"It isn't something one would forget," mused Ruth.
Rehearsals, the filming of scenes, retakes and the studying of their parts kept busy not only the moving picture girls, but all the members of Mr. Pertell's company. There was work for all, and from the smallest girls and boys, including Tommie and Nellie Maguire, to Mr. DeVere himself, little spare time was to be had.
Ruth and Alice had important parts, and they were given a general outline of what was expected of them. They would be in many scenes, and a variety of action would be required. In order that they do themselves and the film justice, since they were to be "featured," the girls spent much time studying in their rooms and practising to get the best results from the various registerings.
"That is going to be a very strong scene for you and Alice," said Mr. DeVere to Ruth one day. "I refer to that scene where Alice takes the paper and afterwards discovers the identityof the man to whom she owes so much—the life of her father. Now let me see how you would play it, Alice."
Alice did so, and she did well, but her father was not satisfied. The stage traditions meant much to him, and though he had been forced to give up many of them when he went into the motion pictures, still he knew what good dramatic action was, and he knew that it would "get over" just as certainly in the silent drama as it did in the legitimate. So he made Alice go over the scene again, and Ruth also, until he was satisfied.
"Now, when the time comes, you'll know how to do it," he said. "Don't be satisfied with anything but the best you can do, even if it is only a moving picture show. I am convinced, more and more, that the silent drama is going to take a larger place than ever before the public."
It was on one afternoon following a rather hard day's work before the cameras, that Ruth and Alice, with Miss Pennington and Miss Dixon, sat on the porch of the farmhouse, waiting for the supper bell. Russ and Paul were off to one side, talking, and Mr. DeVere and Mr. Bunn were discussing their early days in the legitimate. Mr. Pertell came up the walk, a worried look on his face, seeing which Mr. Switzer called out:
"Did a cow step on some of the actors, Herr Director, or did one of our worthy farmer's rams knock over a camera after it had filmed one of the battle scenes?"
"Neither one, Mr. Switzer," was the answer. "This is merely a domestic trouble I have on my mind."
"Domestic!" exclaimed Alice. "You don't mean that some of your pretty extra girls have eloped with some of your dashing cowboy soldiers, do you? I wouldn't blame them if they——"
"Alice!" chided her sister.
"Oh, well, you know what I mean!"
"No, it isn't quite that," laughed the director, "though you have very nearly hit it," and he took a chair near Alice and her sister, and near where Pearl Pennington and Laura Dixon were rocking and chewing gum.
"Tell us, and perhaps we can help you," Alice suggested.
"Well, maybe you can. It's about Miss Estelle Brown, the young lady who made that daring ride in front of the masked battery the other day."
"What! Has she left?" asked Ruth. "She was such a wonderful rider!"
"No, she hasn't left, but she threatens to; and I can't let her go, as she's in some of the filmsand I'd have to switch the whole plot around to explain why she didn't come in on the later scenes."
"Why is she going to leave?" Alice queried.
"Because she has been subjected to some annoyance on the part of a young man who is one of the extras. You know the extras all live down in the big bungalow I had built for them. I have a man and his wife to look after them, and I try to make it as nearly like a happy family as I can. But Miss Brown says she can't stay there any longer. This young man—a decent enough chap he had seemed to me—is pestering her with his attentions. He is quite in love with her, it seems."
"Oh, how romantic!" gurgled Miss Dixon.
"Miss Brown doesn't think so," said the manager dryly. "I don't know what to do about it, for I have no place where I can put her up alone."
"Bring her here!" exclaimed Alice, impulsively.
"Indeed, no!" cried Miss Pennington. "We actresses were told that none of the extra people would be quartered with us! If that had not been agreed to I would not have come to this place."
"Nor I!" chimed in Miss Dixon. "We professionals are not to be classed with these extras—and amateurs at that!"
"I know I did promise you regulars that you would be boarded by yourselves," said Mr. Pertell, scratching his head in perplexity, "and I don't blame you for not wanting, as a general run, to mix with the others. For some of them, while they are decent enough, have a big idea of their own importance. I wouldn't think of asking you to let one of the extra men come here, but this young lady——"
"She is perfectly charming!" broke in Alice. "And she certainly can ride!"
"She did seem very nice," murmured Ruth.
"Pooh! A vulgar cowgirl!" sneered Miss Dixon.
"There is a nice room near mine," went on Alice. "She could have that, I should think. The Apgars don't use it, and it is certainly annoying to be pestered by a young man!" and she looked with uptilted nose at Paul, who said emphatically:
"Well, I like that!"
"If I could bring her here——" began Mr. Pertell.
"By all means!" exclaimed Ruth. "We will try to make her happy and comfortable—if she is an amateur."
"She has no right to come here!" burst out Miss Dixon.
"No, indeed!" added Miss Pennington. "Ifshe comes, I shall go! I will not board in the same place with an amateur cowgirl doing an extra turn in the pictures."
"Nor I!" snapped Miss Dixon.
"All right—all right!" said Mr. Pertell quickly. "I know it's contrary to my promise, and I won't insist on it. Only it would have made it easier——"
"Let Miss Brown come," quickly whispered Alice in the director's ear. "They won't leave. They're too comfortable here, and they get too good salaries. Let Miss Brown come!"
"Will you stand by me if I do?"
"Yes," said Alice.
"So will I," added Ruth.
Then the supper bell rang and the discussion ended for the time being. Later Mr. Pertell explained privately to Ruth and her sister that Miss Brown was a quiet and refined young lady about whom he knew little save that she had answered his advertisement for an amateur who could ride. She had made good and he had engaged her for the war scenes.
"But she tells me that among the young men in the same boarding bungalow is one who seems quite smitten with her. He is impudent and exceedingly persistent, and she does not desire his attentions. She said she thought she would haveto leave unless she could get a quiet place where he could not follow. It is all right during the day, as he can not come near her, but after hours——"
"Do bring her!" urged Alice. "We'll try to make her comfortable. And don't fear what they will do," and she nodded toward the two other actresses, who had been in vaudeville before going into motion pictures.
So it was that, later in the evening, Miss Brown brought her trunk to the Apgar farmhouse and was installed in a room near Alice and Ruth.
"Oh, it issomuch nicer here!" sighed Estelle Brown, as she admitted Ruth and Alice, who knocked on her door. "I could not have stood the other place much longer. Though every one—except that one man—was very nice to me."
"Let us be your friends!" urged Alice.
"You are very kind," murmured Estelle, and the more the two girls looked at her, the prettier they thought her. She had wonderful hair, a marvelous complexion, and white, even teeth that made her smile a delight.
"Have you been in this business long?" asked Ruth.
"No, not very—in fact, this is my first big play. I have done little ones, but I did not get on very well. I love the work, though."
"Were your people in the profession?" asked Alice.
"I don't know—that is, I'm not sure. I believe some of them were, generations back. Oh, did you hear that?" and she interrupted her reply with the question.
"That" was the voice of some one in the lower hall inquiring if Miss Brown was in.
"It's that—that impertinent Maurice Whitlow!" whispered Estelle to Ruth and Alice. "I thought I could escape him here. Oh, what shall I do?"
"I'll say you are not at home," returned Ruth, in her best "stage society" manner, and, sweeping down the hall, she met the maid who was coming up to tell Miss Brown there was a caller for her below.
"Tell him Miss Brown is not at home," said Ruth.
"Very well," and the maid smiled understandingly.
"Ah! not at home? Tell her I shall call again," came in drawling tones up the stairway, for it was warm, and doors and windows were open.
"Little—snip!" murmured Estelle. "I'm so glad I didn't have to see him. He's a pest—all the while wanting to take me out and buy ice-cream sodas. He's just starting in at the movies, and he thinks he's a star already. Oh! but don't you just love the guns and horses?" she asked impulsively.
"Well, I can't say that I do," answered Ruth. "I like quieter plays."
"I don't!" cried Alice. "The more excitement the better I like it. I can do my best then."
"So can I," said Estelle. Then they fell to talking of the work, and of many other topics.
"Did Estelle Brown strike you as being peculiar?" asked Ruth of her sister when they were back in their rooms, getting ready for bed.
"Peculiar? What do you mean?"
"I mean she didn't seem to know whether or not her people were in the profession."
"Yes, she did side-step that a bit."
"Side-step, Alice?"
"Well, avoid answering, if you like that better. But my way is shorter. Say, maybe she has gone into this without her people knowing it, and she wants to keep them from bringing her back."
"Maybe, though it didn't strike me as being that way. It was as though she wasn't quite sure of herself."
"Sure of herself—what do you mean?"
"Well, I can't explain it any better."
"I'll think it over," said Alice, sleepily. "We've got lots to do to-morrow," and she tumbled into bed with a drowsy "good-night."
Miss Laura Dixon and Miss Pearl Pennington most decidedly turned up their noses at the breakfast table when they saw Estelle sitting between Ruth and Alice. And their murmurs of disdain could be plainly heard.
"She here? Then I'm going to leave!"
"The idea of amateurs butting in like this! It's a shame!"
Fortunately Estelle was exchanging some gay banter with Paul and did not hear. But Ruth and Alice did, and the latter could not avoid a thrust at the scornful ones. To Ruth, in an unnecessarily loud voice, Alice remarked:
"Do you remember that funny vaudeville stunt we used to laugh over when we were children—'The Lady Bookseller?'"
"Yes, I remember it very well," answered Ruth. "What about it, Alice?" for she did not catch her sister's drift.
"Why, I was just wondering how many years ago it was—ten, at least, since it was popular, isn't it?"
"I believe so!"
"It's no such a thing!" came the indignant remonstrance from Miss Pennington. It was inthis sketch that she had made her "hit," and as she now claimed several years less than the number to which she was entitled, this sly reference to her age was not relished. "It was onlysixyears ago that I starred in that," she went on.
"It seems much longer," said Alice, calmly. "We were quite little when we saw you in that. You were so funny with your big feet——"
"Big feet! I had to wear shoes several sizes too large for me! It was in the act. I—I——"
"They're stringing you—keep still!" whispered her chum, and with red cheeks Miss Pennington subsided.
But Alice's remarks had the desired effect, and there were no more references, for the present, directed at pretty Estelle. Miss Dixon and Miss Pennington had a scene with Mr. Pertell, though, in which they threatened to leave unless Estelle were sent back to the bungalow where the other extra players boarded. But the manager remained firm, and the two vaudeville actresses did not quit the company.
Hard work followed, and Estelle made some daring rides, once narrowly escaping injury from the burning wad of a cannon, which went off prematurely as she dashed past the very muzzle. But she put spurs to her horse, who leaped over the spurt of fire and smoke. A few feet of filmwere spoiled; but this was better than having an actor hurt.
Alice was sitting on the farmhouse porch one afternoon, waiting for Estelle and Ruth to come down, for they were going for a walk together, not being needed in the films. Estelle had been taken into companionship by the two girls, who found her a very charming companion, though little disposed to talk about herself.
Alice, who was reading a motion picture magazine, was startled by hearing a voice saying, almost in her ear:
"Is Miss Brown in?"
"Oh!" and Alice looked up to see Maurice Whitlow smirking at her. He had tiptoed up on the porch and was standing very close to her. She had never been introduced to him, but that is not absolutely insisted on in moving picture circles, particularly when a company is on "location."
"Is Miss Brown in?" repeated Whitlow.
"I don't know, I'm sure," replied Alice.
"Ah, well, I'll wait and find out. I'll sit down here by you and wait," went on the young man, drawing a chair so close to that of Alice that it touched. "Fine day, isn't it? I say! you did that bit of acting very cleverly to-day."
"Did I?" and Alice went on reading.
"Yes. I had a little bit myself. I carried a message from the field headquarters to the rear—after more ammunition, you know. Did you notice me riding?"
"I did not."
"Well, I saw you, all right. If Miss Brown isn't home, do you want to go over to the village with me?"
"I do not!" and Alice was very emphatic.
"Then for a row on the lake?"
"No!"
"You look as though you would enjoy canoeing," went on the persistent Whitlow. "You have a very strong little hand—very pretty!" and he boldly reached up and removed Alice's fingers from the edge of the magazine. "A very pretty little hand—yes!" and he sighed foolishly.
"How dare you!" cried Alice, indignantly. "If you don't——"
"See how you like that pretty bit of grass down there!" exclaimed a sharp voice behind Alice, and the next moment Mr. Maurice Whitlow, eye-glasses, lavender tie, socks and all, went sailing over the porch railing, to land in a sprawling heap on the sod below.
"Oh!" murmured Alice, shrinking down in her chair. "Oh—my!"
She gave a hasty glance over her shoulder, to behold Paul Ardite standing back of her chair, an angry look on his face. Then Alice looked at the sprawling form of the extra player. He was getting up with a dazed expression on his countenance.
"What—what does this mean?" he gasped, striving to make his tones indignant. But it is hard for dignity to assert itself when one is on one's hands and knees in the grass, conscious that there is a big grass stain on one's white cuff, and with one's clothing generally disarranged. "What does this mean? I demand an explanation," came from Mr. Maurice Whitlow.
"You know well enough what it means!" snapped Paul. "If you don't, why, come back here and try it over again and I'll give you another demonstration!"
"Oh, don't, Paul—please!" pleaded Alice in a low voice.
"There's no danger. He won't come," was the confident reply.
By this time Whitlow had picked himself up and was brushing his garments. He settled his collar, straightened his lavender tie and wet his lips as though about to speak.
"You—you—I——" he began. "I don't see what right you had to——"
"That'll do now!" interrupted Paul, sternly. "It's of no use to go into explanations. You know as well as I do what you were doing and why I pitched you over the railing. I'll do it again if you want me to, but twice as hard. And if I catch you here again, annoying any of the ladies of this company, I'll report you to the director. Now skip—and stay skipped!" concluded Paul significantly. "Perhaps you can't read that notice?" and he pointed to one recently posted on the main gateway leading to the big farmhouse. It was to the effect that none of the extra players were allowed admission to the grounds without a permit from the director.
"Huh! I'm as good an actor as you, any day!" sneered Whitlow, as he limped down the walk.
"Maybe. But you can't get over with it—here!" said Paul significantly.
The notice had been posted because so many of the cowboys and girls had fairly overrun the precincts of Mr. Apgar's home. He and his family had no privacy at all, and while they did not mind the regular members of Mr. Pertell's company, with whom they were acquainted, they did not want the hundreds of extra men, soldiers, cowboys and horsewomen running all over the place.
So the rule had been adopted, and it was observed good-naturedly by those to whom it applied. Whitlow must have considered himself above it.
"Did he annoy you much, Alice?" asked Paul.
"Not so very. He was just what you might call—fresh. He asked for Miss Brown, and when she wasn't here to snub him he turned the task over to me. Ugh!" and Alice began to scrub vigorously with her handkerchief the fingers which Whitlow had grasped. "I'm sorry you had that trouble with him, Paul," she went on. "But really——"
"It was no trouble—it was a pleasure!" laughed Paul. "I'd like to do it over again if it were not for annoying you. I happened to come up behind and heard what he was saying. So I just pitched into him. I don't believe he'll come back. He'll be too much afraid of losing thework. Mr. Pertell has had a great many applications from players out of work who want to be taken on as extras, and he can have his pick. So those that don't obey the regulations will get short notice. You won't be troubled with him again."
And Alice was not, nor was Miss Brown. That is, as regards the extra player's trespassing on the grounds about the farmhouse. But he was of the kind that is persistent, and on several occasions, when the duties of the girls brought them near to where Whitlow was acting, he smiled and smirked at them.
Alice wished to tell Paul about it and have him administer another and more severe chastisement to Whitlow, but Ruth and Estelle persuaded the impulsive one to forego doing so.
"I can look after myself, thank you, Alice dear," Estelle said. "Now that I don't have to board in the bungalow with him it is easier."
"Don't make a scene," advised Ruth.
"Oh, but I just can't bear to have him look at me," Alice said.
Several of the scenes in the principal drama had been made, but most of the largest ones, those of the battles, of Alice's spy work, and of Ruth's nursing, were yet to come.
The making of a big moving picture is the work not of days, but of weeks, and often ofmonths. If every scene took place in a studio, where artificial lights could be used, the filming could go on every day the actors were on hand, or whenever the director felt like working them and the camera men. Often in a studio, even, the director will be notional—"temperamental," he might call it—and let a day go by, and again the glare of the powerful lights may so affect the eyes of the players that they have to rest, and so time is lost in that way.
But the time lost in a studio is as nothing compared to the time lost in filming the big outdoor scenes. There the sun is a big factor, for a brilliant light is needed to take pictures of galloping horses, swiftly moving automobiles and locomotives, and every cloudy day means a loss of time. For this reason many of the big film companies maintain studios in California, where there are many days of sunshine. They can take "outdoor stuff" almost any time after the sun is up.
But at Oak Farm there were times when everything would be in readiness for a big scene, the camera men waiting, the players ready to dash into their parts, and then clouds would form, or it would rain, and there would be a postponement. But it was part of the game, and as the salaries of the players went on whether they worked or not, they did not complain.
One morning Alice, on going into Estelle's room, found her busy "padding" herself before she put on her outer garments.
"What in the world are you doing?" Alice asked.
"Getting ready for my big jump," was the answer.
"Your big jump?"
"Yes, you know there is a scene where I carry a message from headquarters to one of the Union generals at the front. Your father plays the latter part."
"Oh, yes, now I remember. And Daddy is sure no one can do quite as well as he can in the tent scene, where he salutes you and takes the message you have brought through with such peril."
"Yes, that's nice. Well, I'm to ride along and be pursued by some Confederate guerrillas. It's a race, and I decide to take a short cut, not knowing the Confederates have burned the bridge. I have to leap my horse down an embankment and ford the stream. I'm getting ready for the jump now—that's why I'm padding myself. For Petro—that's my horse—might slip or stumble in jumping down that embankment, and I want to be ready to roll out of the way. It's much more comfortable to roll in a padded suit—like afootball player's—than in your ordinary clothes. Your friend, Russ Dalwood, told me to do this, and I think it is a good idea."
"It's sure to be if Russ told you, isn't it, Ruth?" asked Alice, with a mischievous look at her sister, who had just come in.
"How should I know?" was the cool response. "I suppose Mr. Dalwood knows what he is doing, though."
"Oh, how very formal we are all of a sudden," mocked Alice. "You two haven't quarreled, have you?"
"Silly," returned Ruth, blushing.
"Are you really going to jump your horse down a cliff?" asked Alice.
"I really am," was the smiling answer. "There is to be no fake about this. But really there is little danger. I am so used to horses."
"Yes, and I marvel at you," put in Ruth. "Where did you learn it all?"
"I don't know. It seems to come natural to me."
"You must have lived on a ranch a long time," ventured Ruth.
"Did I? Well, perhaps I did. Say, lace this up the back for me, that's a dear," and she turned around so that Alice or Ruth could fasten a corset-like pad that covered a large part of herbody. It would not show under her dress, but would be a protection in case of a fall.
Alice and Ruth were so greatly interested in the coming perilous leap of Estelle's that they did not pursue their inquiries about her life on a ranch, though Alice casually remarked that it was strange she did not speak more about it.
The two DeVere girls had no part in this one scene, and they went to watch it, safely out of range of the cameras. For there were to be two snapping this jump, to avoid the necessity of a retake in case one film failed.
"All ready now!" called Mr. Pertell, when there had been several rehearsals up to the actual point of making the jump. Estelle had raced out of the woods bearing the message. The Confederate guerrillas had pursued her, and she had found the bridge burned—one built for the purpose and set fire to.
"All ready for the jump?" asked the director.
"All ready," Estelle answered, looking to saddle girths and stirrups.
"Then come on!" yelled the director through his megaphone.
Estelle urged her horse forward. With shouts and yells, which, of course, had no part in the picture, yet which served to aid them in their acting, the players who were portraying the Confederates came after her, spurring their horses and firing wildly. On and on rushed the steed bearing the daring girl rider.
She reached the place of the burned bridge, halted a moment, made a gesture of despair, and then raced for the bank, down which she would leap her horse to the ford.
"Come on! Come on!" yelled Mr. Pertell. "That's fine! Come on! You men there put a little more pep in your riding. Turn and fire at them, Miss Brown! Fire one shot, and one of you men reel in his saddle. That's the idea!"
Estelle had quickly turned and fired, and one man had most realistically showed that he was hit, afterward slumping from his seat.
Now the girl was at the edge of the bank. She was to make a flying jump over its edge and come down in the soft sand, sliding to the bottom—in the saddle if she could keep her seat, rolling over and over if, perchance, she left it.
"That's the idea! Get every bit of that, Russ! That's fine!" yelled Mr. Pertell.
"There she goes!" cried Alice, grasping her sister's arm, and as she spoke Estelle spurred her horse and it leaped full and fair over the edge of the embankment. Estelle had made her big jump. Would she come safely out of it?
While Russ Dalwood and his helper were grinding their cameras, reeling away at the film on which was being impressed the shifting vision of Estelle Brown taking her hazardous leap, Alice, Ruth, and the others were watching to see how the daring young horsewoman would come out of it.
"She's going to land in a minute!" exclaimed Miss Dixon.
"In a minute? In a half second!" cried Alice. "But don't talk!"
"There—she's fallen!" gasped Miss Pennington.
With his feet gathered under him, Petro had come down straight on the sliding, shifting sand of the embankment. For a moment it looked as though he had stumbled and that Estelle would be thrown.
But she held a firm rein, and leaned far back in the saddle. The horse stiffened and then, keeping upright with his forelegs straight out in front of him and his hind ones bunched under him, he began to slide.
Down the embankment he slid, as the Italian cavalrymen sometimes ride their horses, with Estelle firm in the saddle. And, as a matter of fact, the girl said afterward it was from having seen some moving pictures of these Italian army riders that she got the idea of doing as she did.
"She won't fall!" murmured Paul.
"Oh, I'm so glad! The picture will be a success, won't it?"
"I should think so," Paul said. "It certainly was a daring ride."
"I wouldn't mind doing it if I had her horse," put in Maurice Whitlow, smirking at the girls. "I think you could do that, Miss DeVere," and he looked at Alice.
She turned away with only a murmured reply, but, nothing daunted, the "pest" went on:
"Estelle is certainly a fine rider. I think she must have been a cowgirl on a ranch at one time, though she won't admit it."
"She wouldn't to you, at any rate," said Paul, significantly.
"Why not?"
"Oh, if you don't know it's of no use to tell you. Look! Now she goes into the water!"
The action called for the halting at the top of the embankment of the Confederate riders, who dared not make the jump. They fired some futile shots at Estelle, then rode around to a less dangerous descent to try to catch her. But Estelle was to ford the stream and continue on to the Union lines with her message.
Reaching the bottom of the slope, her horse gathered himself together for another bit of moving picture work. At the edge of the stream another camera man was stationed, for Estelle and her horse were by this time too far away from Russ and his helper to make good views possible.
Into the water splashed the girl, urging on her spirited horse, that was none the worse for his jump and his long slide.
"Good work! Good work!" cried an assistant director, who was stationed near the stream to see that all went according to the scenario. "Keep on, Miss Brown!"
Estelle bent low over her horse's neck, to escape possible bullets from the Confederate guns, and on and on she raced until she pulled up at the tent of "General" DeVere. Here her mission ended, after the father of Alice and Ruth, in a dusty uniform of a Union officer, had come out in response to the summons from his orderly.
Estelle slipped from her saddle, registered exhaustion, saluted and held out the paper she had brought through the Confederate lines at such risk. Nor was the risk wholly one of the play, for she might have been seriously hurt in her perilous leap.
But, fortunately, everything came out properly and a fine series of pictures resulted.
"I'm so glad!" Estelle exclaimed, when it was all over, and, divested of her padding, she sat in her room with Ruth and Alice. "I want to 'make good' in this business, and riding seems to be my forte."
"Do you like it better than anything else?" asked Alice.
"Yes, I do. And I just love moving pictures, don't you?"
"Indeed we do," put in Ruth. "But we were never cut out for riders."
"I'd like it!" exclaimed Alice. "I'd like to know how to ride a horse as well as you do."
"I'll show you," offered Estelle. "I'll be very glad to, and it's easy. It's like swimming—all you need is confidence, and to learn not to be afraid of your horse but to trust him. Let me show you some day."
"I believe I will!" decided Alice, with flashing eyes. "It will be great."
"Better ask father," suggested Ruth.
"Oh, he'll let me, I know. We've ridden some, you know; but I would like to ride as well as Estelle," and Alice and Estelle began to talk over their plans for taking and giving riding lessons. In the midst of the talk the return of the boy who went daily to the village for mail was announced.
"Oh, I hope my new waist has come!" Alice exclaimed, for she had written to her dressmaker to send one by parcel post. There was a package for her—the one she expected—and also some letters, as well as one for Ruth. Estelle showed no interest when the distribution of the mail was going on.
"Don't you expect anything?" asked Alice.
"Any what?"
"Letters."
"Why, no, I don't believe I do," was the slowly given answer. "I don't write any, so I don't get any, I suppose," and both girls noticed that there was a far-away look in Estelle's eyes. Perhaps it was a wistful look, for surely all girls like to get letters from some one.
"I believe she is estranged from her family," decided Alice to her sister afterward. "Did you see how pathetic she looked when we got letters and she didn't?"
"Well, I didn't notice anything special," Ruth replied. "But there is something queer about her, I must admit. She is so absent-minded at times. This morning I asked her if she wanted to go for a walk, and she said she had no ticket."
"No ticket?"
"Yes, that's what she said. And when I laughed and told her one didn't need a ticket to walk around Oak Farm, she sort of 'came to' and said she was thinking about a boat."
"A boat—what boat?"
"That was all she said. Then she began to talk about something else."
"Do you know what I think?" asked Alice, suddenly.
"No. But then you think so many things it isn't any wonder I can't keep track of them."
"I think, as I believe I've said before, that she has run away from some ranch to be in moving pictures. That's why she doesn't write or receive letters. She doesn't want her folks to know where she is."
"I can hardly believe that," declared Ruth. "She is too nice and refined a girl to have done anything like that. No, I just think she is a bit queer, that is all. But certainly she doesn't tell much about herself."
However, further speculation regarding EstelleBrown was cut short, as orders came for the appearance of nearly the entire company in one of the plays.
The first scene was to take place in a Southern town, and for the purpose a street had been constructed by Pop Snooks and his helpers. There was a stately mansion, smaller houses, a store or two and some other buildings. True, the buildings were but shells, and, in some cases, only fronts, but they showed well in the picture.
Ruth, Alice, and a number of the girls and women and men were to be the inhabitants of this village, and were to take part in an alarm and flee the place when it was known that the Confederate forces were being driven back and through the place by the Unionists.
"Come on—get dressed!" cried Alice, and soon she, her sister, Estelle and the other women were donning their Southern costumes, wide skirts, with hoops to puff them out, and broad-brimmed hats, under which curls showed.
There was to be a massed attack by the Unionists on the town, through which the Confederates were to flee, and it was the part of Ruth and Alice to rush from their father's "mansion" bearing a few of their choice possessions.
All was in readiness. The Southern defenders were on the outskirts of the town, drawn up toreceive the Unionists. Toward these Confederates, their enemies came riding. This was filmed separately, while other camera men, in the made street, took pictures of the activities there. Men, women and children went in and out of the houses. Though, as Mr. Belix Apgar said, "If you call them houses you might as well call the smell of an onion a dinner. There ain't nothin' to 'em!"
Suddenly an excited rider dashed into the midst of the peaceful activities of the Southern town.
"They're coming! They're coming!" he cried, waving his hat. "The Yankees are coming!" This would be flashed on the screen.
Then ensued a wild scene. Colored mammies rushed here and there seeking their charges. Men began to look to their arms. Then came the advance guard of the retreating Confederates, turning back to fire at their enemies.
"Come on now, Ruth—Alice! This is where we make our rush—just as the first of the Union soldiers appear!" called Paul, who was acting the part of a Southern youth. "Grab up your stuff and come on!"
Ruth was to carry a bandbox and a case supposed to contain the family jewels. Alice, who played the part this time of a frivolous young woman, was to save her pet cat.
"Here they come!" yelled Paul, as the first of the Unionists came into view at the head of the street. "Hurry, girls!"
Out they rushed, down the steps of the mansion, fleeing before the mounted Union soldiers, who laughed and jeered, firing at the Confederates, who were retreating.
Ruth and Estelle, with some of the other women, were in the lead. Alice had lingered behind, for the cat showed a disposition to wiggle out of her arms, and she wanted to keep it to make an effective picture.
Finally the creature did make its escape, but Alice was not going to give up so easily. She started in pursuit, and then one of the Union soldiers, Maurice Whitlow, spurred his horse forward. He wanted to get in the foreground of the picture and took this chance.
"Get back where you belong!" yelled the director angrily. "Who told you to get in the spotlight? Get back!"
But it was too late. Alice, in pursuit of the cat, was running straight toward Whitlow's horse, and the next moment she slipped and went down, almost under the feet of the prancing animal.
"Look out!" shouted Paul, and, dropping what he was carrying, he made a leap toward the animal Whitlow was riding.
"Roll out of the way of his feet!" cried the director.
"Shall I keep on with the film?" asked the camera man, for his duty was to turn until told to stop, no matter what happened.
"Let it run!" Alice cried. "I can get out of the way. Don't stop on my account!"
She had been in motion pictures long enough to know what it meant to spoil a hundred feet or more of film in a spirited picture, necessitating a retake. She had seen her danger, and had done her best to get out of harm's way.
The cat had leaped into some bushes and was out of sight.
Whitlow, his face showing his fear and his inability to act in this emergency, had instinctively drawn back on the reins. But it was to the intelligent horse itself, rather than to the rider, that Alice owed her immunity from harm. For the horse reared, and came down with feet well to one side of the crouching girl, who had partly risen to her knees.
At the same moment Paul sprang for the steed's bridle and swerved him to one side. Then, seeing that Alice was practically out of danger, Paul's rage at the carelessness of Whitlow rose, and he reached up and fairly dragged that young man out of the saddle.
"You don't know enough to lead a horse to water, let alone ride one in a movie battle scene!" he cried, as he pushed the player to one side. "Why don't you look where you're going?"
Whitlow was too shaken and startled to reply.
"Go on. Help her up and keep on with the retreat!" cried the director. "That's one of the best scenes of the picture. Couldn't have been better if we had rehearsed it. Never mind the cat, Miss DeVere. Run on. Paul, you land a couple of blows on Whitlow and then follow Alice. Hold back, there—you Union men—until we get this bit of by-play."
Paul, nothing loath, gave Whitlow two hard blows, and the latter dared not return them for fear of spoiling the picture, but he muttered in rage.
Then Paul, shaking his fist at the Unionists, hurried on after Alice, and the retreat continued. What had threatened to be a disaster, or at least a spoiling of the scene, had turned out well. It is often so in moving pictures.
In the remainder of the scene the girls had little part. They had been driven from their home, and, presumably, were taken in by friends. The rest of the scenes showed the Union soldiers making merry in the Southern town they had captured.
"My! That was a narrow escape you had!" exclaimed Ruth, when she and her sister were at liberty to return to the farmhouse. "Were you hurt?"
"No; I strained one arm just a little. But it will make a good scene, so Russ said."
"Too good—too realistic!" declared Paul. "When I get a chance at that Whitlow——"
"Please don't do anything!" begged Alice. "It wasn't really his fault. If I hadn't had the cat——"
"It was his fault for pushing himself to the front the way he did," said the young actor. "Only the best riders were picked to lead the charge. He might have known he couldn't control his horse in an emergency. That's where he was at fault."
"He is a poor rider," commented Estelle. "But you showed rare good sense, Alice, in acting as you did. A horse will not step on a person if he can possibly avoid it. Mr. Whitlow's horse was better than he was."
"Just the same, I got in two good punches!" chuckled Paul, "and he didn't dare hit back."
"He may make trouble for you later," Alice said.
"Oh, I'm not worrying about that. I'm satisfied."
There was a spirited battle scene later in the day between the Union and Confederate forces; the latter endeavoring to retake the village.
A Confederate battery in a distant town was sent for, and the Union position was shelled. But as by this time the Union cannon had come up and were entrenched in the town, an artillery duel ensued.
Views were shown of the Union guns being manned by the men, who wore bloody cloths around their foreheads and who worked hard serving the cannon. Real powder was used, but no balls, of course, and now and then a man would fall dead at his gun.
Similar views with another camera were taken of the Confederate guns and the scenes alternated on the screen afterward, creating a big sensation.
Then came an attack of the Confederate infantry under cover of the Southern battery. This was spirited, detachments of men rushing forward, firing and then seeking what cover they could. At times a man would roll over, his gun dropping, sometimes several would drop at the same time. These were those who were detailed to be shot.
The Unionists replied with a counter charge, and for a time the battle waged fiercely on both sides. Then came a lull in the fighting, with the Confederates ready to make a last charge in a desperate attempt to recapture the town.
"I know what would make a good scene," said Maurice Whitlow, during the lull when fresh films were being loaded into the cameras. "If we had an airship now some of us Union fellows could go for reinforcements in that. It would make a dandy scene."
"An airship!" cried Russ. "Say! remember that these scenes are supposed to have taken place in 1863. The only airships then were those the inventors were dreaming about or making in their laboratories. No airships in Civil War plays! I guess not! Balloons, maybe, but no airships."
"More fighting! Camera!" called Mr. Pertell, and again the spirited action was under way. Cannon boomed; rifles spat fire and smoke; menfought hand to hand, often rolling over dead; riderless horses dashed here and there. Now and then a man would narrowly escape being run down. As it was, several were burned from being too near the cannon or the guns, and one man's leg was broken in a fall from his horse.
But it was part of the game, and no one seemed to mind. A real hospital was set up at Oak Farm, not a mere shell of a building, and here the injured, as well as those who simulated injury, were attended.
Ruth and some of the women made up as nurses, though this was not the big scene in which Ruth and Alice were to take part.
"Confederates retreat!" directed Mr. Pertell, and the Southern forces, having been defeated, were forced to withdraw. Their attempt to recapture their town had failed.
"Whew! that was hot work!" cried Paul, as he came back to the farmhouse, having played his part as a Confederate soldier.
"It certainly was," agreed Mr. DeVere, who had been the directing Union General. Now that the "war" was over Northerners and Southerners mingled together in friendly converse, their differences forgotten.
"I just can't bear the smell of powder!" complained Miss Dixon. "I wish I had my salts."
"I'll get them for you, dear," offered Miss Pennington. "I'm going up to our rooms." The former vaudeville actresses, with Ruth, Alice, and some of the others, were resting on the farmhouse porch.
Miss Dixon smelled the salts and declared she felt much better.
"There's to be a dance in the village to-night," Paul remarked at the supper table.
"Let's go!" proposed Alice. "Will you take me, Paul?"
"Of course I will."
"May I have the pleasure?" asked Russ, of Ruth.
"Why, yes, if the rest go."
"We'll all go!" chimed in Miss Dixon. "Some of the extra men are good dancers. They proved it in the ballroom scene the other day. We can get a man, Pearl."
"All right, my dear, just as you say."
The little party was soon arranged.
"Estelle might like to go," suggested Alice.
"I'll go to ask her," offered Ruth, for Miss Brown had quit the supper table early and gone to her room.
As Ruth mounted the stairs she heard Miss Dixon and Miss Pennington talking in the hall outside their rooms.
"I can't see where it can be," Miss Dixon was saying.
"It was on your dresser when I went up for the salts," said her chum. "Are you sure you didn't take it after that?"
"Positive! It's gone—that's all there is to it."
"What's gone?" asked Ruth.
"One of my rings," was Miss Dixon's answer. "I left it on my dresser and my door was open. It was there when I went down to supper, and we were all at the table together——"
"Except Estelle Brown!" said Miss Pennington quickly.
For a moment Ruth stood looking with wide-open eyes at the two former vaudeville actresses. On their part they stared boldly at Ruth, and then Miss Dixon turned and slightly winked at Miss Pennington.
"That was one of your valuable rings, wasn't it, dear?" asked Miss Pennington, in deliberate tones.
"It certainly was—the best diamond I had. I simply won't let it be lost—or taken. I'm going to have it back!"
She spoke in a loud tone, and the door of Estelle's room, farther down the hall, opened. Estelle looked out. She was in negligée, and she seemed to be suffering.
"Has anything happened?" she asked.
"Yes," answered Miss Dixon. "Something has happened. Some one has stolen my diamond ring!"
"Oh!" gasped Ruth, "you shouldn't say that!"
"Say what?"
"Stolen. It's such a—such a harsh word."
"Well, I feel harsh just now. I'm not going to lose that ring. It was on my dresser when I went down to supper, and now it's gone. It was stolen—or taken, if you like that word better. Perhaps you want me to say it was—borrowed?" and she looked scornfully at Ruth.
"It may have slipped down behind your dresser."
"I've looked," said Miss Pennington. "You came up here from the table before we did," she went on, addressing Estelle. "Did you see anything of any one in Miss Dixon's room?"
"I? No, I saw no one." Estelle was plainly taken by surprise.
"Did you go in yourself," asked Miss Dixonbrusquely. "Come, I don't mind a joke—if it was a joke—but give me back my ring. I'm going into town, and I want to wear it."
"A joke! Give you back your ring! Why, what do you mean?" and Estelle, her face flashing her indignation, stepped out into the hall.
"I mean you might have borrowed it," went on Miss Dixon, not a whit daunted. "Oh, it isn't anything. I've often done the same thing myself when we've been playing on circuit. It's all right—if you give things back."
"But I haven't taken anything of yours!" cried Estelle. "I never went into your room!"
"Perhaps you have forgotten about it," suggested Miss Pennington coldly. "You seem to have a headache, and sometimes those headache remedies are so strong——"
"I am tired, but I have no headache," said Estelle simply, "nor have I taken any strong headache remedies, as you seem to suggest. I haven't been walking in my sleep, either. And I certainly was not in your room, Miss Dixon, nor do I know anything about your ring," and with that she turned and entered her room, whence, presently, came the sound of sobbing.
For a moment Ruth stood still, looking at the two rather flashy actresses, and wondering if they really meant what they had insinuated. Then Alice's voice was heard calling:
"I say, Ruth, are you and Estelle coming? The boys have the auto and they'll take us in. Come on."
Ruth did not answer, and Alice came running up the stairs. She came to a halt as she saw the trio standing in the hall.
"Well, for the love of trading stamps! what's it all about?" she asked. "Are you posing for Faith, Hope and Charity?"
"Certainly not Charity," murmured Ruth.
"And I certainly have lost what little faith I had, though I hope I do get my ring back," sneered Miss Dixon.
"Your ring? What's the matter?" asked Alice. "Have you lost something?"
"My diamond ring was taken off my dresser," said the actress.
"And that Estelle Brown was up here ahead of us, and all alone," said Miss Pennington. "She may have borrowed it and forgotten to return it."
"That's what one gets for leaving one's valuable diamond rings around where these extra players are allowed to have free access," sneered Miss Dixon.
"You mean that little chip diamond ring of yours with the red garnets around it?" asked Alice.
"It isn't a chip diamond at all!" fired back Miss Dixon. "It was a valuable ring."
"Comparatively, perhaps, yes," and Alice's voice was coolly sneering, though she rarely allowed herself this privilege. "I'm sorry it is lost——"
"Why don't you say taken?" asked Miss Pennington.
"Because I don't believe it was," snapped Alice. "Either you forgot where you laid it or it has dropped behind something. As for thinkingEstelle Brown even borrowed it, that's all nonsense! I don't believe a word of it."
"Nor I!" exclaimed Ruth.
"Did you speak to her about it?" asked Alice, and then as the sound of sobbing came from Estelle's room she burst out with:
"You horrid things! I believe you did! Shame on you!" and she hurried to the closed door.
"It is I—Alice," she whispered. "Let me in. It's all a terrible mistake. Don't let it affect you so, Estelle dear!"
Then Alice opened the unlocked door and went in. Ruth paused for a moment to say:
"I think you have made a terrible mistake, Miss Dixon," and then she followed her sister to comfort the crying girl.
"Humph! Mistake!" sneered Miss Dixon.
"That's what we get for mixing in with amateurs," added her chum. "Come on, we'll speak to Mr. Pertell about it."
But, for some reason or other, the director was not told directly of the loss of the ring, nor was Estelle openly accused. She felt as badly, though, as if she had been, even when Ruth and Alice tried to comfort her.
Estelle had left the table early, but though she had passed Miss Dixon's room, she said she had seen no one about.
"Don't mind about the old ring!" said Alice. "It wasn't worth five dollars."
"But that I should be accused of taking even five dollars!"
"You're not!" said Ruth, quickly. "They don't dare make an open accusation. I wouldn't be surprised if Miss Dixon found she had lost her ring and she's ashamed to acknowledge it."
"Oh, but it is dreadful to be suspected!" sighed Estelle.
"You're not—no one in his senses would think of even dreaming you took so much as a pin!" cried Alice. "It's positively silly! I wouldn't make such a fuss over such a cheap ring."
But Miss Dixon did make a "fuss," inasmuch as she talked often about her loss, though she still made no direct accusation against Estelle. But Miss Dixon and her chum made life miserable for the daring horsewoman. They often spoke in her presence of extra players who did not know their places, and made sneering references to locking up their valuables.
At times Estelle was so miserable that she threatened to leave, but Ruth and Alice would not hear of it and offered to lay the whole matter before Mr. Pertell and have him settle it by demanding that the loser of the ring either make a direct accusation or else keep quiet about her loss.
Mr. DeVere, who was appealed to by his daughters, voted against this, however.
"It is best not to pay any attention to those young ladies," he advised. "The friends of Estelle know she would not do such a thing, and no one takes either Miss Dixon or Miss Pennington very seriously—not half as seriously as they take themselves. It will all blow over."
There were big times ahead for the moving picture girls and their friends. Some of the most important battle scenes were soon to be filmed, those that had already been taken having been skirmishes.
"I have succeeded in getting two regiments of the state militia to take part in a sham battle for our big play," said Mr. Pertell one day. "They are to come to this part of the country for their annual manoeuvers under the supervision of the regular army officers, and by paying their expenses I can have them here for a couple of days.
"They will come with their horses, tents, and everything, so we shall have some real war scenes—that is, as real as can be had with blank cartridges. It will be a great thing for my film."
"And will they work in with our players?" asked Mr. DeVere.
"Oh, yes, indeed! I intend to use your daughters in the spy and hospital scenes, and you asone of the generals. In fact, Mr.DeVere, I depend on you to coach the militia men. For though they know a lot about military matters, they do not know how best to pose for the camera. So I'll be glad if you will act as a sort of stage manager."
"I shall be pleased to," answered the old player. And he was greatly delighted at the opportunity.
About a week after Mr. Pertell had mentioned that two regiments of militia were coming to Oak Farm, Ruth and Alice awakened one morning to see the fields about them dotted with tents and soldiers moving about here and there.
"Why, it does look just like a real war camp!" exclaimed Alice, who, in a very becoming dressing gown, was at the window. "Oh, isn't it thrilling! How dare you?" she exclaimed, drawing hastily back.
"What was it?" asked Ruth from her room.
"One of the officers had the audacity to wave his hand at me."
"You shouldn't have looked out."
"Ha! A pity I can't look out of my own window," and to prove that she was well within her rights Alice looked out again, and pretended not to see a young man who was standing in the yard below.
There was a bustle of excitement at the breakfast table. All the players were eager to know what parts they would have, for this was the biggest thing any of them had yet been in—with two regiments taking the field one against the other, with many more cannon and guns than Mr. Pertell had hitherto used.
"I'll be able to throw on the screen a real battle scene," he said.
"The only trouble," declared Pop Snooks, "is that their uniforms aren't like those of the days of sixty-three." Pop was a stickler for dramatic correctness.
"It won't matter," said Mr. Pertell. "The views of the battle will be distant ones, and no one will be able to see the kind of uniforms the men wear. Those who are close to the camera will wear theproperCivil War uniforms we have on hand. The officers of the Guard have agreed to that."
Considerable preparation was necessary before the big film of the battle could be taken, and to this end it was necessary to have several conferences among the officers and Mr. Pertell and his camera men and assistants, including Mr. DeVere. A number of the Guard officers were constantly about the farmhouse, arranging the plans.
One afternoon Alice was sitting on the porchwith Estelle, waiting until it was time for them to take their parts in a side scene of the production. A nattily attired young officer came up the walk, doffing his cap.
"I beg your pardon," he said. "I am Lieutenant Varley, and I was sent here to ask for Mr. Pertell. Perhaps you can tell me where I can find him?"
Alice looked and blushed. He was the one who had audaciously waved to her beneath her window, but now he showed no sign of recognition. As his gaze rested on the face of Estelle Brown, however, he started.
"Excuse me!" he began, "but did you reach your destination safely?"
"My destination!" exclaimed Estelle. "What do you mean? I don't know you!"
"Perhaps not by name. But are you not the young lady whom I met some years ago in Portland, Oregon, inquiring how to get to New York?"
"You are mistaken," said Estelle, and her voice was frigid in tone. "I have never been in Portland in my life," and she turned aside.