that he might give an impersonation of Hamlet in a setting that included a Western mining cabin, and when he was refused by the manager he grew quite indignant.
"You might as well try to introduce Macbeth in the clown act," declared Mr. Pertell.
Several times Ruth and Alice had expressed a desire to try a little part in one of the dramas, but their father would not listen. At last, however, their chance came.
Mr. DeVere had just completed his rôle in a difficult part, and Russ, with his camera, had been shifted over to film another play, a few of the scenes of which were laid in the studio, the others being set out of doors.
"Well, aren't those two young ladies here yet?" asked Mr. Pertell, coming out of his office, as he noted a delay.
"Not yet," answered Mrs. Maguire, who was to have a part in the act. "They said they'd be early, too."
"That's always the way when you want someone in a hurry," stormed the manager. "Here we are holding things up just because Miss Parkerand Miss Dengon aren't here. It wouldn't taken them five minutes to do their parts, either."
"Well, I can't wait much longer," said the principal actor, who was to take a part with the young ladies who were missing. "I've got to get that train, you know, Pertell."
"Yes, I know!" was the answer, as the manager snapped shut his watch. "I can't see what's keeping them. This gets on my nerves!"
"What is it?" asked Mr. DeVere, coming from his dressing room. "Anything I can do to help you?"
"No, but two extra young girls I hired for certain parts are missing, and this thing ought to go on. Harrison has an important engagement, and can't wait either. I didn't count on this emergency, though usually I allow for delays. If I only had two girls now—Say!" he cried, as he looked over at Ruth and Alice. "They might do it—they might fill in! How about it, Mr. DeVere; would you let them substitute in this drama? It's a simple thing, and with two minutes' coaching they can do it. That will let Harrison get his train, and I can go on with the next scenes. Will you girls try?" he asked, appealing to them.
Alice hesitated, but only a moment, and, while Ruth was looking at her father, the younger girl exclaimed:
"Oh, do let us try! I don't know that we could do it, Mr. Pertell, but let us try! Won't you, Daddy?"
Mr. DeVere looked troubled. For some time past he had been watching the growing liking of his daughters for the moving pictures, and he was in two minds about the matter. He had seen that this new manner of presenting plays had a great future, not only for the public but for the acting profession. And now, when a chance came for his daughters to get into it, he hardly knew what to say. He had made up his mind that they should never go on the dramatic stage. But this——.
"Something has to be done," urged the manager. "I can't hold things back much longer."
"Wouldn't you like to try it, Ruth?" asked Alice, catching her sister's hands. "I think it will be just fine!"
"Why, I—I think I would like it—if they think I can do it," agreed Ruth.
"Oh, you can do it all right," Mr. Pertell assured her. "It is very simple. A little coaching is all you need. What do you say, Mr. DeVere? May the girls go in?"
"Why, I—er—I hardly know what to say. It is so different from anything they have ever done. And I never expected——"
"Oh, they can do it!" interrupted the manager. "They've been around here long enough to know how we do things. Come, it may be a good opening for them."
"All right, I don't mind," said the actor. "I shall be very glad to let them help you out, Mr. Pertell."
"Oh, I don't ask it as a favor. I'm willing to pay for their time. I was to give Miss Parker and Miss Dengon five dollars each for a few minutes of their time to-day, but they have disappointed me. I now offer it to your daughters."
"Oh, fine!" cried Alice, clapping her hands. "Then I can get that new hat I've been wanting so much. Come on, Ruth. What do we have to do, Mr. Pertell?"
The manager quickly explained what was wanted. The two girls had simple parts, with Mr. Harrison as the chief character. Alice and Ruth soon grasped what was required of them, and, after a little coaching and rehearsing, they were ready.
"Now stand over here," directed Mr. Pertell, who took personal charge this time, "and don't pay any attention to the camera. Don't look at it, in fact. Keep your eyes on Mr. Harrison, or on some part of scenery. Just forget everything but what you have to do."
"Shall we speak the lines aloud?" asked Ruth.
"If you like. Perhaps it will be better, for the first time, to do so," suggested Mr. Pertell. "It may help you to get the 'business' down better. A little more light here!" he called to the electrician, for in one of the scenes artificial illumination was used. "Are you all ready, Russ?" he asked the young operator.
"All ready; yes, sir!"
"Then—go!"
The little section, from what was to be a two-reel play of the movies, was under way. Though a bit nervous Ruth and Alice did very well, and soon they were in the swing of it.
When it came time for Alice to act the part of a hoydenish character, she was exceedinglynatural in it, and her laugh at the simulated discomfiture of Mr. Harrison was so spontaneous that even some of the others joined in.
Ruth, too, who had a more demure part, acquitted herself well. The camera clicked on, Russ turning the handle steadily. He nodded reassuringly at Ruth when she had a moment's respite.
Then came a slight change of scene, and a change of costume on the part of the girls, Mrs. Maguire finding just what was needed in the wardrobe of the studio.
Then, just as the final strip of film had been exposed, and the emergency work of Ruth and Alice had ended, in came the two tardy actresses.
"You're too late!" exclaimed Mr. Pertell. "We couldn't wait for you."
"What!" exclaimed Miss Parker. "Do you mean to tell us you went and filmed our parts with somebody else in the cast?"
"That's what we did," replied the manager, coolly. "Maybe you'll learn after this that four o'clock means four o'clock, and not half past."
"Well, what do you know about that?" gasped Miss Dengon, sinking into a plush chair, and dabbing at her nose with a chamois skin, which gave off puffs of powder like a miniature gun.
"An' us tryin' as hard as ever we could toget here!" went on Miss Parker, vigorously chewing gum. "The nerve of some people is suttinly amazin'! Come on, Ruby, I never did care much for movies anyhow, an' how some folks can stay in 'em is suttinly a mystery to me!"
Then, with heads held high, and with meaning glances at Miss Pennington and Miss Dixon, who were busy in another drama, the two young ladies went out, looking superciliously at Ruth and Alice.
"Business is business—in the movies the same as anywhere else," chuckled Mr. Pertell, as he gave Ruth and Alice each a crisp five-dollar bill. "I am very much obliged to you, in the bargain," he went on.
"So am I!" added Mr. Harrison. "I can get my train now, and it's a satisfaction to know that the scenes are completed."
"Oh, it was fun!" laughed Alice.
"I liked it, too," confessed Ruth.
"And I want to tell you that you both did most excellently," said the manager. "You have a very good grasp of what is wanted, and you put in the 'business' very naturally. I congratulate you and your father," and he nodded to Mr. DeVere.
"I have given them a little instruction in thefundamentals," confessed the actor, "and of course they have been about the theatre, more or less, since they were small children."
"I suppose that accounts for it," observed Mr. Pertell. "Well, I want to say that I am very much pleased with you, and, if you think you would like to try it again, I can make parts for you in a drama that I am going to film next week."
"Oh, Ruth! Let's do it!" begged Alice.
Ruth looked at her father inquiringly.
"What sort of parts are they?" he asked.
"Oh, very much the same as they undertook to-day, only longer and more elaborate. There will be several changes of scene and costume. Do you think you'd like it?"
"Like it? I'd love it!" cried Alice, gaily, "Do say we may, Daddy dear!" and she put her arms around his neck.
"I'll see," was all he would promise. "I must look over the parts, and then—well, little coaching wouldn't do you any harm, I guess," he added with a smile.
"It would make them all the better," declared the manager.
"Oh, Ruth! I believe he's going to let us go in!" whispered Alice in delight. "Won't you like it?"
"Yes, dear! It's more exciting than I imagined. And I think you did splendidly!"
"Not half as well as you, Ruth. You are a born actress!"
"And you're a born ingenue!"
"Oh, aren't we silly to compliment each other this way!" laughed Alice. "But, really, Ruth, I just love it; don't you?"
"Yes, dear. Oh, I wonder what sort of parts we'll get. I'd like something romantic."
"And I want something funny—with laughs in it," declared Alice. "Oh, say, Ruth," and her voice went to a whisper, "do you really think I'm an ingenue—like Miss Dixon?"
"I think you're—better!" responded Ruth, kissing her sister, and stroking her soft hair.
The work in the film studio was over for the day and the actors and actresses were getting ready to go home. From the time Ruth and Alice had taken the emergency parts Russ had observed Miss Pennington and Miss Dixon casting sharp looks at them.
"Jealous!" mused Russ. And his diagnosis was confirmed a little later, when, as the two former vaudeville performers passed Ruth and Alice, Miss Pennington, with a sharp glance at the latter, murmured loudly enough to be heard:
"Humph! It takes more than one performance in a little part to make a movie actress! Some folks think they are mighty smart, coming in over the heads of others!"
"That's what I say, too!" added Miss Dixon. "It was a shame the way they took the parts away from Ruby and Maude!"
For a moment Ruth and Alice looked at each other with eyes that showed the pain they felt. Ruth turned pale at hearing the unkind words, but Alice blushed a rosy red, and started to say something.
"Don't," advised Mrs. Maguire, coming up beside them, and evidently guessing her intention. "It would only make matters worse to reply to them, my dear."
"But—but——" began Alice.
"Hush!" begged Ruth. "Oh, how could they say it—as if wewantedto displace those girls."
"I'm just going to tell them what I think!" exclaimed Alice, and there was a hint of real anger in her voice. But she had no chance, for Miss Pennington and Miss Dixon, as though satisfied with what they had done, swept out to the elevator.
"Don't mind them, my dears," said motherlyMrs. Maguire. "It's only professional jealousy, anyhow; and you'll see plenty of that if you stay in this business long enough."
"Then I'm not going to stay!" cried Alice. "I'm not used to having such things said of me."
Mrs. Maguire laughed genially. She was standing with Ruth and Alice, who were waiting for their father to join them. Most of the other performers had now gone.
"Oh, you'll get so you won't mind that a bit!" went on Mrs. Maguire. "Sure, I used to eat my heart over it in my younger days, but now I only laugh. It's part of the business. It's a tribute to your acting, my dear, and you ought to take it as such. Don't mind it."
"Oh, but it was so—so uncalled—for!" murmured Ruth. "I think I must—"
"Hush! Here comes daddy!" interrupted Alice. "Don't let him know about it."
"That's wise," commented Mrs. Maguire. "Though probably he's seen enough of it in his time. But perhaps he wouldn't like to know that it bothered you. Best say nothing to him, my dears. It will wear away soon enough."
"No, we won't say anything," agreed Alice, slipping her arm through her sister's. "Papa has enough trouble as it is."
A little later, as the girls were walking along with Mr. DeVere, he asked them:
"Well, how did you like your parts in the movies?"
"Fine. It was so interesting, Dad!" exclaimed Ruth.
"I'd like to do some more!" echoed Alice, with a meaning look at her sister.
"Well, I must see what sort of parts Mr. Pertell will cast you for," said Mr. DeVere. "But I am glad you like the work. It may be a great deal better for all of us to be in this than if I was alone in a regular theater. We can always be together now, and certainly my voice doesn't seem to be improving very fast."
This was only too true. Several visits to the physician, and a heroic course of treatment, had resulted in only a slight improvement. The pain in the vocal chords had been lessened, but the huskiness remained, so that it would have been practically impossible for Mr. DeVere to speak his lines in a regular theater. So the moving pictures were suited to him.
The DeVere family was now in much better circumstances than when we first made their acquaintance. They had been gradually paying the back bills, the landlord had been appeased, sothat there was no danger of dispossession, and there was much happiness in the little flat.
"We could even afford a better one, if you girls would like to move," said Mr. DeVere one day.
"Oh, no, let's stay," suggested Ruth. "We can save a little money by remaining here, and paying less rent."
"Besides, we have such nice neighbors!" observed Alice, with a glance at the Dalwood apartments across the hall, at the same time giving Ruth a sly nudge.
"Stop it!" commanded Ruth. "What do you mean, Alice?"
"Just what I said—we havesuchnice neighbors across the way," and she gave a little pinch to her sister's blushing cheek.
"Yes, the Dalwoods are very good friends," remarked Mr. DeVere, all unconscious of this little by-play between his daughters. "And Russ is certainly a fine young man."
"Indeed he is; isn't he, Ruth?" asked Alice tantalizingly.
"Oh, yes, I suppose so," was the blushing answer. "But how should I know—any more than you do about Paul Ardite?" and she glanced shrewdly at Alice.
"A hit, I suppose you would call that. ARoland for my Oliver, my dear!" laughed Alice, frankly. "I don't mind."
She looked toward her father, but he was so absorbed in looking over a new part he was to take, that he paid little attention to the chatter of the girls.
A few days after the first appearance of Ruth and Alice before the moving picture camera, in the small rôles they had taken to bridge over an emergency, Mr. Pertell brought them their parts in a new drama. Meanwhile it had been ascertained that the films where the girls filled in had been a success. Ruth and Alice felt a little diffident about going to the studio again, especially after the scene with the jealous actresses.
But Miss Dixon and Miss Pennington appeared to have gotten over their pique, and they acted as though they had never said anything to wound or annoy Ruth and Alice. The latter, however, could not forget it, and were rather cool toward their fellow-players.
"Here are your new parts," said Mr. Pertell. "Look them over with your father as soon as you can. He is to be in the play with you."
"Oh, isn't this exciting!" cried Alice, as she took the typewritten manuscript. "Real parts at last, Ruth!"
"Yes. We will be real actresses if we keep on. I wonder what I am cast for?"
"My! We're becoming quite adept in theatrical talk. Ahem!" laughed Alice with pretended sarcasm.
Miss Pennington and Miss Dixon, who were already rehearsing for another play, looked over at the two enthusiastic sisters, and shrugged their shoulders.
"Wait until they have been in it as long as we have, my dear, then they won't be so jolly," remarked Miss Pennington.
"Oh, I don't know as you can include me," was Miss Dixon's rather tart comment. "Ihaven't been at it so many years."
"Oh, haven't you?" asked Miss Pennington, with a raising of her penciled eyebrows. "Excuse me, my dear!"
"Don't mention it!"
"Get on to that, would you!" exclaimed Pop Snooks to Mr. Sneed. "The two old-timers are scrappin'."
"I knew they would," was the grouchy rejoinder. "They'll have a real quarrel, and both quit, and that'll mean some new members in the company. And just as we are about through rehearsing that piece, and about to film it, too.That means I'll have to do it all over again. I knew something would happen!"
"Oh, cheer up! The worst is yet to come!" laughed Paul Ardite. "Here's Switzer looking as red as a lobster. What is it now, Carl?" he asked.
"Ach! Vot isn't der matter?" cried the moon-faced one. "I haf a part vot incessitates me to be bound und gagged by a band of robbers, und stood in a corner vhile dey loot der blace."
"Well, that's a nice, romantic part," observed Paul.
"Yah, but how would you like to haf a rag stuffed in your mout so vot you couldn't breath yet for five minutes? How vould you like dot; hey? Dell me dot!"
"Oh, well, tell 'em to leave you a breathing hole," laughed Paul.
"Where is Mr. Pertell? Where is he? I demand to see him at once!" broke in the voice of Wellington Bunn. "I must see him instantly!"
"He was here a moment ago, giving the Misses DeVere their parts," replied Paul. "Why, is the place on fire?"
"No, but I refuse to take the part he has assigned to me. I utterly and positively refuse to so demean myself."
"What part have you?" asked the young fellow, looking over at Alice and nodding.
"Why, he has cast me—I, who have played all the principal Shakespearean characters—he has cast me—Wellington Bunn—as a waiter in a hotel scene! Where is Mr. Pertell? I refuse to take that character!"
"Oh, what's the trouble now?" asked the manager, coming from his office. The Shakespearean actor explained.
"Now see here!" exclaimed Mr. Pertell, with more anger than he usually displayed. "You'll take that part, Mr. Bunn, or leave the company! It is an important part, and has to do with the development of the plot. Why, as that waiter you intercept the taking of ten thousand dollars, and prevent the heroine from being abducted. Afterward you become rich, and blossom out as a theatrical manager."
"And do I produce Shakespeare?" asked the old actor, eagerly.
"There's nothing to stop you—in the play," returned Mr. Pertell, rather drily.
"Oh, then it's all right," said Mr. Bunn, with a sigh of relief. "I'll take the part."
Rehearsals were going on in various parts of the studio, and some plays were being filmed. Russ Dalwood was busy at one of the cameras.
"Have you got a part you like, Ruth?" asked Alice, when she had finished looking over her lines.
"Indeed I have, I'm supposed to be Lady Montgomery, and there are two counts in love with me. At least, one is a count and the other pretends to be one. It's quite romantic. What is yours?"
"Mine's jolly. I'm a school girl, always up to some trick or other, and—yes, see here—why in one of my tricks I disclose that the pretended count who's in love with you is only an organ grinder! Oh, that will be fun," and she laughed gleefully.
"Do you like your parts?" asked the manager, coming up.
"Indeed we do!" chorused Ruth and Alice.
"Then talk to your father about them," he advised. "See what he says, and if he is willing you may begin rehearsals with him, and the others of the cast."
Mr. DeVere was fully satisfied with the parts assigned to his daughters, and agreed to allow them to enter formally into the work of the moving pictures at a very fair salary for beginners. The others of the company were called together, including Paul Ardite, and the best method of getting the finest results out of the drama was discussed.
In the days that followed, Ruth and Alice, as well as the others, did hard work. It is not as easy to go through a moving picture play as it appears merely from seeing the film on the white curtain. Some scenes have to be rehearsed over and over again, and often, after being filmed, some defect results and the work has to be all done once more.
Mr. DeVere rehearsed his daughters at home in the intervals of their appearance at the studio, and this redounded to their benefit. They were thus able to do effective work, and Mr. Pertell complimented them on it.
The play was soon ready for filming, and Russ was chosen to work the camera. Some of the scenes were out of doors, in a big flower garden, and for this the company was taken to Brooklyn, where a private owner was induced to allow his place to be used for a few minutes. Ruth and Alice enjoyed their part in the flower garden very much.
Finally the last rehearsal was had, and the day was set for making the films of the first real, big play in which the two girls had ever taken part. As they were leaving the studio together, on the afternoon of the day before the first "performance," they saw a group of children standing down near the main entrance.
"There go some of the moving picture girls now," one boy exclaimed.
"Don't I wish I was them!" sighed a tall, lanky girl next him. "Ain't they nice, Jimmie?"
"They sure is!" was the enthusiastic rejoinder.
"We're achieving fame, Ruth," laughed Alice.
"Such as it is—yes," replied her sister. "'Moving picture girls'; eh? Well, I suppose we are."
"Now then, are we all ready?" asked Mr. Pertell. He looked about the studio, at the groups of actors and actresses, at the camera men—particularly at Russ. "Everybody here?" he went on.
"All here," replied Pop Snooks, checking off a list he held.
"How about your props?"
"Nothing missing, not even the firecracker Miss Alice sets off under the chair of the false count," replied the property man.
"Good! I don't want any failure at the last minute. Now, Russ, how is the camera working?"
"Fine, sir."
"Good fresh film?"
"Fresh to-day, Mr. Pertell—just like new-laid eggs."
"All right. You may have a chance to snapsome newly laid eggs if my future plans work out all right. Well, I guess we'll begin. Take your places for the first scene."
"Oh, I'm so nervous!" confided Ruth to Alice.
"Silly! You needn't be!" was the response. "You're just perfect in your part. I only wish I was as sure of myself."
"Why, you're great, Alice!" said her sister. "Only you do such funny things—it makes me laugh, and I'm afraid I'll smile in the wrong place—when I'm being made love to, for instance."
"Well, it's a funny part, and I have to act funny," insisted the younger girl. "But I wish it was all over, and on the films. It's been a little harder than I thought it would be."
"Indeed it has. But papa was so good to rehearse us. Now we must be a credit to him."
"Oh, of course. Come on, the others are ready."
It was not without a feeling of nervousness that Ruth and Alice prepared to take their places in the actual depiction of the new play. The rehearsals had not been so trying; but now, when the photographs were to be made, there was a strain on all.
For in making moving pictures mistakes are worse than on the real stage. There, when oneis speaking, one can correct a false line, or turn it so that the audience does not notice the "break."
But in the movies a false move, a wrong gesture, is at once indelibly registered on the film, to reappear greatly magnified. And though sometimes the incorrect part of the film can be cut out, mistakes are generally costly.
"Are you all ready?" asked Mr. Pertell again, as he stood with watch in hand beside Russ at the camera, while the actors and actresses took their places in the first scene.
"All ready," answered Mr. Harrison, who was one of the principal characters.
"Then—go!" cried the manager, and Russ was about to turn the operating handle.
"Vait! Vait a minute. Holt on!" cried the voice of Mr. Switzer. "Don't shoot yet alretty!" and he held up a restraining hand.
"Oh, what's the matter now?" demanded Mr. Pertell, with a gesture of annoyance.
"Vun of mine shoes—he iss unloose, und der lacing is dingle-dangling. It might trip me!" explained the good-natured German actor, in all seriousness.
"Well, fix it, and hurry up!" cried the manager, unable to repress a smile.
"Yah! I tie her goot und strong," he said, and soon this was done.
"Now then—all ready?" asked Mr. Pertell once more.
This time there was no delay, and the clicking of the camera was heard as Russ turned the handle. Mr. DeVere and his two daughters were not in this first scene, so it gave the girls a chance to lose some of their nervousness—or "stage fright." As for Mr. DeVere, he was too much of a veteran actor to mind this. Besides, he had played many parts before the camera now.
Mr. Pertell stood with watch in hand, timing the performance. For the play must be gotten on a certain length of film, and if one scene ran over its allotted time it might spoil the next one by curtailing the action.
"Hurry a little with that," ordered the manager sharply, at a certain point. "Don't 'screen' the letter too long, and skip part of that leave-taking. That eats up far too much celluloid."
Accordingly some parts, not essential to the play, were "cut" to shorten the time. Russ went on turning the crank, getting hundreds of the tiny pictures that afterward would be magnified, and thrown on the screen in dozens of moving picture playhouses, for the Comet Company supplied a large "circuit."
"Now then, Mr. DeVere, it's time for youto come on," the manager said. "And then your daughters."
"Oh, I know I'm going to be nervous!" murmured Ruth.
"No you won't," spoke Russ, encouragingly. She stood near him, and flashed him a grateful look. "I'll be watching you," he said, "and if I see anything wrong I'll stop in an instant, so we won't spoil any film."
"That's good of you," she replied. "Come on, Alice."
"All right! Oh, I just know it's going to be splendid!" her sister exclaimed. There was the flush of excitement on her cheeks, and though she would not admit, Alice, too, was nervous. So much, she felt, depended on this first real play—so much for herself and her sister. It was thrilling to feel that they might be able to make a comfortable living through the medium of the movies.
"All ready now, Russ, for this scene," called the manager, indicating the one where Ruth and Alice were to appear. "Watch your register closely."
"Yes, sir."
The play went on. Ruth took her part first, and the little drama was enacted. Her father, who was in the scene with her, smiled encouragement, and Russ nodded gaily as he continued to turn the clicking camera.
"Now, Miss Alice!" called the manager. "Here's where you come in. Come smiling!"
It was hardly necessary to tell Alice this, for she generally had a smile on her face. Nor was it lacking this time.
She began her part, but in an instant the manager called:
"Wait. Hold on a minute!"
The clicking of the camera ceased instantly.
"Oh, have I done something wrong?" thought Alice, her heart beating violently.
"Cut out what's been done so far," ordered the manager to Russ. "It will have to be done over."
"Yes, sir," answered the operator, as he noted from the automatic register at the side of the camera how many feet of film had been run on the new scene. Then, when it came to be developed, it could be eliminated. The figures also showed how much of the thousand-foot reel was left for succeeding scenes.
Everyone was a little nervous, fearing he or she had made the trouble, but all were reassured a moment later, when the manager said:
"I think it will be a little more effective if Miss Alice makes her entrance from the other side.It brings her out better. Try it that way once, and then, if it goes, film it, Russ."
The benefit of the change was at once apparent, and after a moment of rehearsal it was decided on. Again the camera began its clicking and everyone breathed freely once more, Alice most of all, for failure would have meant so much to her.
"Very good—very good," spoke the manager encouragingly, as the play developed.
Alice and Ruth had rather difficult parts, and in one scene they held the stage alone, "plotting" to disclose the false count. It was in this scene that Alice had some effective work along comedy lines.
It seemed to go off very well—at least, as far as the girls could tell. Alice, as a rather hoydenish school girl, home for the summer, played havoc with the admirers of the romantic Ruth, who seemed to fill the rôle to perfection.
"You're doing well, little girl," whispered Paul to Alice, when she stepped out of the scene for a moment, while another part of the play went on.
"Do you really mean it?" she asked him.
"I certainly do. Say, you've got the other two guessing, all right."
"What other two?"
"Miss Pennington and Miss Dixon."
"Oh, I'm so sorry."
"Sorry for what?"
"I mean, I don't want them to dislike me," returned Alice.
"Oh, don't worry about that, little girl. They don't like anyone who can do better than themselves. But they're the only ones. The rest of us like you!"
"Really?"
"Well I should say!" and there was more energy in the words than was actually necessary. Alice blushed, but looked pleased.
"Very good!" observed the manager, after an effective scene in which Alice and Ruth took part. "You are doing excellent work. If this play is a hit I'll star you two in something more elaborate next week."
"Will you, really?" asked Ruth, as she came out of the scene.
"I really will," answered Mr. Pertell. "That's a promise!"
"Ruth, I do hope it's a success; don't you?" asked Alice.
"Of course I do. It means a whole lot."
"You mean to Mr. Pertell?"
"And to us, dear."
"What do you mean? Tell me."
The two girls were resting after the performance of the play "A False Count." The last scene had been filmed, and the long strips of celluloid, with the hidden pictures, sent to the dark room for development. Not until then could it be told whether the affair had been a success from a mechanical standpoint. And then, later, would come the test before the great public.
"Did you hear what Mr. Pertell said to me?" asked Ruth.
"Well, he said so much, directing us, and all that—I'm sure I don't recall anything special. What was it?"
"Why, he told me that if this play was a success—I mean if we showed up well in it—he'd give us parts in a big drama he's getting ready. Won't that be splendid?"
"Of course it will. But I liked this one very much. I wish I could see the real pictures."
"You can!" exclaimed a voice back of the girls, and, turning they saw Russ. "I'll take you to see them when the positives are made," he said.
"Oh, but I mean in a regular moving picture theater," went on Alice. "I'd like to see how the public takes us."
"I'll do that, too," agreed Russ. "As soon as the pictures are released we'll find some place where they are being shown, and you can watch yourself doing your act."
"That will be fine!" cried Ruth.
"What does 'released' mean?" asked Alice.
"Well, you know the moving picture business is something like the Associated Press," explained Russ. "The Associated Press is an organization for getting news. Often news has to be gotten in advance—say a thing like the President's message, or a speech by a big man.
"The Associated Press gets a copy in advance, and sends duplicates of it out to the newspapers that take its service. And on each duplicate copyis stamped a notice that it is to be released for publication on a certain day—or at even a certain hour. That is, it can't be used by the newspapers until that time.
"It's somewhat like that with moving pictures. The reels of new plays are sent out to the different theaters, and to fix it so a theater quite a distance from New York won't be at a disadvantage with one right here, which would get the film sooner, there is a certain date set for the release of the film. That means that though one theater gets it first it can't use it until the date set, when all the playhouses are supposed to have it."
"Oh, that's the way they do it?" observed Alice.
"Yes," went on Russ. "Of course the best stuff is what is called 'first run,'" he went on to explain. "That is, it is a reel of film of a new play, never before shown in a certain city. The best moving picture theaters take the first run, and pay good prices for it. Then, later on, second-rate theaters may get it at a lower price."
"And is our play a 'first run'?" asked Ruth.
"It will be for a time," answered Russ. "I think you girls did fine!" he went on. "Acting comes natural to you, I guess."
"Well, we've seen enough of it around the house, with daddy getting ready for some of hisplays," admitted Alice. "Oh, I wish I could do it all over again!" she cried, gliding over to her sister and whirling her off in a little waltz to the tune of a piano that was playing so that the performers in another play, representing a ball room scene, might keep proper time.
"Did you like your part, Ruth?" asked Russ, after Alice had allowed her sister to quiet down.
"Yes. I always like a romantic character."
"I like fun!" confessed Alice. "The more the better!"
"Oh, will you ever grow up?" asked Ruth.
"I hope not—ever!" laughed Alice, gaily.
Off in another part of the studio Miss Pennington and her chum, Miss Dixon, were going through their parts. They looked over at Ruth, Alice and Russ, and their glances were far from friendly.
"I don't see what Mr. Pertell can see in those girls," remarked Miss Pennington, during a lull, when they did not have to be before the camera.
"Neither do I," agreed her friend. "They can't act, and the airs they put on!"
"Shocking!" commented Miss Pennington.
"Come, young ladies!" broke in the voice of the manager. "It is time for you to go on again. And please put a little more vim into your work. I want that play to be a snappy one."
"Humph!" sneered Miss Dixon.
"If he wants more snap he ought to pay more money," whispered her friend. "All he cares about now are those DeVere girls."
"Attention!" called the manager. "Get some good business into this, now. Mr. Switzer, when you come in, after that scene where you apply for work, and can't get it, you must throw yourself into your chair despondently. Do it as though you had lost all hope. You know what I mean."
"Vot you mean? Dot I should sit in it so?" and the German actor plumped himself into the chair in question by approaching it so that he could sit on it in astride, in reverse position, folding his arms over the rounded back.
"No—no, not that way—not as if you were riding a horse!" cried the manager. "Throw yourself into it with abandon, as the stage directions call for."
"Let me show him," broke in the melancholy voice of Wellington Bunn.
Striding into the scene, which had been interrupted to enable this bit of rehearsal to be gone through with, the old Shakespearean actor approached the chair and cast himself into it as though he had lost his last friend, and had no hope left on earth.
"That's the way—that's the idea—copy that!" cried Mr. Pertell, enthusiastically.
But he spoke too soon.
Mr. Bunn had cast himself into the chair with such "abandon" that the chair abandoned him. It fell apart, it disintegrated, it parted company with its legs—all at once—so that chair and actor came to the ground in a heap.
"Oh, my! I am injured! A physician, I beseech you!" moaned Mr. Bunn, while others of the cast rushed to help him to his feet. He was soon pulled from the ruins of the chair.
"Ach! So. I unterstandt now!" exclaimed Mr. Switzer. "I haf your meaning now, of vat 'abandon' is, Mr. Pertell. I am to break der chair ven I sits on it, yes? Dot is 'abandon' a chair. Vot a queer lanquitch der English is, alretty. Vell, brings me annuder chair und I vill abandon it!"
Mr. Pertell threw his hands upwards in a despairing gesture.
"No—no!" he cried. "I didn't mean that way."
"Than vot you means?" asked the German, puzzled.
Meanwhile Wellington Bunn was painfully walking over to a more substantial chair.
"That was all a trick!" he cried. "You didthat on purpose, Mr. Snooks. You provided a broken chair!"
"I did not!" protested the property man. "It was the way you threw yourself into it. What did you think it was made of—iron?"
"I knew something would happen!" observed Mr. Sneed, gloomily. "I felt it in my bones."
"Und I guess me dot he veels it in his bones, now," chuckled Mr. Switzer. "I am glat dot I, myself, did not abandon dot chair alretty yet."
The play went on after a little delay, and for some time after that the Shakespearean actor was very chary of offering to show other actors how to put "abandon" into their parts.
So far as could be told by an inspection of the negatives of the first important play in which Ruth and Alice had appeared, it was a success. Of course how it would "take" with the public was yet to be learned.
Meanwhile other plays were being considered, and Mr. Pertell repeated his promise, that if "A False Count" was successful he would give Ruth and Alice real "star" parts. They were eager for this, and, now that their father had seen how well they did, he was enthusiastic over them, and very glad to let them go on in the moving picture business.