Movie Weekly, April 15, 1922

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Are Motion Pictures Retrograding?

THE New York motion picture public received a shock.
A shock instigated by Hugo Riesenfeld, director of
the three Broadway houses, Rialto, Rivoli and Criter-
ion, without malice of forethought. It started people to
thinking. Are motion pictures retrograding?

Mr. Riesenfeld showed seven of the best pictures made by
Famous Players-Lasky during their existence, "The Mir-
acle Man," featuring Betty Compson and Tom Meighan;
John Barrymore in "Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde"; Cecil de
Mille's "Old Wives For New" ; "On With the Dance," with
Mae Murray; "Don't Change Your Husband"; "Behold
My Wife," and "Male and Female."

Every one of these pictures are top notchers. Most of them
even including Cecil de Mille — that musical comedy impres-
sario of the cinema — stand head and shoulders above the
majority of the productions released today.

What are producers doing? Retracing covered ground in
a hysterical dash for the coveted shekels?
Betty Compson, who made
her mark in "The Miracle
Man," has had since then only
one opportunity to show her
real ability : as Babbie in "The
Little Minister."

And why? Betty is a big
drawing card. Therefore, she
must be seen in picture after
picture, no matter how frail
the story. The misfortune of
it is that the producer rarely
gives Miss Compson a chance
to do herself, or her public,
justice. The public goes to
see Betty even in weak stories
because they appreciate her,
but they certainly do not ap-
preciate the system that per-
mits her to waste her beauty
and her ability.

John Barrymore, in "Dr.
Jekyll and Mr. Hyde," has
been more fortunate than other
stars in the selection of his
screen vehicles. He can afford
to be. He signs no long term
contract that renders him
powerless to dispute the auto-
cratic demands of the pro-
ducer. He works when a story
comes to him worthy of his
talents.

In his earlier days as a di-
rector, Cecil de Mille was
quieter, less fantastical, milder
in his presentation of a story.
"Male and Female," based on
Sir James Barrie's "The

CONTENTS

APRIL 15th, 1922

INSIDE STORIES OF THE MOVIES

PAGE
Marjorie Daw (A Study by Alfred Cheney

Johnston - - - - - • Cover Design
—and They Lived Happily Ever After 3

Wm. D. Taylor's Life Story (Conclusion) - - 5
Charlie Chaplin — A Soul Tragedy .... 7
Rambling Through the Studios of the East - • 9
How to Get Into the Movies (IX) . . - 11

Secrets of the Movies (XII) -I

The Life Story of Dick Barthelmess - - 14 and 15
Norma Talmadge — Fortune Teller 18

Radiophone News 18

Under the Orange Pekoe Tree .... 19
The Colonel's Page — Queries and Answers - • 20
Film Flam (Funny Stories About Film Folk) - 21
Our Own Reel Nooze (Cartoonical) ... 21
Hints to Scenario Writers {Frederick Palmer) - 22
Our Weekly Letter From Sophie Potts 29

"Movie Weekly" Screen Dictionary ... 29

IN THE EYE OF THE CAMERA

A Flash of Off-Stage Gaiety (Catching the Stars

at Play) *>

Bernarr Macfadden's Beauty Pages - • -12 and 13
Betty Compson (Centre Spread) - - - 16 and 17

THRILLING ACTION STORIES

The Triumph of Love {Robert W. Chambers) ■ 10
The Philanthropic Bank Burglar {John W. Grey) - 23
The Fiery Romance of Love {Montanye Perry) - 25

Admirable Crichton," was laughed to scorn by many critics
because of its distortion of English aristocracy's behavior.

But think what Mr. de Mille would do today with such a
story! He would mo it likely have the band of shipwrecked
men and women excavate on their island, and discover a
magnificent city buried thousands of years ago by a volcanic
eruption. And the reckless barbarity of the setting would
intoxicate the aroused spirits of the curious explorers and,
as in a hypnotic trance, they would be themselves transferred
back to the days of long ago. You know, reincarnation stuff.

What has happened to Mr. de Mille that he has developed
into a hysterical musical comedy presenter of motion pic-
tures? The answer is simple, but its simplicity is complex.
Mr. de Mille became a Paramount featured director, fol-
lowing, we believe, his direction of Geraldine Farrar in
"Joan, the Woman." His name commenced to be pub-
licized and plastered heavily around the country. The name
— Cecil de Mille— stood for a certain something. At first,

good productions. Then he
broadened out and started in
with "super-specials" — fever-
ish extravaganzas. And he is
now in that peculiar position
of trying to outdo himself
with each succeeding produc-
tion. Therefore the hysteria.
But see what Mr. Riesen-
feld has done in giving the
public the best of the Para-
mount re-issues. He has
raised the issue: "Are pro-
ducers retracing their steps?"
Don't permit this issue to
simmer down, friend reader.
Write to the producer; write
to "Movie Weekly." Make
your voice, united as it should
be with the voice of the thou-
sands who comprise the
American public, carry a
warning:

"Give us our favorite stars
in stories worthy of their abil-
ity, or we, who make the pic-
ture industry possible, will
boycott motion picture theatres
throughout the country."

This is the logical step to
take. Not the floundering,
meaningless step of censor-
ship. Better pictures will
automatically result in the
abolishing of censor howlers.
But the public — you and you
and you — must demand these
better pictures. Start now.

Published weekly by the PHYSICAL CULTURE CORPO-
RATION, 119 West 40th Street, New York City. Bernarr
Macfadden, President; Harold A. Wise, Secretary. Entered
as second-class matter Jan. 20, 1921, at the postoffice at
New York, N. Y., under the Act of Mar. 8, 1879. Sub-
scription, $5.00 a year. In Canada — single copy, 15 cents.

\*te*

MOVIE WEEKLY

Page Three

-andlhey £med Happily fyeiJlfter

by {dwin SchaJlei

i

T'S an ill wind that doesn't blow the
dead leaves off somebody's sidewalk and
save him the trouble of sweeping it.
And even the icy blast of disfavor that
hit the film colony in the dead of the
past winter is not going to be without its recom-
pense. The actual business of picture-making is
going to be taken a lot more seriously than ever
before.

Just recently I caught the cue from Douglas
Fairbanks. He had come back from New. York,
whither he and Mary went to fight the Wilken-
ning suit. Perhaps ycu read of this in the papers.
Mrs. Cora Wilkenning, a theatrical agent, sued
Mary for fees she alleged to be due on an old
Famous Players-Lasky contract, and Mary fin-
ally won the suit after it had been twice appealed.

While he was in the East. Doug was constantly
under fire concerning what he thought of the
Taylor murder and its consequences, and pro-
vided no end of copy for his interviewers. In
addition, he was asked on various occasions to
appear publicly and defend the industry.

"While all this was going on," said Doug, on
his return, "I made up my mind that there was
one way to defend the pictures, and only one
effectual way. I decided that I wasn't going to
do any preaching or talking, that I wasn't going
to put myself on the witness stand, or become a
sort of attorney for the defense. I am convinced
that neither I nor my friends require any such
propaganda, because we are not criminals and
don't intend to be so treated. And so, I settled
in my mind once and for all that the best thing
that I could possibly do would be to get back to
California, quit talking and giving interviews,
and set to work and MAKE GOOD PIC-
TURES !"

When he sprung the "make good . pictures,"
Fairbanks brought his fist down on his knee in
a way that made you s~vear he meant it twice
over. And while, in his instance, we perhaps do
not need to be convinced of his intention, yet what
he said represents. I believe, an attitude that is
becoming more and more general in Hollywood.
Therefore I consider his statement as one of the
most sisnificant that I have heard since the day
of the Taylor murder.

A terrible slap has really been handed the
films. That is now granted by everybody. Even
the picture people themselves have admitted it
down in their hearts. They may resent the pun-
ishment and describe it as wretchedly unfair, but
it hurts just the same and it has made them mad.

The prejudice against pictures was severe

Doug and Mary are working
so hard on their tteiv pictures
they have no time to frivol.

enough in certain quarters prior to the Taylor
murder, and if anything it was gaining rather
than losing. But it sprung , ahead with a leap
as soon as the raconteurs of scandal commenced
flashing their gossip across the wires. Moreover,
it became more general than ever before.

You know how you, yourself, have felt. .You
have acquired fondnesses for certain personali-
ties of the screen, have grown to admire and
love them. For a long time you never heard
anything to make you alter your liking for them,
or your notion of the place in which they lived.
• Then all of a sudden, you began reading lurid
acounts of "wild parties" and "goings-on" out
in Hollywood, in which everybody was said to
have taken more or less of a part. Naturally it
followed that your opinion of some of your fav-
orites began to change. You started to doubt,
perhaps, the sincerity of some girlish smile, or
the sterling attributes which you thought your
hero possessed. The pedestals on which your
idols rested were shaken. It couldn't be other-
wise. Even if your pet star wasn't mentioned

in the reports, you felt that perhaps he or she
might be involved.

How wrong you were, nine cases out of ten,
I might say 99 out of 100, you could only deter-
mine by a personal visit to the Coast, and by
going right into the colony and becoming ac-
quainted with the lives of the majority of people
as-they are. You would have found that most of
what you saw was not lurid or exciting, that, in
fact, it did not measure up in any way with the
first impressions that came to you in the news
you read following the Taylor murder.

I personally have no desire to whitewash facts
— to try to make you believe that Hollywood is a
sort of spotless town.* I don't think that Holly-
wood, or perhaps any other town, can quite qualify
as being spotless.

Hollywood has a reputation for being a rich
and prosperous community. The wealth of its
great industry has been spread far and wide.
Rich towns attract undesirables among others.
They came to California in the days of '49, to
dig gold ; they have come to Hollywood in recent
years to dig gold in the modern fashion. Lots
of the undesirables who came to California dur-
ing the gold rush have become upright citizens,
just as lots of outcasts from Europe have in times
gone by become staunch Americans. Some of
the riff-raff that might have been attracted to
Hollywood will probably go through a similar
evolution.

My own opinion is that you can't regulate these
things any more than you can stop the progress
of a great industry, be it gold-mining or film-
making. It's the fault of every new endeavor
that it must go through a certain amount of fire
before it can reach its ultimate objective. The
test is being applied to Hollywood now, and its
ability to withstand that test eventually is un-
questioned by those who know the way of the
world.

Like many other people, myself included, you
have wondered just how the pictures were going
to combat their present dangers. You may infer
from what you have read and heard lately that
the industry has taken its predicament seriously.
It has been realized that a change in public feel-
ing toward the films at this time must retard
immeasurably their future. Aside from the fact
that the picture people don't feel they deserve the
opprobrium that has been cast upon them in some
quarters, they've indicated that they believed it
was a time for action.

Beyond any attempt to improve the moral
status of. the picture industry as a whole, should

Page Four

such an improvement seem at
all necessary — and here, there
is some room for doubt —
many measures have been
taken to remove the stigma
arising from the widespread
recital of injurious gossip.
Civic leaders of Los Angeles
have united with the films
themselves in the movement
to bring the truth about pic-
ture making before the pub-
lic of the country. The
organization of screen writ-
ers, composed of men and
women who are engaged in
the preparation of scenarios,
has assembled articles by
leading literary men, telling
of their impression of Holly-
wood. Statistics have been
gathered by various studios
and newspapers, showing in
detail that the pictures nave
no more divorces, crimes and
scandal than other profes-
sions or lines of business —
in fact, not so many. These are being distributed
broadcast. They make the first fair constructive
tribute to the great business of picture-making
that has ever been gotten together.

Astonishing indeed are the evidences of happy
domestic life in the instance of many of the
most prominent stars. The occasional scandal
is offset by many instances of peaceful home life.
We have such striking cases as Bryant Washburn
and his wife and children, to whom the star is
absolutely devoted ; Allen Holubar and Dorothy
Phillips, and their youngsters ; Anita Stewart and
her husband; Charles Ray and his wife; not to
mention Douglas Fairbanks and Mary Pickford,
who are apparently exceptionally mated. There
are dozens of other couples like these — Mr. and
Mrs. William Farnum ; Thomas Meighan and his
wife, formerly Frances Ring in professional life;
Wheeler Oakman and Priscilla Dean, Buster Kea-
ton and Natalie Talmadge, Bernard Durning and
Shirley Mason. King Vidor and Florence Vidor,
Wallace MacDonald and Doris May, Nazimova
and Charles Bryant, Norma Talmadge and Joseph
Schenck, Lloyd Hughes and Gloria Hope. Most
of these, it will be noted, have their professional
interests in common, as well as their domestic.
King Vidor is directing Florence Vidor. Charles
Bryant is directing his wife, Nazimova. Joseph
Schenck produces the pictures in which Norma
Talmadge appears; not .only that, but he looks
after the affairs of Constance Talmadge and
Buster Keaton, who is married to the sister of
the two stars.

Frances _ Ring has retired from professional
life, devoting herself entirely to making a home
for her husband. Meighan is acknowledged as
one of the finest men in the Hollywood colony,
arid his life centers around his home.

Wheeler Oakman and Priscilla Dean do not
play, in the same pictures, but their interests are
the same, Bernard Durning does hot generally
direct his wife, but he works on the same lot
where she, as Shirley Mason, stars. Lloyd
Hughes and Gloria Hope began their romance, I
believe, both appearing in the
same picture.

There are many others who
have found the love that has
lasted while professionally
active. This is true for such
stars as Doris May and Wal-
lace MacDonald, Dorothy
Gish and James Rennie,
Richard Barthelmess and
Mary Hay. Carmel Myers
and Eric Kornblum, Raoul
Walsh and Miriam Coooer,
Rex Ingram and Alice
Terry, Betty Blythe and Paul
Scardon. Not all of these
are Hollywood residents, but
they all are engaged in mo-
tion pictures, and there is
little difference between gen-
eral conditions in the East
and in California.

I don't know that my list is
half, or even third complete,
as regards the prominent
stars. Other names keep oc-
curring to mind like Will

MOVIE WEEKLY

■

William de Mille, and family, take a stroll in the
garden of their lovely Hollywood home.

Rogers, who is so fond of his home and his
children that even when he is on a distant loca-
tion he will take a hurried train trip to enjoy
a Sunday dinner at his own table; Milton Sills,
who, with his wife, is deply interested in philos-
ophy and music ; Conrad Nagel, whose home life
is generally described by his associates as abso-
lutely ideal.

It makes no difference whether comedy or
tragedy engages their attention, they're generally
just as successful domestically as they want to
be, and most of them want to be.

There are some fine couples who are pretty
well along the route of marriage, too — Theodore
Roberts and his wife, who was formerly on the
stage, for example; Ralph Lewis and Vera, and
others.

While Cecil de Mille is 'anything but an old-
timer, he, too, has been married for a number
of years. So, too, has William de Mille. There
are directors without number, beside these, who
think their home life is much more important
than any passing fancy which might come to
them for some light-headed flapper, who dexter-
ously sought to engage their attention.

When not married, the girls who appear in
the films frequently live with their mothers, sis-
ters or aunts. This is true of very many. Among
them are Mary MacLaren, Mary Miles Minter,
Helen Ferguson, Bebe Daniels, Marie Prevost,
Alice Calhoun, Claire Windsor, Ruth Roland,
Katherine MacDonald, Colleen Moore, Virginia
Faire and many others. Even some of the un-
married men, like Harold Lloyd, Mack Sennett,
Richard Dix and others, live with fathers, mothers
or othej blood relatives.

Important facts like these, the recent agitation
in the films has brought to the foreground,
among others less savory. They stand as a
refutation for the lampoonings that the films
have had in various quarters, and they are form-
ing a strong bulwark against future attack. They
speak too for the sincerity and devotion of many

Eileen Sedgwick, popular serial star, in the door way of
attractive Hollywood home.

adherents to the profession
in which they are earning a
living.

Similarly the action of the
civic bodies goes to show
that they do not regard the
movies as a menace to the
city of Los Angeles. In a
resolution, the Chamber of
Commerce declared that "to
stigmatize the entire industry
and its members for the fail-
ings of a few is a controver-
sion of fair play and an un-
fair reflection upon the citi-
zens of Hollywood, which is.
an integral part of the City
of Los Angeles and a bish-
class residence district." This
declaration reflects the senti-
ment of a large number of
disinterested and sensible
people, who elsewhere
through the crisis have sup-
ported the cause of the pic-
ture players.
Most of all, though, the
cause of pictures will be helped through the mak-
ing of good pictures. The leaders in the industry
have realized as never before that the future
reputation of the movies can thus be best con-
served. Consequently. I believe that in the next
six months you will find a notable improvement
in stories. The romantic and the idealistic theme
will take the place of cheap, sexy trash that has
often been foisted on filmgoers in the past

I predict that you are going to see more of the '
kind of pictures that you have longed to see ever
since the day you read your first romantic novel
—the stories that deal with real heroes and hero-
ines, not with those who qualify in name only,
and with real people and their finer emotions.

Douglas Fairbanks is going to spend a mint of
money on the first production he aims to make
in the new crusade. Its title fs "The Spirit of
Chivalry." and it is to tell the story of the time
when knights were bold and fought for the smiles
of their ladies and the honor of their country.
Fairbanks has taken the story of Robin Hood,
and idealized it. He shows that the bandit of
the Middle Ages was really working in the cause
of right against a usurper of the throne.

During the making of this feature, Fairbanks
wi'l I believe, shut himself up entirely from
public life and concentrate on the production.
Neither he nor Mary Pickford are seen very
often in public anyway— at least, in the picture
colony— because they are so intent on reading
and study. When thev take recreation it is gen-
ially in the form of walking or riding over

the hills. , , ' . .

What goes for Doug and Mary, is true of
nearly all stars of Hollywood who have made a
great name for themselves. They are hard
workers. Their success depends on it. They
have to give- everything to their art if they want
to keep at the top of the ladder. The higher
thev climb the more severe are the demands.

Movie people can't be such a wild, frivolous
lot, even in their pleasures, as they are sometimes
supposed to be, under circumstances such as
these — not the ones who are
really accomplishing things.
They may go to cafes and
have dinner parties there or
?t home, but in the main
these are tame compared
with some parties staped in
other large cities of the
country.

Whv. not long ago Charlie
Chaplin gave his first dinner
in his hew Hollywood home,
entertaining Doug and Mary,
among others, and the affair
was as quiet and respectable
as a church social. They say
that Charlie was as nervous
over the event as a groom is
at his first wedding.

When you go to the homes
of many of the other picture
stars, the entertainment is
quite the same as in the
homes of most well-to-do
people of the land. The

her

r

(Continued on page 30)

MOVIE WEEKLY

e Gobi fid and Roma

Page Five

ptuofWBybrl

I

BANK books have a peculiar potentiality of
blasting people's hopes.
And it was the question of approaching
poverty that again confronted William D.
Taylor in San Francisco — a few short weeks
after he had returned from the Hawaiian Islands
and was, seemingly, on the road once more to
prosperity.

He had been living like I gentleman. Former
New York friends of his were in the Bay City.
He was entertaining them, and being entertained
by them, lavishly.

And then, one day, the bank book that he
prized so highly, warned him of impending pov-
erty. He commenced to lapse into that former
melancholy state of his.

What, he asked himself, would be the use for
him again to try to "make his stake?"

Was not Fate constantly against him? Had
not the handwriting on the wall invariably made
its appearance to him?

Again he sought solace by communing with the
"other half" of humanity. This time 'found him
near 'Frisco's famous waterfront. He failed to
return to his hotel for several days. But, had
he returned, he would hare found his problem
solved for him.

The San Francisco agents of a certain influ-
-ential mining corporation with interests in Alaska
had been looking for him. Yet, he could not
be found.

Several days elapsed and. finally, early one
morning Taylor returned. There were lines of
care, of worriment, in his face. He seemed to
have grown suddenly older. The clerk handed
him a letter, which he took lackadaisically and
hardly bothered to read. Nor would he, perhaps,
have read it , had he not been interested by the
name of the solicitors' firm in the corner of the
envelope.

Its contents were a surprise, and, as he read,
his spirits began to rise, for the letter informed
him that there was a purchaser waiting to buy
his Alaskan properties.

The price offered was generous. Once more
would Taylor be on comparative easy street.
Again with money in the bank, with his own self-
estimation heartily increased by the advent of
good fortune, Taylor commenced casting about
for new lines of progress. For the time being
he had no reason to go to Alaska. And the
thought of his own sorrow in New York pre-
cluded his desire to go there.

It was his San Francisco friends who offered
the suggestion that he try his hand at making
moving pictures in Los Angeles.

"They're paying a lot of money," someone said
to Taylor. "And the work is very easy. We
have a friend there who . . ."

And thereupon was propounded the story of
how a new bonanza lay in the manufacture of
what were then extremely infantile attempts at
entertainment.

Throughout Taylor's entire life one finds that
the pioneering spirit actuated manv of his move- ■
ments. Pioneering on a farm in Kansas, at res-
taurant-keeping in Milwaukee, in art-dealing in
New York, in prospecting in Alaska. And, again,
his interest in motion pictures became intrigued.

A number of actors from the legitimate stage
were commencing to change their views toward
the silent drama, and were . entering it. _ Far-
sighted persons were beginning to visualize in
films a great art rather than a mere fancy.

William D. Taylor as he. ap-
peared in a recent photograph
just before his death.

I * >h

* i s

The bddy of the murdered direc-
tor rests in peace, guarded by
two members of his regiment.

Thomas H. Ince, for instance, had built a
veritable city of motion picture "sets" on a stretch
of land along the ocean front near Santa Monica,
Cal. Western Alaska, frontier and out-of-door
dramas found their locale in the sage-covered
hills that surrounded the film village. New re-
cruits, from every walk of life, were applying
at the Inceville gates for admission to the studio
— asking for work, for anything that would give
them an opportunity to make their mark in the
great infant industry.

And, several miles inland, in Los Angeles, stu-
dios were being built and the landscape about
them began to take on an active production atmo-
sphere, for activity had commenced to buzz on
the canvas-covered stages that were springing up
like mushrooms.

And Taylor went, one day, to the old-time Kay-
Bee studios, to cast his lot with the film folk.
He told officials there of his past experience on
the stage with Fanny Davenport, of his experi-
ences with Harry Corson Clarke. And an actor
there, while he was talking in the office, recog-
nized him as having been a former associate on
the stage in New York and augmented his briefly
related story.

The result was that Taylor found himself
engaged to play before the motion picture camera
in a picture called "The Iconoclast."

"Rehearsal at what time?" he inquired — and
discovered his remark to be met with a glance
of blank amazement.

"Rehearsal — in pictures?" came the reply, "We
rehearse first and shoot the film afterward, all
at once."

It was a life different from anything to which
TavTor had ever been accustomed.

"I used to marvel." he recounted once, not long
before his tragic death, "at the free and easy air
of everyone in the studio. Evervthing seemed.
to depend on the sun. If it would shine we would
have a full day; but, at times when Old Sol was
contrary, we would sit around the studio swap-
ping yarns until he finally decided to make his
appearance." '.

This, of course, was characteristic only of the
early days, for now film work is made at all
times possible bv the use of high-powered lights
which equals, if not surpasses, natural sunlight.
And it is a factor which has made picture pro-
duction a business venture and has created actual
working hours at a studio.

Taylor — the man with a colorful background,
the cultured gentleman — was, from the time of
his entrance into pictures, a distinctive figure in
them. When the sun would keep his company
waiting for "shooting time," he would not cus-
tomarily engage in the various varieties of small
talk that so manv of the actors practised, but
one would see him studying, reading, or watch-
ing some phase of the work being done that had
seeminglv gripned his entire attention.

"The Iconoclast" was finished, and he found
himself cast for another role._ But the oower*-
that-be at the studio could visualize in him. in
his exnerience something more than a mere actor,
and offered him the chance to direct.

In those days it was uncommon for a director
to be able to act in his own olays. Taylor could
do it and occasionally did. But it was something
that he did not entirely care to do.

"I have wanted either to direct or to act," he
often remarked. "But I wanted to do one or the
(Continued on page 8) ,

Page Six

71

MO FIE WEEKLY

^OO-^K

X HftSH^OFPSTAGE (fflfly

A snap of Gloria and
her two uncles, Jona-
than and Charles Swan-
son. If your eye is
keen, you will discern
a wedding ring grac-
ing the hand with
which Gloria is tweak-
ing her uncle's ear.

ff:

., V

Shirley Mason is having a dickens of a
time with her prise flivver. We heard
(!) that Shirley decided to walk and
give the dam "machine" up for a bad
job. (Free ad. for Henry Ford\)

■*T

Who said Wallie Reid and Mrs. Reid
were at daggers' point? Here's a new
snap of them taken an their Hollywood
lawn. Wallie finds a four-leaf clover
and beams the good tuck signal.

Trust Ruth Roland to make a professor
out of Teddy. Ruth enjoys with mis-
chievous glee the effect of her making -
up ability.

X

Norma and her brother-
in-law, the frozen-faced
Buster Keaton, start a
little musical racket,
while Connie, gracing
the picture atop the
piano, gazes at them with
limpid, dreamy eyes.

ill yVi

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MOVIE WEEKLY

Page Seven

RhPORTED engaged to Charles Chaplin,
Claire Sheridan, the beautiful and famous
. English sculptress, laughed gaily when we
attempted to heckle her regarding the an-
announcement, in her cathedral -like studio, facing
Central Park on Fifty-ninth Street. The story
of Chaplin's and Mrs, Sheridan's betrothal went
the rounds of the dailies but recently, after Mrs.
Sheridan modeled the famous comedian's head.
Whether or not heckling is successful with a
person of decided ideas, remains to be seen, but
we found it at least started the ball rolling, so to
speak, subsequently throwing new side-lights on
the character of the famous screen artist.

"It's quite wonderful to be reported engaged to
such a marvelous person as Mr. Chaplin, even
when you are quite sure, and quite resignedly
sure at that, that there is not an iota of truth to
the report. You see, I have found him to be one
of the most interesting, and one of the most won-
derful persons to know. However, it's gotten to
the "point nowadays where one can't be seen about
with him for more than five minutes without
supplying the Associated Press with material for
days ! It's getting to be rather a joke on the
ladies, this wedlock business with Charlie Chap-
lin, isn't it? Once, you know, it rather gave a
woman a certain amount of prestige, but now
it's become ordinary. In fact, quite anti-climactic,
don't you think?"

If any doubting Thomas insists that all the
beautiful women in America long to be preserved
in celluloid, said Thomas is wrong. For, before
us. settling back comfortably in a great mound of
pillows, whose colors reflected the combined
brilliance of the Imperial Russian Ballet and the
rainbow, was a lovely lady fair to the eye, with
nary a desire to "get into" the movies. But
suddenly she became serious. The bantering ex-
pression left the pretty, piquant face, haloed in
its blonde, bobbed hair, as she chose with evi-
dent care the words she wished to use to tell her
impressions of , the world-renowned pantomimist.

"When I sculped Mr. Chaplin in Los Angeles
recently," she began, "I had the opportunity of
knowing him rather well. That, no doubt, is
where the report of our betrothal had its begin-
ning. You see, in my modeling, I .always en-
deavor in one way or another, to catch the essence
of the soul of the subject I am doing. To mold
clay and leave it cold without the warmth of
understanding would render my work quite use-
less. It would be dead, lifeless, meaningless.

"From the first sitting I found Mr. Chaplin
most sympathetic, and I soon felt that I had
'gotten' to something of the soul of him as I
modeled him. in California.

"How different he is from the world's con-
ception of him ! Not that he is less kind than
his friends know him to be, or less sympathetic.
Do you know, Charles Chaplin is the very em-
bodiment of tragedy — soul-tragedy 1

"I believe, with the majority of his followers,
that he is the_ greatest _ pantomimist, bar none.
Only, in my opinion, he is not limited to comedy.
And, his comedy is something more than pure
comedy, something other than a superficial bodilv
or mental or even intellectual interpretation of

"1 would not be surprised," says Claire
Sheridan, "to see Charlie Chaplin
startle the world some day as one of
the greatest tragic actors of all time."

Being a new viewpoint of Charlie, told
by the famous sculptress

CLAIRE SHERIDAN

to

Avery Strakosch

ww ~mt£h^_

Chartie, ready to go for a

gattop after a hard day's

work.

"m&?

^t^t*0i%*i^i%0i^i%0i*0n

Claire Sheridan working on her bust of
Charlie Chaplin.

the funny things in life. It is a reaction, a direct
result of the tragic life of his early youth, of the
suffering and pain that- he endured years before
he had any indication of his dreams coming true.
It is a reflex from the disappointment of certain
dreams not coming true later in life, from a cer-
tain ability, if you will, to remember ... He has
never forgotten the terrible times of the past, of
his early struggles — for it is impossible to forget
that which is stamped indelibly upon one's soul !

"Candidly, I would not be surprised to see
Charlie Chaplin startle the world some day as
one of the greatest tragic actors of all time.
When that time does come — I say 'when,' not 'if,'
because I believe emphatically in that possibility —
when this does happen, it will not be from any
egotistical desire to show people that he possesses
an unlimited histrionic versatility. No. rather
will it come about as the natural course of events.
With a mind whose contents are boundless, and
with such an understanding of life as he has —
he has the depth and the feeling for the smallest
detail — his possibilities are limitless. See here,"
she walked over to the bronze head and pointed
to its characteristics and the potentialities of
them. "The tragic line from cheek-bone to chin,
modified somewhat by the lips, around which the
sense of comedy and burlesque always hover ;
the placement of the eye, and the serious brow
modeled by nature." All these things, according
to Claire Sheridan, have a definite meaning for
the future of Charles Chaplin. They are sign
posts on the road of his life as an artist and as
a man.

"And many of the others in Hollywood would
be tremendously interesting for me to model
Soon, I intend to return there and do a head of
Maty Pickford.

"I'm all for Hollywood and its inhabitants, you
know. They aren't drab, and with their flaunted
colors they give the world something in return
for the great financial gains they make. It's^ all
rot, to think of them as beings apart. Why,
they are no different from the inhabitants of
New York or London, or elsewhere. And what's
mote to their credit, the money they have has
been made through their own efforts — not in-
herited! Three thousand miles east of Holly-
wood one hears a great deal of the morals and
the lack of them out there, also of the wild lives
thev lead. My view of them gave me a very
different impression. I can assume you. For I
found that these tired people who work, work,
work are more grateful for sleep at. the end of
the day than for any of the ridiculous forms of
amusement which have been so intimately cited
by the press.

"They are all interesting, some more and some
less, as all persons making their own fortunes
are. And they seem to be alive to all possibilities
and phases of their work, despite the fact that
many of them are not permitted to carry their
ideas out, because of the business man, who in-
deed seems to have been the power behind the
(Continued on page'

Page Eight

MOVIE WEEKLY

Qhe Gobrful and Romantic

Story < ofW'DTcujbrs Life

other. A combination of work is not a good
thing. Too many cooks spoil the soup."

The former American company was setting out
to dazzle the eyes of the screen world with a
stupendous thirty-episode serial, "The Diamond
From the Sky." It was an epoch, for serials
hitherto had been more or less fugitive things of
disconnected continuity and wild-eyed thrills.
Taylor was requested to direct it, and for a year
was occupied in making it.
/ And it was this picture that established him
as one of the true artists of the film industry.
His method of reserve in handling actors, in
keeping his company in harmony, in getting a
dollar's best effort for a dollars pay, became
known to the various Los Angeles producers,
and his name, when mentioned, was spoken of
with that same reverence that characterized it a
few years hence, when its possessor was a mem-
ber of high standing in the exclusive Larchmont
Yacht Club.

His home, an unpretentious place, well-appointed
with regard to Taylor's concepts of art, had an
atmosphere of color and refinement. Books
everywhere, and objects of art made the Taylor
home a center of culture. There was none of
the flamboyance evident, such as characterized
the home of various made newly-rich through
their motion picture successes, and the persons
accustomed to gather there represented the more
cultured, the more artistic class of film devotees.

To Taylor, his venture into the serial field was
an education, and he used the play largely as an
experimental laboratory to try effects.

"We had autos going over cliffs," he has said,
"people falling from balloons, train accidents and
all sorts of trained animals from an octopus to
an elephant."

When Fox started in producing "The Tale of
Two Cities," once more there came to Tavlor the
hankering for greasepaint. He was offered a
role in the play of which William Farnum was
the star, and took it gladly. And in it he was
an invaluable aid to the director, for his knowl-

Continued from page 5

edge of literature and of art made many of his
suggestions worthy of deepest consideration.

One of the slain director's chief characteristics
was his love for children. In "The Tale of Two
Cities," for instance, in scenes where numerous
youngsters would take part, he could be found in
ardent conversation with them, sharing their joys
and sympathizing with them in their sorrows.

Some months later this very attribute of his
proved a valuable business asset as well. He had
become a director of the Famous Players-Lasky
forces — had directed Dustin Farnum, George
Beban, Kathlyn Williams, Constance Talmadge
and other stars with aplomb, and finally was
asked to create, for the screen, versions of both
Tom Sawyer and Huckleberry Finn.

An unsympathetic man would not have been
able to visualize either of Mark Twain's famous
boy characters had he not understood their
psychology. To Jack Pickford fell the role of
Tom Sawyer, and Robert Gordon, then an almost
unknown young actor, was to play Huck Finn,_

Months later had these two actors been avail-
able, Taylor's perhaps greatest work would riot
have been accomplished. But, as Fate would
have it, when he set about making a production
of "Huckleberry Finn" for Lasky, there was no
boy actor obtainable for the title role. And
Taylor set about to find someone suitable to the
role.

From a numbers of boys who had reported
at the studio he selected Lewis Sargent. The
chap's very boyishness, his air of unspoiled
youth, were what interested the director, and
although young Sargent knew practically nothing
about the art of acting, Taylor took him in hand
and worked unceasingly with him.

It happens that Mark Twain created Huck to
be a boy of many freckles, and these are a facial
quality that are difficult to show on the screen.
In order for Sargent to have his film freckles
properly adjusted to his makeup, Taylor would
daily paint them on the lad's face with an iodine
brush, and, so that he could readily visualize the

true Mark Twain character, Taylor for hours
would tell his juvenile star stories that would
stimulate his youthful imagination.

And, as the result of Taylor's careful training,
Lewis Sargent blossomed from a natural, un-
trained boy into a trained, capable actor who
readily starred in both "Huckleberry Finn" and
"The Soul of Youth," and who could take his
place in the annals of film history as a truly
talented portrayer of types.

When Taylor was directing his actors he con-
tinually maintained an attitude of cultured re-
serve that could not be broken down. To certain'
boorishly-inclined persons it was a definite barrier
between themselves and Taylor, the man, To
others, however, it signified dignity and capabil-
ity. And, many a time, it prevented actors from
showing anger of "temperament," so-called, when
they were acting in front of the Taylor camera.

His age, for he was in the early forties during
his screen career, placed the director in a more
or less fatherly attitude toward the younger ac-
tors who would work with him. Mary Miles
Minter regarded him with all the love that any
young girl customarily shows for a male parent.
To Ethel Clayton, whom he directed in such pro-
ductions as "Beyond" and "Wealth," he seemed
more like an uncle, and one of his most broken-
hearted mourners, at the time of his death, was
'Betty Comps^n, whom he directed in "The Green
Temptation."

To the young women he directed he was coun-
cillor, sympathizer and sharer alike in joys arid
sorrows. Mabel Normand, for instance, would
ask his opinion of all her scenarios before she
would commence their production, and, on the
fatal evening of his death, she had gone to his
home to receive an armful of books that he had
selected for her at his bookseller's.

Men — and bachelors — usually have _ a set of

particular cronies — men friends of their own age

who receive their confidences and jointly share

in the varied ioys of a middle-aeed man's life.

(Continued on page 29)

As the body of William D. Taylor, clothed, in the uniform of a Canadian
Captain, is lowered into the grave, the squad firesa parting salute.

MOVIE WEEKLY

Page Nine

!! ! !l!li"j l ! ! l lii ! l!l i!!!!"i ! y

Rambling Through the Studios of the East

WjJL& With Dorothea B, Herzog

¥MKw.

■ V ^.. ' ^ • ' %' Vi 11 ''Y'V'" . !'

kiii

Alice Calhoun Scares Prowler Away With Revolve?

T

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\mzo<AD&*A^-*ttAMtK^\^K&m*M^&s^^ )2<£X&2tf&t&&ftj^&Xb£iti

Director John S. Robertson

Wrong Again

IT was rumored not so many weeks ago that
Mae Marsh was to return to the Griffith fold.
Not so. And yet we don't know just what
this little star plans to do. Her play nickered
before it reached Broadway, and since then,. Mae
has been devoting ' most of her time to her
adorable little daughter. An astute picture man

will tie her up to a
contract one of
these days soon.

John S. Robertson
to Coast

John. S. Robert-
son, feature direc-
' tor for Famous
Players-Lasky, has
been loaned to Mary
Pickford to direct
her in her new
special, "Tess of the
Storm Country."
Mr. Robertson and
his wife, profession-
ally known as Jo-
sephine Lovett. re-
cently returned to
New York following a prolonged sojourn abroad,
during which time Mr. Robertson made two pic-
tures, "Love's Boomerang" and "Spanish Jade."
No sooner did the two arrive in New York
than they received word from Famous Players
headquarters to leave the next day for the Coast.
They were ready, but very tired withal. Then
the counter order: not to leave.

Out to Great Neck

Mrs. Robertson thereupon went to Great Neck,
where they have an adorable home — a home, by
the way, that has never seen its owners. Now
was the happy opportunity to get draperies,
furniture, and what not.

Business of unpacking trunks, only to receive
word immediately after to come to the Coast
"on the run." And so, fate being against the
little home in Long Island, the Robertsons en-
trained for the Coast, where Mr. Robertson is
now busy directing Mary in "Tess of the Storm
Country."

*****

The Real Foreign Car

In making "Spanish Jade," Mr. Robertson and
his wife and the entire company went to Spain
to shoot many of the scenes. Mrs. Robertson
recounted a few of the happenings while there:

"We went bumping around the country in
Fords," she laughed. "The Spaniards contend
that wherever a burro and his pack can go, a
Ford can, too. Just.picture us, leaping mountain-
goat fashion from peak to peak I And it was
no use remonstrating with the driver. He merely
shrugged : Why couldn't the car travel here ?
Didn't a burro?

"No," contended Mrs. Robertson, "don't talk
to me about getting a foreign make , car for a
picture. Just use a Ford. It's universal."

* * * * *

Robertson Plays Tag

. The Robertson company arrived in one out-of-

the-beaten-path towns to shoot scenes, only to

discover that a fair had opened there just that

day. Here was luck.

When Director Robertson started in the next

morning to shoot scenes, the townspeople were
Johnnies-on-the-spot. They gaped into the cam-
era. It was their initial experience.

Robertson decided something had to be done —
quick. So he leaned over and whispered to the
heavy, who was a heavy both as to avoirdupois
and as to role: "When I tag you, you chase me
through the crowd."

Whereupon he tapped him on the shoulder and
started running, the "heavy" hot on his heels.
The mob of people immediately turned away from
the camera to get the excitement. They laughed
and clapped their hands at the amusing scene.
The cameraman commenced to grind. And Rob-
ertson screened one of the most novel extra
scenes ever flashed on the silver sheet.
*****

Carol Dempster to Play Lead

While the name of D. W. Griffith's next special
following "Orphans of the Storm" has not yet
been publicly announced, we were informed that

Louise Du Pre, considered the luckiest girl
in the world.

Carol Dempster is to play the lead. Carol's last
production with D. W. was "Dream Street," fol-
lowing which she made personal appearances,
went abroad, returned to play opposite Jack
Barrymore in "Sherlock Holmes," an Albert
Parker Production, and now, rested and ready
for work, she starts rehearsals soon in Griffith's
latest.

Putting the K. O. in Pictures

Japk Dempsey, hero of the "Daredevil Jack"
serial and idol of • the fight fans, is returning to
the movies. Inasmuch as Jack can't find any
rival to meet him in the ring, we suspect he
figures a mere hundred "thou" or so from pic-
tures wouldn't be so "worse." The heavyweight
champion of the world is not a Wallie Reid as
to looks, but oh, boy, when he gets in action . , .
And, of course, there'll be plenty of opportunities
in his new serial to see him in the ring battin'
the daylights out of some poor extra who needa
da mon !

The Luckiest Girl in the World

THAT'S what they call Louise Du Pre, the
youthful star of the screen and former
understudy for Mary Pickford. Nature
was remarkably good-natured in giving her
Mary's adorable features and attractive physique.
Circumstances, or fate, if you will, played a
genial role in bringing her to Los Angeles during
the course of a theatrical engagement. For it
was then that Mary met this youthful person.

Mary was ready to start shooting on "Polly-
ana," so what more logical than to induce Louise
to sign a contract as her understudy?

The Next Step

The girl's next step followed the natural evo-
lution of a novel situation. Having proven her
ability as an interpreter of ingenue, dramatic and
child roles, she became a star, and as a star, she
makes her initial debut in "The Proof of Inno-
cence," a story of love and mystery and fascinat-
ing Greenwich Village.

Ye Rambler rambled up to see Louise and spent
an enjoyable evening, discussing everything from
human nature and motion pictures, to books of
every type and description.

The Real Louise

The real Louise Du Pre is a thoughtful, intro-
spective young person, intensely interested in life
in all its ramification. A girl desirous of stand-
ing on her own merits before the public and
winning friends because of them. So far as we
can see, she has everything in her favor, includ-
ing personality, artistry, ability; and naturalism.
It is our opinion that she will go far.

A Line From Alice

Alice Calhoun writes us joyful tidings. She
hints that in the not distant future she may be
New York bound. Then, swerving from the
glad to the near-
tragic, she tells us
that as she was
writing to us, she
and her mother
heard steps on the
front porch of their
bungalow and a key
fumbling in the
lock of the front
door.

It was a key that
didn't belong. Mrs.
Calhoun and Alice
dashed to the front
room, Alice clutch-
ing a .revolver in
her hand — a revol-
ver that she knew
how to handle, be-
ing a crack shot.
Upon hearing their
footsteps, the prowler beat a hasty retreat.

But Alice wasn't through with him. She
'phoned the police, and, upon their arrival, ac-
quainted them with the story. They are now on
the lookout for one of the many perpetrators of
robberies that slink around Hollywood.

Upon resuming her letter to us, Alice confessed
that her heart "is going pit-a-pat," but outside of
that, she's as cool as a grapefruit that has been
on ice for an hour or so. Our heart continues to
race even now and we fight a long time, before
that cold, clutching fear melts.

Carol Dempster

Page Ten

MOVIE WEEKLY

^TfeTriumph of Love ^

'"The Business of Life 97

SJILENT, absent-eyed, Jacqueline began to
I wonder what such men as he really
* thought of a girl of her sort. It could
happen that his attitude toward her
might become like that of the only men
of his kind she had ever encountered — wealthy
clients of her father, young and old, and all of
them inclined to offer her attentions which in-
stinct warned her to ignore.

As for Desboro, even from the beginning she
felt that his attitude toward her depended upon
herself; and, warranted or not, this sense of
security with him now left her leisure to study
him. And she concluded that probably he was
like the other men of his class whom she had
known — a receptive opportunist, inevitably her
antagonist at heart, but not to be feared except
under deliberate provocation from her. And that
excuse he would never have.

Aware of his admiration almost from the very
first, perplexed, curious, uncertain, and disturbed
by turns, she was finally convinced that the mat-
ter lay entirely with her ; that she might accept a
little, venture a little in safety; and, perfectly
certain of herself, enjoy as much of what his
friendship offered as her own clear wits and com-
mon sense permitted. For she had found, so
far, no metal in any man unalloyed. Two years'
experience alone with men had educated her;
and whatever the alloy in Desboro might be that
lowered his value, she thought it less objectionable
than the similar amalgam out of which were fash-
ioned the harmless youths in whose noisy com-
pany she danced, and dined, and bathed, and wit-
nessed Broadway "shows" : the Eddies and Joes
of the metropolis, replicas in mind and body of
clothing advertisements in street cars.

Her blue eyes, wandering from the ruddy and-
irons, were arrested by the clock. What had hap-
pened? Was the clock still going? She listened,
and heard it ticking.

"Is that the right time?" she demanded incred-
ulously.

He said, so low she could scarcely hear him :
"Yes, Stray Lock. Must I close the story book
and lay it away until another day?"

She rose, brushing the bright strand from her
cheek ; he stood up, pulled the tassel of an old-
t'me bell rope, and, when the butler came, ordered
the car.

She went away to her room, where Mrs. Quant
swathed her in rain garments and veils, and
secretly pressed into her hand a bottle containing
"a suffusion" warranted to discourage any insidi-
ous advances of typod.

"A spoonful before meals, dearie," she whis-
oered hoarsely; "and don't tell Mr. James — he'd
be that disgusted with me for doin' of a Christian
duty. I'll have some of my magic drops ready
when you come tomorrow, and you can just lock
the door and set and rock and enj'y them onto
a lump of sugar."

A little dismayed, but contriving to look seri-
ous, Jacqueline thanked her and fled. Desboro
put her into the car and climbed in beside her.

"You needn't, you know," she protested. "There
are no highwaymen, are there?"

"None more to be dreaded than myself."

"Then why do you go to .the station with me?"

He did not answer. She presently settled into
her corner, and he wraoped her in the fur robe.
Neither spoke : the lamplight flashed ahead
through the falling rain : all else was darkness —
the widest world of darkness, it seemed to her
fancy, that she ever looked out upon, for it
seemed to leave this man and herself alone in
the centre of things.

Conscious of him beside her, she was curiously
content not to look at him or to disturb the
silence encompassing them. The sense of speed,
the rush through obscurity, seemed part of it —
part of a confused and pleasurable irresponsibility.

Later, standing under the dripping eaves of
the station platform with him, watching the

Copyright by Robert W. Chambers

By Robert W.Chambers

i ili;illlillli;ill!:llll!llllIP:

iiiiiiHimiiimoimii

SYNOPSIS

James Desboro, man about town, is visited by a
former sweetheart who is now married to an
acquaintance of Desboro's. She tells him that
she cannot stand her husband any longer, and
asks Desboro to take her in.

Her husband has followed her and comes in at
this point, and Desboro prevails on her to return
with him.

Be goes to see an antique dealer and finds he
has died and his daughter is keeping up the
business.

He is strangely interested in her and engages
her to catalogue his antiques, putting off a pleas-
ure trip to the south so that he may be home
when she calls to start work.

She calls to begin her task of cataloguing and
they spend a whole day in the Desboro armory
classifying the antiques.

Desboro finds the time hanging heavy when she
is gone.

approaching headlight of the distant locomotive,
she said :

"You have made it a very delightful day for
me. I Wanted to thank you."

He was silent ; the distant locomotive whistled,
and the vista of wet rails began to glisten red in
the swift approach.

"I don't want you to go to town alone on that
train." he said abruptly.

"What?" in utter surprise.

"Will you let me go with you, Miss Nevers ?"

"Nonsense! I wander about everywhere alone.
Please don't spoil it all. Don't even go aboard
to find a seat for me."

The long train thundered by, brakes gripping,
slowed, stopped. She sprang aboard, turned on
the steps and offered her hand:

"Good-bye, Mr. Desboro."

"Tomorrow?" he asked.

"Yes."

They exchanged no further words ; she stood
a moment on the platform, as the cars glided
slowly past him and on into the rainy night. All
the way to New York she remained motionless
in the corner of the seat, her cheek resting
against her gloved palm, thinking of what hao.
happened — closing her blue eyes, sometimes, to
bring it nearer and make mere real a day of life
already ended.

WHEN the doorbell rang the maid of all
work pushed the button and stood wait-
ing at the top of the stairs. There was
a pause, a moment's whispering, then
light footsteps flying through the cor-
ridor, and :

"Where on earth have you been for a week?"
asked Cynthia Lessler, coming into Jacqueline's
little parlor, where the latter sat knitting a white
wool skating jacket for herself. ■

Jacqueline laid aside the knitting and greeted
her visitor with a warm, quick embrace.

"Oh. I've been everywhere," she said. "Out in
Westchester, mostly. To-day being Sunday, I'm
at home."

"What were you doing in the country, sweet-
ness ?"
"B'isiness."
"What kind?"

"Oh, cataloguing a collection. Take the arm-
chair and sit near the- stove, dear. And here are
the chocolates. Put your feet on the fender as
I do. It was frightfully cold in Westchester
yesterday — everything frozen solid — and we — I
skated all over the flooded fields and swamps. It
was simply glorious. Cynthia- "

"I thought you were out there on business,"
remarked Cynthia dryly.

"I Was. I merely took an hour at nocn for
luncheon."

"Did you?"

"Certainly. Even a bricklayer has an hour at
noon to himself."

"Whose collection* are you cataloguing?"

"Tt belongs to a Mr. Desboro," said Jacqueline
carelessly.

"Where is it?"

"In his house — a big. old house about five miles
from the station "

"How do you get there?"

"They send a car for me "

"Who?"

"They— Mr. Desboro."

"They? Is he plural?"

"Don't be foolish," said Jacqueline. "It is his
car and his collection, and I'm having a perfectly
good time with both."

"And with him, too? Yes?"

"If you knew him you wouldn't talk that way."

"I know who he is."

"Do you?" said Jacqueline calmly.

"Yes, I do. He's the 'J'rn' Desboro whose
name you see in the fashionable columns. I
know something about that young man," she
added emphatically.

Jacqueline looked up at her with dawning dis-
pleasure. Cynthia, undisturbed, bit into a choco-
late and waved one pretty hand :

"Read the Tattler, as I do, and you'll see what
sort of a man your young man is."

"I don't care to read such a "

"I do. It tells you funny things about society.
Every week or two there's something about him.
You can't exactly understand it — they put it in a
funny way — but you can guess. Besides, he's
always going around town with Reggie Ledyard.
and Stuyve Van Alstyne. and — Jack Cairns "

"Don't speak that way — as though you usually
lunched with them. I hate it."

"How do you know I don't lunch with some of
them? Besides, everybody calls them Reggie, and
Stuvve, and Jack "

"Everybody except their mothers, probably. I
don't want to hear about them, anyway."

"Why not. darling?"

"Because you and I don't know tnem and never
will "

Cynthia said maliciously : "You may meet them
through your friend, Timmy Desboro "

"That is the limit !" exclaimed Jacqueline, flush-
ing ; and her pretty companion leaned back in her
(Continued on page 27)

MOVIE WEEKLY

Page Eleven

How to Get Into the Movies

hu

cMabel cVormand )

IX. Inside the Studio.

SINCE my last chat on "Getting a Job," I've
had several letters asking what I thought
about popularity contests which are con-
ducted at various times by magazines and
newspapers for the purpose of discovering girls
with picture possibilities.

My answer is — it all depends on the sort of
contest it is, the people conducting it and the
promises made.

Several reputable magazines and newspapers
have been conducting contests which positively
guarantee that the winner will have a chance to
make good in pictures. They have made arrange-
ments with some producer to engage the winner.

Several girls now in pictures have found their
opportunity through such contests. I believe
Virginia Faire, who appeared in Kipling's "With-
out Benefit of Clergy," found entree through a
beauty contest conducted by a well-known motion
picture magazine. The beautiful Lucile Carlisle,
who has been leading lady for Larry Semon for
some time, also obtained her first position
through a motion picture magazine contest. The
Universal company, I believe, recently engaged
several very attractive girls who won newspaper
contests.

By all means, submit your pictures in these
contests — providing they are conducted by reli-
able magazines or newspapers or have the en-
dorsement of well-known producers. But beware
of any advertised contest which requests that
you send money. Good magazines and papers
do not take any money whatsoever from con-
testants.

But don't be discouraged if you do not win a
contest in which you have been entered. You
may have personality or beauty which the photo-
graph fails to indicate. Besides, only a very few
girls out of a very great number can win these
contests. ' And in the event that you are one of
the very few, do not be too optimistic. The
contest has opened the door to you ; it is up to
you to walk in and make yourself necessary.

I have urged you in previous chats to prepare
yourself for a screen career by studying the
screen itself, by observing the methods of the
best actresses, and by studying character through
books and life. I have also tried to tell you how
to go about getting work at the studios.

The one thing you should know before enter-
ing the studio is makeup. While there is noth-
ing occult about the knowledge of makeup there
are fine points which are worth understanding
from the outset. For five dollars you can get
someone to teach you how to makeup,, or you
may find a girl who is willing to show you with-
out any charge. At any rate, find someone who
can tell you what you should use and instruct
you in the rudiments of using it. Makeup is
a thing which requires long study, for each per-
son requires a different sort. There are many
little tricks for enhancing the beauty of the
eyes, the lips, the contour of the face, and also
of taking out lines and blemishes that are not

becoming. Tt is better to use too tittle makeup
than too much at the outset. Study the girls
around you and note what they use. They may
not be right always, but they may give you ideas.
Some studios have a makeup man who reviews
the "extras" before they go into a scene, but he
does not apply the makeup. He only tells you if
it needs changing. As soon as you are given a
part, even the smallest "bit," the director will
scrutinize your makeup and make suggestions.
Comply at once with what he tells you to do.
He may not be right, but his advice certainly
should be followed. Later, you can develop ygur
own individual style out of the many suggestions
and experiments.

. The Author

Study yourself constantly. Spend as much
time as necessary before the mirror trying dif-
ferent styles of makeup and hair dress until you
strike a combination that seems effective. Just
the manner of doing the hair often makes a
tremendous difference.

Once inside the studio do your best to make
friends with everyone, but don't be aggressive.
Do not attempt to make advances to the director
or leading players. They are busy and cannot
give attention to the many extras around fhem.
But be on hand to observe them and to do what-
ever they ask of you. Among the extras you'
will have an opportunity of making many ac-
quaintances of value.

Always be on the alert to learn all you can.
Do not sit about gazing into space or silently
chewing gum like a resident of the pastures.
Too many extras do that. Keep out of other

people's way, but keep your eyes on them. In-
stead of striving to be the observed of all ot
servers, try to be the observer of all who can be
observed. Note the instruction which the direc-
tor gives the leading players and their methods
of work. Above all, note the instruction which
he gives you — you of the extras — and comply as
quickly and effectively as you can.

What causes a director to pick a player out of
the mob to do a part?

First, it may be that she is the "type"; that is,
she looks as the director imagines the character
would look.

Second, it may be that she has shown person-
ality, that individual Spark which distinguishes
her from the rest and for which the producer is
always in quest.

Third, she may have displayed such intelli-
gence in responding to direction and in assuming
the expressions which were desired that the di-
rector believes she has acting ability.

Here, then, are the qualities which you must
endeavor to show in order to advance : Individu-
ality, Good Appearance, Acting Ability.

You cannot at will become any particular "type,"
but you can study yourself and determine the
type you really are.. If you are tall, slender and
have the Oriental cast of features and coloring
you should carry the Oriental motif in your
dress and makeup. If you are the young girl
type, you should dress simply and have the
unaffected manner that a young girl has. It may
be difficult for you to decide the type that you
are. Few people really know. Oftentimes a part
may decide it for them, as the part Theda Bara
played in "A Fool There Was" stamped her the
vampire type.

It is possible for everyone, however, to pay
attention to a director and achieve the effects
which he desires. Only concentration, imagina-
tion and earnestness are needed.

You do not need to shove yourself into the
foreground in order to attract a director's atten-
tion. He is more liable to be attracted to you
if you have shown care in dress and makeup
and ^alertness in understanding the points which
he has sought to convey.

Above all, I repeat again, show the best that
is in you to everyone all the time. Don't start
smiling and being nice just when the director
glances your way. Be friendly to everyone —
not flirtatious — friendly, I say. Don't preen or
pose, be natural and unassuming. Be yourself.
Act toward others as you would have them act
toward you. Make friends.

After all. what is the great secret of popular
success ? Only this — making friends. If ypu
cannot make friends in the studio., you cannot
make friends with the public. The mean, selfish,
ill-tempered star famous for her "temperament,"
seldom wins the public. She may attract atten-
tion for a time if she has sufficient beauty and
acting ability, but she will not gain the affection
which will make her a lasting favorite.

In our final chat I'm going to talk of the most
important thing of all — Making Good.

SECRETS of the MOVIES

The Animated Cartoon

AN artist working night and day by himself
could not turn out one of the popular car-
> toon series as often as it appears on the
screen. His name only appears on the
series, but often he does the least work of all.
He is the originator of the series and gets the
credit, but somebody else had to do the hard
work. Sometimes Bud Fisher does not go near
the studio in a month.

The real work of animating is done by a corps
of helpers. Sometimes as many as twenty will
be engaged in animating a cartoon, each doing

one small thing over and over, like a workman
in a shoe factory putting in the eyelets. The
different scenes are parceled out to the artists
and they sit at their tilted desks with a light
beneath the glass tops, making the scene over
and over with a small variation each time.

One scene may show a baseball pitcher Winding
up. He is drawn over and over with a slight
change in his arm while the rest of his body may
remain still. One artist may have to work all
day before the pitcher is able to let go of the
ball. While he is at work on this scene, another
artist will be showing the same character falling
out of a balloon or going through a rock crusher,
or whatever the scenario may call for. At the

end, the different scenes are assembled in their
proper order, joined and run off.

At first the making of a cartoon was a long-
drawn-out process, but now by means of cellu-
loid foregrounds and transparencies the work is
materially shortened.

The pictures that look so big on the screen are,
as a matter of fact, drawn on cardboards not
much larger than a sheet of typewriting paper.
The cards for one reel of animated, when stacked
up, are taller than the artist who conceived them.

It took ten thousand separate and distinct '
drawings to make the" first half reel of animated;
it could now be done with six hundred. And so
we live and learn.

Page Ttvtlvt

MOVIE WEEKLY

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Mil HAVE decided to publish a letter I received from
Pi. J an enthusiastic young lady in reference to the
physical culture exhibition I gave at the recent dance
of the Physical Culture Employees at the Hotel McAlpin:

"Dear Mr. Macfadden:

'One of the men employed by you took me to the P. C.
dance. It was so interesting to see those splendid types of
girlhood and manhood masked and in civic dress meeting
to enjoy a happy evening.

"But the real big moment to me was when you posed

in several of your characteristic poses. I have never

seen such marvelous muscular display, and I am not

a novice at things physical culturist. I have

be-en assistant gymnasium instructor in several

of the schools here in New York.

"Then your speech, explaining that
your muscular control is the result of
forty years of assiduous work. It is
forty years well spent, for the exquisite
ripple of iron muscles beneath the
white skin pays tribute to your will
power.

"You said, during the course of your
speech, that to put pep and vigor into

Mack Sennett

MOVIE WEEKLY

Page Thirteen

MM J« XX. V.X XVT 3Hf JMft V1K..XX MX ra^y VX, XK •»** w w msl w w-u* v tf shjl v

BEAUTY PAGES ^

one's daily work, it was necessary
to take care of the body.

"The reason for my writing to
you at all is to say that by your
exhibition the other night of beau-
tiful muscular control, you restored
a great deal of my faith in work,
exercise, and human nature. You
are one of the. few who practice
what he preaches and who doesn't
prescribe something you don't know
anything about."

I mention this letter simply to
bring out a point I have harped
upon continually in every article.
That is: exercise makes for bodily
freedom, and bodily freedom makes
for mental freedom, which, com-

bined with effort and hard work,
means Success.

I never suggest exercises to you,
my friends, unless I am assured
they are the best. I could never
know if they were the best, unless
I, myself, had not spent some forty
years in personally studying the
broad subject known as physical
culture. ,-,;..

Remembering my solitary strug-
gle to gain a foothold in this .fas-
cinating study, I encourage rny
young friends to write in and ask
me any question regarding exercis-
ing or dieting they may have in
mind. They will be answered.

Mack Sennett

Page Fourteen

MOVIE WEEKLY

DJckBarthelmess'
Happy Struggles to Star

qAs plated Wy Himself

^ ^^^ ^

to

Lewis F. Levinson

«%«S%Wtt%WSWrtW»*S^^

Editorial Note — In the first Dick Barthelmess
article, his mother recounted the story of his
childhood and boyhood.

His mother is sole, authority on the facts of his
baby days and of those years when he was at
military academy and prep school, but it is to
Dick himself that you must go for the story of
how he entered Trinity College a freshman, quite
as green as all freshman are, and
graduated from the classroom to the
motion picture studio.

WiUoughby Pitt. I am afraid the college news-
>aper, The Tripod, can tell you more about that
play than I can. Trinity is a small college. It
was impossible to find enough men capable of
playing female roles, so we obtained volunteers
from the debs and sub-debs around Hartford.
I was president of 'The Jesters,' the college
dramatic society, 'and as such supervised the
production, and had my hands full."

How full Dick's hands were and how success-
ful he was may be guessed from The Tripod's
review of the play.

"R. S. Barthelmess, '17, is the

As the Chinese boy in
Blossoms." ■

"Broken

D

^f ! :

In the role of the dreamy lad in
"The Idol Dancer."

/ PART II

ICK sits on the chaize >fl

lounge in the living
room of his cozy apart-
ment, and proffers you
a volume of the Trinity Ivy, the 1916 year book
of the college.

"This contains about all there is to tell about
me at college," he explains. "I didn't go in much
for athletics. I was too light for the football
team, although I played on the class team one
year. Most of my activities were in the dramatic
line. Trinity is located most beautifully, so far
as its natural advantages are concerned. I lived
chiefly at the Psi Upsilon house, belonging to that
fraternity because other members of my family
in past years had belonged. My life centered
wholly about the college . . ."

A glance at the Ivy proves this. Dick wrote
copiously, everything from parodies of Edgar
Allen Poe's "The Raven," done under the title of
"The Cravin'," said "cravin' " being for plain
adulterated fire water, all the way to the entire
program of the Sophomore Smoker. He was
known first as a lad who would undoubtedly go
in for writing as a profession, but the career of
his mother was bringing him more and more into
touch with things of the stage, teaching him how
to act, and combining the culture he was obtain-
ing at Trinity with adequate dramatic experience.

"The biggest event of my college life was the
production of 'A Gentleman of Leisure,' a corri-
edy-drama in which Douglas Fairbanks had
starred on the legitimate stage in New York.
I played Fairbanks' role, that of Robert Edgar

\

In one of his earlier Griffith, suc-
cesses, "Scarlet Days."

MOVIE WEEKLY

'gentleman of leisure,' and though he has very
little leisure, he makes up for it by being very-
much a gentleman," says the collegiate dramatic
critic. "It is so naturally and unaffectedly played
that there is a temptation to say, 'Why this isn't
acting at all,' which is just the most difficult kind
of acting; for 'ars artern celare.'" (Those who
are puzzled by this sophomoric outburst of Latin
may be guided by the dictionary, which gives the
translation as "Art clarities art." The reviewer
then adds : "It is a real pleasure to observe how.
carefully and delicately lines and situations are
handled by him."

So much for Dick's dramatic ability when he
was a lad of 19. As for his business ability,
listen to this :

"To the energy antf foresight of Jesters' presi-
dent, R. S. Barthelmess, '17 (who is no less
enterprising and successful off the stage than on),
was due the favorable terms under which the
Jesters worked. And he has worked hard and
unremittingly, with only the success of the Jesters
in his mind."

Dick was just a sophomore when he carried
the lead of this show so successfully. You can
picture the production and the unusual pleasure
of the audience in witnessing the work of a
college man who was talented dramatically. Such
performances are rare on the amateur stage. An-
other production of the Jesters in which Dick
starred was "Tom Moore," a play by Theodore
Burt Sayre. In this case, even the critics on the
local newspapers applaud Dick's work. A head-
line in the Hartford Courant neads :

HOW THE JESTERS CAME BACK TO US

Dramatics No Longer Languish Out On the Hill
at Trinity College

; sweater grouped with the other cheer leaders, in
which he appears quite harmlessly juvenile.

"I managed to have a good time at college,
too," he relates. "The college was small, the
town is none too large, with the result that there
was an active social life, and I really enjoyed it.
I am not a bit ashamed to say that I went in for
anything came along. I believe that a man's
years at college are those in which he should
enjoy himself fully, so that he may the more
easily fit into the sterner work ahead.

"The four years, passed swiftly, too swiftly,"
Dick tells you. "One day it was all over. I
might have been undecided as to my future, but
my future was shaped for me. Through the
interest of a local banker, who had seen me act,
and who was one of the backers of a local ven-
ture in motion pictures, I became a member of
the Hartford Film Co., at the princely salary of
$25 a week. It was there that I played parts
such as those of a Keystone cop, that I learned
how to dodge or not to dodge a custard pie. We
had a little studio, our future was more or less
indefinite, and eventually the company
broke up, owing me back salary.

"Then, for a time, I worked in an in-
surance office, earning $8 a week.
Some writers have guessed that I was
frightfully hard up, starving perhaps,
and took the job for the sake of earn-
ing the money, but while I used the

"Tom Moore" Play Was Great Sue

Remarkable Performance by Mr. Barthelmess Is
the Feature of the Production

The local critic remarks : "Probably not since
the days when young Thomas Achelis made his
mark as an amateur actor with the Yale players
in "Revizor" and "London Assurance," has Hart-
ford seen such work by an amateur as
that of young Richard Barthelmess in the
leading role of the Sayre play. On Thurs-
day he lost even that small amount of em-
barrassment which was noticeable on
Wednesday. All the praise cannot be
lavished upon Mr. Barthelmess, for he
simply led the way for the other mem-
bers of the company."

Dick gave his time to other
things than dramatics, however.
During the football season he offi-
ciated as cheer leader, and there
is . a picture of him in a white

As a mechanic, Dick confesses Jo
being a good actor!

D. W. Griffith discusses a. scene
with Dick in "Broken Blossoms."

Visiting
his wife,
Mary Hay,
"jf in her dress-
ing room, before
the performance
of "Marjolaine,"
a musical comedy suc-
cess in which she plays
a leading role.

money, the job was just a stop-gap. Eventually
I went to New York, and my real picture work
began."

One may safely skim over Dick's picture work,
mainly because he was already so well prepared
that it was easy for him to obtain a good role.
He played small parts in pictures with Mme.
Petrova and with Ann Pennington, but it was
with Marguerite Clarke that he obtained his real
start. He suited Miss Clarke because he was
smaller than the average leading man, and played
with her in several pictures. Within less than
a year, however, he found an engagement which
gave him the opportunity which every screen
actor seeks, a notable role. It was with Mme.
Nazimova in "War Brides."

As he has said, upon another occasion, "If it
had not been for two 'different' roles, roles out
of the ordinary, I might still have been playing
straight leads. The first of these roles in which
I had an opportunity to act was with Nazimova.
The second was when I was chosen to play the
Chink opposite Lillian Gish in 'Broken Blossoms.' "

Mrs. Barthelmess often recalls that day, when
Dick met her at the railroad station and cried,

exuberantly, "Mother, I have a part
that will either make or break me I"
It made Dick. He fitted in. nicely
with the Griffith organization, and
Mr. Griffith made use of his ability
on numerous occasions, in pictures
which constantly added to his experi-
ence and fame. At length, he was ready
to graduate from the Griffith organiza-
tion in which, because of Mr. Griffith's
policy, starring is not possible, to the head
of his own company. And Dick has
again made good, for he has received the
plaudits of the film world for his work
in "Tol'able David."

Events do not speak for themselves in
Dick's case. You need a downright chat
with him to understand him thoroughly,
and to comprehend his finer qualities.
"Personalities are always of importance
in shaping a man's life, and I have been
extremely fortunate in having acquired the.
friendship of such a man as Joseph Hergcs-
heimer," he says. Dick has numerous letters
from Mr. Hergesheimer, indicating how closely
the famous author has been watching the
work of the young star, and how keen is their
mutual interest. This keenness of personal re-
gard between a recognized literary artist and a
motion picture star is unusual and promises much
for the future.

Another writer who has shown great interest
in Dick is Heywood Broun. It was Broun who,
five years ago, when Dick was just starting to
act for the screen, noted him in a small part in a
Petrova picture, and remarked : "That young
man bears watching." Recently Broun devoted
much effort to calling the attention of the public
to "Tol'able David."

But to return to Dick himself : "I'd very much
like to go to Europe this summer to meet certain
writers over there, but I am afraid my schedule
of films will keep me here. I am, of course,
anxious to meet Joseph Conrad, who is so much
in sympathy with Mr. Hergesheimer. Another
author whom I admire and wish to meet is
John Drinkwater."

As for plans, it is unfair to mention the names
of certain famous plays and novels which Dick
proposes to render in film form, but here is his
conception of how he plans to go about main-
taining the artistic level of his productions : "It
is always difficult to give the public what they
demand and yet to keep faith with one's self.
The public wants to laugh, and the average ex-
hibitor likes best the picture which makes his
audiences laugh. I am going to mix popular
productions with those of sterner stuff, and thus
try to satisfy everyone. The success of Tol'-
able David' has convinced me that this can be
done."

The personal side of Dick's life has been
changed little since he became a star. The warm-
est friendship exists between Dick and Mr. Grif-
fith, a genuine admiration for the attributes
which both possess. Dick has kept, too, his col-
lege friendships. Professors who watched his
career at Trinity still write to him and visit him
when they are in New York. He'd like to write,
(Continued on page 31)

OVIE WEEKLY ART SERIES

BETTY COMPSON, PARAMOUNT STAR

Page Eighteen

(Normasffilmadge

FORTUNE TELLEFC^J)

MOVIE WEEKLY

ji' MOVIE WEEKLY'S

THE REVELATIONS OF PHAROS, THE
SEER OF EGYPT

FROM the earliest days of the dim past down
to modern times, the cards have been used
for the purpose of divination by men and
women who seek to penetrate into the
mysteries of fate and futurity. Foremost
amongst the mystics of the East were those of
the ancients of Egypt, whose famous royal oracle
of divination, or method of reading the future in
the cards is given here. It reveals your future,
tells what your luck in love will be, and whether
your dearest wish will be granted.

HOW TO READ THE MYSTERIES OF THE
CARDS

The complete pack of 52 cards is taken and
spread out face downwards without order on a
table in front of the in-
quirer. She who would
consult the fates must
choose seven cards,
touching each card to
the heart and lips — the
ancient sign of secrecy
— as she draws it.

These seven cards
must then be well shuf-
fled. From the seven
cards she now draws a
single one, uttering as
she does so the wish
nearest and dearest to
her heart.

In the chart here given
the chosen card will re-
veal the future to the
inquirer, will forecast
her luck in love affairs,
and will tell her whether
the wish she has uttered
will be granted or not.

The cards should be
shuffled after every con-
sultation. .

Now try it for your-
self.

WHAT THE CARDS
REVEAL

Hearts

Ace — There are Avto
men in love with you,
one yon know well, the
other you have not yet
met, but who admires
you from afar. There
will be some trouble in the future for you, but
your heart will help you to choose aright, and
happiness will be yours. Your wish will be
granted very soon.

Two— A handsome boy is crazy to take you
out and give you a good time. Your wish will
come true in five years' time.

Three— A widower, a man younger than your-
self bv three years, and a soldier, are all in your
life. Your dearest wish will never be granted
you.

Four— You will yearn long for the love of a
man who will never love you, spurning the care
and affection of a humbler suitor whom you meet
every day. Your wish will be granted — some day.

Five— Money stands between you and love.
Your wish will be denied you.

Six— Romance will come to you by a lake
side and in mid-summer. The granting of your
wish is uncertain.

Seven — You are in love with a certain boy.
So is another girl, and the jealousy between you
will turn him away. He will marry a third girl.
The wish nearest your heart will come true.

Eight— A dashing lover will come to you and
after a whirlwind wooing will carry you off to
settle down with him in a tropical country.
There is .llness in ycur future, and an accident

fi LOVELY PHOTO OF NORMA

at sea, but contentment will rtign supreme. Your
wish will be denied you.

Nine — You will meet your mate at a wedding.
He is short, not very good-looking, but has a
heart of gold. You will marry him on the third
anniversary of your meeting with him. Your
next birthday will see the fulfilment of your wish.
Ten — You will go through seven lovers before
you settle on Mr. Right. When he comes he will
make you sit up, and you'll find out that loving
has its penalties. He will lead you a pretty
dance, but will marry you in the end. Your wish
is sure to come true.

Knave — Give your fair lover his walking ticket •
and stick to the quiet boy who wears grey. He's
your man. And he will do anything you ask him
to ensure your happiness; but unless you keep
him at your side for three years he will leave
you. The wish you have long cherished is going
to be fulfilled before the
year is out.

Queen — Your luck in
love depends on an old
shoe. If you cast it out
of your house, love will
never come to you — you
will have to search for
it. Keep the shoe, and
a strong, dark man will
be drawn to your own
fireside. You will be-
come engaged, married,
and settled down in a
big town all within
three short summer
weeks. Your wish is
sureto come true.

King — A dream you
will soon have on a
Monday concerning a
man — an old friend —
will come true. He
loyes you, but has never
spoken — and will not un-
less you show him en-
couragement. Your wish
will have its -fulfilment
on a Friday, the 13th of.
a month.

Clubs

Ace — A fair boy will
fall in love with vpu at
a dance. You will come
to love him, too, but
there will be much diffi-
culty in getting his
mother to look favor-
ably on your friendship.
Alas ! he's an only son. and vou know what
mothers are ! But everything will come out right.
Your wish will see its fulfilment a year after
your wedding.

Two — You are not in love one little bit, al-
though you think you are. There is a deal of
travel and trouble in front of you. with the solace
of a happy married life beyond. Your wish is an
idealistic one — it may never come to pass.

Three — Be careful of the girl who is trying to
estrange you from the sweetheart of your choice.
Dissension sows distrust. Stick to your boy and
trust him. He is to bring you great contentment
and even riches, in the years before you. Your
heart's desire will be granted when you learn
self-control.

Four — Neither a moneyed man nor a profes-
sional man, but a working man, shall be your
life's mate. He is to come into your life very
soon. A lowlv state with contentment and health
is ordained for your future, and in the third
month of five Sundays will you find the fulfil-
ment of your dearest wish.

Five— You will meet him on a journev, then
you will not see him for a year. But he will
come back and offer you love and a home. Take
him — he is your true mate.

(Continued next week)

So Charlie Chaplin is going to turn di-
rector ! Of course he has always directed
himself, but it will be interesting to see him
direct without acting, as he will do in the
case of Edna Purviance, whom he has
launched as a star, or will launch as soon as
he finishes one more picture. He is also to
write her story.

I don't think that Charlie intends to have
any other leading woman. Miss Purviance
will serve in that capacity between her own
starring vehicles.

s a si

If Gareth Hughes can get his hat on to-
day, it's because he's a very modest young
man. He received a letter a few days ago.
from Sir James M. Barrie, in which the
author praised him highly for his work in
"Sentimental Tommy."

The author even went so far as to express
a desire to see Hughes in "Peter Pan."
Needless to say Mr. Hughes shares the latter
enthusiasm.

a s a

Speaking of going abroad, Jackie Coogan
is going abroad to make his next picture,
"Oliver Twist," some of the scenes of which
are to be made in actual London locations.

Jackie's coming is being looked forward
to with interest by English fans, according
to Jackie's father, who has sent a repre-
sentative on ahead, and who has letters from
English exhibitors expressing a desire to
see the boy, and stating that he will be
lionized on his arrival.

a a a

This reads like a fairy story. Neverthe-
less it is true, say its sponsors.

After all the discouraging articles about
how hard the extra girl has to work to make
good, and what a long row she has to hoe,
this little story about Patsy Ruth Miller,
who plays in "Watch Your Step," is very
refreshing.

Patsy Ruth was travelling in Southern
California when a motion picture direc-
tor saw her, — don't shoot! He really did
immediately address her and ask her if
she would like to appear in pictures. He
also asked her parents for their permission
to introduce her to pictures. The next thing
the public knew she had become a regular
leading lady — all inside of a year. The
funny part of this is that Patsy Ruth had
no idea of becoming a screen actress, the
role being thrust upon her.

a a a

No New York for Ruth Roland, says
that young lady. The queen of the Pathe
black-and-blue drama means to make her
next serial at the United Studios, in Holly-
wood.

MOVIE WEEKLY

Page Nineteen

o

SfcfrUnderthe Orange FekpcTree

Tyy Irma, the Ingenue

H, we're all wondering if Agnes Ayres is
going to be married again 1"

'Yes, yes!" I prompted Irma the
Ingenue, breathlessly.

"Well, just wait," she answered, "until I get
this awful veil off. I can't see a thing in it, and
I simply must see who that is that Charlie Chap-
lin is taking tea with. Though I might know.
It's Lila Lee. It's always Lila now-a-days. . . .
Here, waiter, bring us at once some high-power
tea. . . . Yes, I'm off my diet. It made me so
cross."

Irma, the Ingenue, lifted a tantalizing veil, the
color of an autumn leaf, and the light from the
little table under the tree in the tea garden made
more beautiful the pink of her cheeks, the bright-
ness of her eyes, and the sweet curve of her lips.

"As you were saying about Agnes Ayres," I
suggested.

"Oh, yes . . . The idea that a piece of French
pastry could make me forget anything so ro-
mantic. Why, you see, it's Maurice, the dancer !
He has been dancing at the Ambassador, and ever
since Connie Talmadge went back to New York,
he has been paying the most devoted attention to
Agnes. Agnes told somebody I know that she
really does like him awfully well. She wouldn't
admit she was engaged to him, and I suppose she
isn't, yet. But they go to supper dances and
theatres together all the time. I danced with
him once, and I'm sure his dancing alone is
enough to make any girl fall in love with him.
Then he's such a regular he-man in addition.
And he talks so well. He's good at both ends,
I told Agnes — can both dance and talk. She
came floating in on his arm, the other night at
the Ambassador, and was his guest all evening.
She looked distinctive, too. I tried to make out
why. Then I realized. She is about the only
girl who hasn't bobbed her hair!

"Oh, yes, and maybe Maurice will stay out
West and go into pictures with the Lasky com-
pany. Everybody is looking forward to see what
will happen when Connie Talmadge gets back.
Will Maurice shift back to Constance? Or will
he remain true to Agnes?"

Irma, the Ingenue, took a nibble at her pastry,
and went on without waiting for my opinion.

"But speaking of dancing," she rippled along,
"did you know Charlie Chaplin could make his
living as an aesthetic dancer if he wanted to?
Well, he could ! Maurice kidded him into getting
on the floor the other night at the Ambassador,
and the two did a funny burlesque aesthetic dance
that was the cutest thing you ever saw! Charlie
was there with Lila Lee.

"There were a lot of Charlie's ex-flames in the
crowd, that night. I wonder how they felt?
Claire Windsor was with a journalistic editor,
May Collins was stepping out with a business
man, and Edna Purviance had her faithful Bobby
Hunter in tow. Once they all happened to meet,
crowded together in a corner of the dancing

floor. Claire was awfully thoroughbred; she just
howed and smiled sweetly to everybody.

"And speaking of ex-beaus — what a lot of ex's
there were present that night! Now personally
I like an ex. He's such a comfortable person.
You know all about him, and just how to work
him when you meet him unexpectedly, whereas
a new one just worries you to death until you
find out how to manage him. Well, as I was
saying. Lottie Pickford was dancing with her
new husband, Alan Forrest, while Kenneth Har-
lan seemed to be free-lancing. They met face
to face for a moment on the dance floor. Ken-
neth was raising whiskers for a picture, so he
sort of hid behind them for a minute ; but Lottie
spotted him, and called over, 'Hello 1' So he
had to stop and talk. But I guess it was sort
of sultry for Alan.

"Mabel Normand was out for the first time
since the Taylor murder 1 She had on a long
ermine cape, and looked beautiful, though just a
bit wan. Mabel is genuinely devoted to her
friends, and was deeply grieved over the death
of Taylor.

"So Constance Talmadge is to make 'East. Is
West :' I cannot imagine anybody doing it better
than she will. It will give her a better chance
to act than she has had since away back six

Just then, Doris May and Wallace MacDonald.

those two turtle doves of Moviedom, entered

and carried Irma away with them in their

big Cadillac.

years ago when she played the mountain girl in
'Intolerance.' And she's to go to China for part
of the stuff! Can't you imagine all those Orien-
tals of New China forgetting all about politics
and education and the vote for women in order
to run after her?

"King Baggot is going clear down to Louis-
ville to be there when the races begin, in order
to make scenes for 'The Suburban Handicap.'
At least, that's all he says he's going for. But
I'll bet he'll have more in his pocket than his
salary when he comes back. He's very lucky.

"It seems that Earl Williams and his wife are
as happy, again as two turtle doves. They always
did seem happy, and so everybody was surprised
when a little while ago, there was a rumor that
they had separated. Now they go out together
all the while to theatres and dancing parties."

Irma, the Ingenue, saw Harold Lloyd looking
at her from an adjoining table, so after giving
him an engaging smile, she made as charming
and graceful a picture of herself as she could in
reaching for the tea pot and pouring me the
tea she knew I didn't care a cent about.

"Look!" she exclaimed. "There's Priscilla
Dean and Wheeler Oakman ! Hello, dears !
They're building a house, you know, in Beverly
Hills. It is in the Colonial style outside and a
sort of Spanish style inside. Also Priscilla says
she doesn't care a hang whether the Colonials
had 'em or not. she's going to have a swimming
pool. Then there's to be a great big kitchen with
an open fireplace. You know her husband,
Wheeler, just dotes on cooking over an open
fireplace, and Priscilla doesn't care a hang how
much he cooks just so he doesn't ever ask her
to do it. The kitchen is to be large, she says,
so that he can splash just as much as ever he
likes.

"Oh — but did you hear about the Spring house-
cleaning which the Hollywood Hotel got? My
dear ! Lots of picture actors used to live there.
Some of them had been out of work and hadn't
paid their board bills for months. The Holly-
wood Hotel people made them leave. There was
one actress who owed $1,500! But I think the
hotel people are sorry now, because the picture
people are a clannish lot, and they all got mad
and left when the delinquents were put out. And
they won't go to the hotel dances on Thursday
nights any more. I was over there the other
night, and it's as quiet as the old ladies' home."

Just then Doris May and Wallace MacDonald,
those two turtle doves of Moviedom, entered and
carried Irma away with them in their big
Cadillac.

"Good-bye, darling !" she waved. But all the
while her eye was on Tony Moreno, who had
just driven up.

"Priscilla Dean and Wheeler Oakman,
her husband, you'kncnv, are building a
house in Beverly Hills. There's to be a
great big kitchen with an open fireplace.
Wheeler just dotes on cooking over an
open fireplace."

?age Twenty

MOVIE WEEKLY

Questions Answered

My job on "Movie Weekly" it answering question!. Wouldn't you
like to know whether your favorite star ii married? What color her
eyes are, or what may be his hobbies? Write me, then, and I will
tell you. I cannot answer questions concerning studio employment.
For a personal reply, enclose a self-addressed stamped envelope. All
inquiries should be signed with the writer's full name and address,
which will not appear in the magazine. Address me, The Colonel,
"Movie Weekly," 119 West 40th St, New York City.

I suppose you have noticed that
"Movie Weekly" now has a scenario
department for the' benefit of those
who will never be happy until they
have written for the movies. In
spite of this, however, some of our
readers still ask me how to get their
heroines out of the mud-puddle, or
some such question. So 1 just
thought I'd remind you that your
photoplay problems should be whis-
pered to the scenario department. I
have plenty of other things to lose
sleep over.

RED VAMP— You ask me wheth-
er you can write to Theodore Kos-
loff and Nazimova in Russian. How
do I know whether you can or not,
unless you tell me? I know durn
well I can't. They can read Rus-
sian, if that's what you mean. Mr.
Kosloff can be reached at the Lasky
Studio, 1520 Vine St., Hollywood,
and Nazimova's address is Unite'd
Artists, 729 7th Ave., New York.
Natacha Rambova is not Russian at
all ; her name is Winifred De Wolf.
We tried to get a picture of her to
publish, but she hasn't any. She
is not an actress. Pola Negri is
still in Europe; I don't know
whether she speaks English.

DOROTHY FROM PITTS-
BURGH— -That sounds like the
name of a musical comedy, except
that Pittsburgh is hardly a romantic
enough place for a show to be named
after, is it? Yes, I think "Orphans
of the Storm" is considered better
than "The! Birth of a Nation," if
for no other reason than that motion
pictures themselves have been so im-
proved in the last six years. Yes,
Rodolph is now a star. Johnnie
Hines lives at S48 W. 164th St.,
New York; Marjorie Daw and Mary
Carr, c-o Fox, 1417 N. Western
Ave'., Hollywood.

BILLY HYLAND— Did you get
the picture you wanted of Earle Wil-
liams ? Pauline Stark's next picture
will be "My Wild Irish Rose. I'm
sorry I do not know whether she is
married. Her address is Vitagraph
Studio, 1708 Talmadge St., Holly-
wood.

MARCIA— Yes, Marcia, R. V.
has been divorced. Nilete Welch
lives at 1616 Gardner St., Holly-
wood; Hallam Cooley, 7010 Lane-
wood, Hollywood, and Gaston Glass,
Formosa Apts., Los Angeles.

ROSLIE OF DREAMLAND—
You must be very romantic. So
your pen is a fountain? Well, isn't
that nice, and then you can keep it
in the front yard and watch it play !
You can get a picture of Mary and
Doug by cutting it out of a maga-
zine, or writing and asking for one.
You can also get a picture of any
other star in the 1 same way. All
types are good for the movies, if
you can get in.

BABS: — No, you are not asking
too many questions, but you do want
too many "addresses for publication.
I try to answer only questions of
general interest on the answer page.
I have the' cast of "One Arabian
Night," but Pola Negri is the only
actress in the cast whose name is
given. Send me your address and
I will answer your other questions.
In the meanwhile you might write
Harrison Ford and Conway Tearle
at the Lambs' Club, 128 W. 44th
St., New York City.

CURLEY— You're one of these
statistics hounds, I see — height,
weight, etc. Well, I will tell you
what you want to know if you will
give me your full name and address.

AN ADORER OF RODOLPH
VALENTINO— I suppose! all tthe
girls will think this answer is meant
for them. The star in "Once to
Every Woman" was Dorothy Phil-
lips. Rodolph played the villain. If
you don't see your answer, A. A. O.
R. V. (you use too long a "handle")
it's because you looked for it two
months ago instead of now.

PEGGY— Peggy what? For I
must know in order to give you all
those addresses. Yes, Clara Kim-
ball Young is still in pictures, her
latest being "A Worldly Madonna."
Write to Cullen Landis at the Gold-
wyn Studio, Culver City, Cal.

FLO NELSON— Now, Flo. surely
you don't think I say so much about
Rodolph on the answer page because
I still like to talk about him? I
answer the questions just as they
come in, so if my page is all full
of just one person, blame it on the
fans who keep writing to me on
the same subject.

EMMA — Where, Emma, did you
learn to do that beautiful lettering?
I am saving your letter because it
is such a joy to look at it. Do I
know how to say, "Je t'aime ?" I
certainly do — and I have often said
it. Je parte francais un peu — and
even peuer than that. In fact I
know just enough French and just
enough German, to get them all
mixed up — like thiB — Je spreche
francais.

BETTY BLACK EYES— I see
you're interested in Who's Who.
Faire and Constance Binney are sis-
ters, and Wilfred Lytell is Bert's
brother. No, Marguerite Clark does
not play in movies any more.

ST. LOUIS WALLIE— Well, the
Wallie Reid admirers are back
again. He is six feet one. weighs
170, and is a blond. He has been
in movies since' about 1913. He has
been married about eight years ; his
son is five. You can write him for
a photo at the Lasky Studio, 1520
Vine St., Hollywood.

DOROTHY MAE— I will be glad
to give you a list of Paramount's
latest pictures and the leads in them
by mail, but I haven't space here.
You can find what you want to
know by turning to the Paramount
ad on the back cover of this issue.

V. L. L. R.— (Whatever that
means). You know, -if you really
wanted an answer soon, there is
only one way of getting it. That is
by sending a self-addressed envelope,
with a stamp all licked and in the
corner. The paralytic in "While
New York Sleeps" was played by
Marc MacDermott.

CONSTANCE— Mary Pickford
is 29 ; Betty Compson and Carol
Dempster do not give their ages.

ALICE — None of the players you
mentioned has ever had a double
page picture in "Movie Weekly."

MARGIE — Shame on you, Margie,
for asking for all those addresses in
the magazine. You know I haven't
room for them. Tell me where to
write you. "The Love of a Human
Tiger Cat" is a fiction story written
especially for "Movie Weekly."
Wanda Hawley is Mrs. Burton
Hawley.

TUST IN TIME— For what?
With all the questions about Ruth
Roland that have come to me in
your handwriting the last few
months. I think you could write a
book about her by now. We have
already published a picture of her in
the July 22, 1921 issue, which you
can get from our Circulation Dept.
for ten cents. She has brown hair
and hazel eves. Edward Hearn has
just finished "The Heart Specialist"
opposite Mary Miles Minter.

WILLIE THE WEASEL— With
that name, you must be one of the
"dirty dozen" or some such gang.
The leads in "Shame" were played
by John Gilbert and Doris Pawn.
Write Dulcie Cooper at the Robert-
son-Cole Studio, 780 Gower Street,
Hollywood.

MISS MOVIE WEAKLY— I
don't think that's a nice way to spell
the name of the magazine. Lon
Chaney is 39; his hobbies are ath-
letics and cooking. I think he is
married; he lives at 157S Edgemont,
Hollywood. ^

DIMPLES III— Have you had
those same dimples in your family
for three generations? Yes, Ruth
Miller played in "The Sheik," as the
slave girl. I think you must know
by now the answers to all those
questions you asked about Rodolph.
If not, I will give you his history
by mail at your request. No, Jane
Hart is not William S.'s sister, nor
is Justine Johnstone' related to Edith
Johnson. The latter's address is
1624 Hudson Ave., Hollywood.

BETTY JANE— The only address
John Walker gives is Fox Studio,
1417 N. Western Ave., Hollywood.

EFFIE G. — Whose effigy are you?
Fritzie Brunette's husband in "The
Wife's Awakening" was Sam De
Grasse.

ONE OF OUR MOVIE WEEKLY
READERS — The heroine's child in
"The Wild Goose" was played by
Rita Rogan, and the Chinaman in
"Dream Street" was Edward Piel.

D. N. H. — It's refreshing to get
a letter from a man with your pa-
tience. "The Prisoner of Zenda"
was released quite recently. Cullen
Landis is still with Goldwyn ; his
next picture will be "The City Fel-
ler." No, we do not have copies of
pictures that have appeared in
"Movie Weekly.' The only way to
get these is to buy back numbers
of the magazine for ten cents apiece
from the Circulation Dept. Con-
stance Talmadge's next release is
"The Primitive Lover."

PEGGY HYLAND— Are you the
sister of Billy Hy'and, on this page?
Shirle'y Mason is Mrs. Bernard
Durning and Viola Dana is the
widow of John Collins. Franklin
Farnum is "Mr. Edythe Walker."
He is almost 39. Hoot Gibson is
30 and Jack Mower 32.

ROBERT P.— No, Constance
Talmadge has no children. Neither
has Jack Hoxie, so far as I know.

MARIE IRIE— No, Marie, I am
not the same answer man you wrote'
to last year. I'm afraid Mary Pick-
ford would not let you visit her
studio ; if she let you, she'd have to
let all 'the other fans, and then her
studio would be so crowded she'd
have to stand on the ceiling or
somewhere to make her pictures.

JUST LILLIE — A very appropri-
ate name for Easter time. No, Hope
Hampton is not married. She was
born in Texas not so very many
years ago. Write her at 1540 Broad-
way, New York. I don't suppose
Rodolph will ever come to visit you :
his adoring fans would probably cause
a riot in his vicinity. Yes, he used
to dance on the stage. Agnes Ayres
is about 23 ; she is divorced from
Frank Schusker. She was born in
Chicago. She doesn't give her home
address, but can be reached at the
Lasky Studio, 1520 Vine St., Holly-
wood.

H; R. — The only way I know for
you to get a picture of Elsie' Ferguson
and Wallie Reid — or any other player
— is to write them for the photo-
graphs. Those two stars will prob-
ably charge you a quarter. They
can both be reached at the Lasky
studio in Hollywood.

MOVIE WEEKLY

Page Twentf'tte

Painting the Town Red

THEY have quaint ways of doing things in
Spain — at ltfast in some towns.
Just suppose you were a young girl with
lots of suitors (unless you don't need to sup-
pose it), and all your adorers expressed their adora-
tion by dabbing papa's house with red paint. How
would that please you — and papa?

That is the explanation given Director John S.
Robertson for the appearance of Vesa, a little village
near Seville, where most of the exteriors for "Span-
ish Jade" were taken.

It seems that the young gallant of Vesa, when he
wishes to declare his affection for a certain senorita,
steals to her home in the stilly night and spashes a
comet's tail of screaming vermillion on the white-
washed walls of her house.

"Some of these young ladies seem to have quite 1
a following," remarked David Powell, indicating
one humble dwelling which looked like a futuristic
artist's bad dream.

"Well," said the interpreter, "you know women like
to keep up appearances, and there is really nothing
to prevent their trying their hands with the paint
brush themselves."

A Wise "Crack"

John Emerson and Anita Loos, the scenario couple,
sat in their home in New York working on "Polly
of the Follies." Suddenly they heard a cracking
sound and a gash appeared in the ceiling, followed
by a deluge of plaster.

"Well, what do you think of that," Said Anita,
"this scenario has brought down the house !"

Stuffing the Elephant

Now that Richard Barthelmess is a star, he often
recalls the' hard old days when he was looking for
work as an extra. But hard as those times were, he
got many a good laugh out of his day's work. .

"There were more people in the business then
than 'now who did not care about elevating th£ screen
but were looking only for money. One day we
learned that a group of wealthy men had formed a
new company, so we all made a dash to the offices
looking for work.

"Wc found that the company was going in for
animal picture's and would have its own menagerie.
While we were waiting anxiously to see if we could
get parts in the picture, the representative of the
Wall Street owners was summoned to the! phone. He
returned looking distressed and puzzled.

" 'Great Scott !' he exclaimed, 'the boss has gone
and bought an elephant, and it's on the way to the
lot. He told me! to get stuff to feed it. Does any-
body here know what elephants eat?

"There was a pause while everyone thought. Fin-
ally someone had a bright idea, inspired by his visits
to the circus.

" 'Peanuts,' he suggested. .

'.' 'Fine !' ejaculated the manager, beaming with
relief. He turned to the office boy. 'Jimmie,' said
he, 'go out and get a nickle's worth.' "

dilm&lam,

Pity the Poor Guests

Miss Pauline Garon, who plays opposite Richard
Barthelmess in "Sonny;," is glad that she can cook.

"Because," she explained, "then I can never be in
the predicament of one of my convent chums after
her marriage.

"She was giving a luncheon, and just as the time
arrived to start cooking the food, the cook got a
violent sick headache. Lying on her bed, the! faith-
ful servant gave her mistress detailed instructions
as to what to do.

" 'Do you think you can get along all right, mum ?'
she inquired anxiously.

" 'Certainly, Bridget,' the young wife said reassur-
ingly. 'Don't you worry. But there 1 are just two

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"Just wait until you see me in my new Easter hat,"
says Mae Murray.

things you forgot to tell me. What kind of soap do
I use to wash the lettuce? And do I fry the bacon
in butter or lard ?' "

This Caps the Climax

Some of the actors who are at work in George
Melford's production of "The Woman Who Walked
Alone" have to wear plumes in their hats. The rea-
son for the "Louis Quince" decoration is that these
men are supposed to represent South African Mounte'd
Police and South African Mounted Police seem to
be a very vain lot, judging by their uniforms.

"It's a feather in my cap to work for you, George,"
grinned one of the 1 actors, brushing off his hat with
his sleeve.

The Wearing of the Purple

Jack Holt returned home one day from the studio
and found his young son, Tim, laughing gleefully, his
face covered with blackberry jam.

"Good," shouted the youngster.

"Good?" answetett "Papa" Jack, "how do you
know it's good? You're not eating it — you're wear-
ing it."

And Then She Gave Him the Gate

"I'm afraid we won't be 1 able to land today," said
one of the company making "The Dictator," as the
steamer conveying them to San Francisco neared
the city.

Lila Lee bit. "Why not?" she inquired.

"Why, you see," was the answer, "the 1 Golden
Gate May be closed."

A pulmotor was called for to revive the astonished
Lila.

A Damsel in Distress

Pride goeth before a fall — or a wetting. This is
one on Bebe Daniels.

It was a tent that was the cause of Bebe's pride;
she and her mother shared the only tent with a board
floor when the "North of the Rio Grande"' company
slept out on location SO miles from Phoenix, Arizona.

Bebe felt very sorry for "the poor men folks who
were content with just ordinary tents instead of the
real luxurious kind. And she was justly prpud of
her camp "palace."

But — the' first night it rained. And while all the
men in camp slept through it, all cozy and dry, the
rain poured in 'bucketsful into the beautiful brunette's
bedroom.

If the men in the company hadn't come so nobly
to her rescue, Bebe might have had a tiny suspicion
that the 1 "operatives" who set up the tents had a
touch of envy in their systems and that was why they
hadn't properly fastened the guy ropes of her "palace."
But with such a chivalrous group of men, she
couldn't harbor that suspicion.

They Didn't Even Punish Him

"Many a'Schooner 1 have piloted across the bar,"
remarked an old Bait reminiscently to the members of
Wallie! Reid's company making "The Dictator," as
they returned from a cruise about San Francisco
bay.

"What kind of a bar?" asked' Wallie grinnlng^-
and the other members of the party quickly left the
ship after that one.

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Page Twenty-two

MO FIE WEEKLY

8 to Scenario Wri

Scenario Note : Our
readers are invited to
■write and ask us ques-
tions they may have in
mind on screen writing.
Please enclose stamped
and addressed envelope.

THE MECHANICS OF PHOTOPLAY
WRITING

THERE is a large number of people in this
world who could write photoplays, pro-
vided they possessed the technic^ knowl-
edge necessary to enable them to put their
ideas into the form of an interest-holding story.

For every type of writing — newspaper, maga-
zine articles, short stories, novels, drama, the
photoplay — there are certain rules which have
grown but of the mass experience. These obser-
vations which, by general consent have been
acknowledged as the best form in which to cast
the material, are known as the rules or technique
of the subject.

While people generally admit it is necessary
to study journalism, advertising and so on, they
seem to feel that story writers ate born and not
made, and that story writing cannot be taught. .

In this they are partially correct. Photoplay
writing, or any form of fiction writing, demands
that the writer supply his own ideas as well as
develop and express them; while in the writing
of non-fiction, the facts are already existent and
the writer needs but assemble and arrange them
to the best advantage.

Story writers are born to this extent — they
must be possessed of a creative imagination. By
this I mean the ability to start with an idea and
to enlarge and expand this idea into a story. _

However, there are many people who have this
qualification who, nevertheless, could never write
a salable photoplay. And why? Because they
could not bring their story out to the best ad-
vantage— 'it would become lost in a mass of un-
necessary detail, or would, be developed from
the wrong angle, or the writer would give the
ending away at the beginning of the story, thus
destroying the interest, or the characters would
be unlifelike, or the situations would not follow
logically one from the other. All these and
many more are 'the faults that can be seen in
stories written by persons without a knowledge
of technique.

I have heard writers who have "arrived" rather
sententiously tell amateurs that the only way to
learn to write is to write. That is very true. If
a person studied the laws of geometry and never
tried to work out a problem, he would have but
little knowledge of the subject. At the same
time, if the person who. has not learned how to
write, attempts to do so by merely writing, he
is apt to arrive at no definite place, but will find
he has travelled in a circle, just as does a person
who walks in a strange forest without a com-
pass. Persons who have acquired the technique
of writing, and with whom it has become second
nature, are apt to forget that they did not always
possess this knowledge.

In other words, there is a part to photoplay
writing which is mechanical, and like anything
that is mechanical, it can be learned if one has
the patience and the desire to do so. Just as
there are definite laws for building a house, or
constructing a steel bridge, just so are there
definite laws for building a story, and the person
with creative imagination will find that, despite
this native ability, he needs technique.

While undoubtedly there are some persons
who are born story tellers in that they have a
natural sense of the "dramatic," and who seem
tc( know instinctively how to develop their
material in order to make it most enthralling, yet
the majority will find that they "arrive" more
speedily by an analytical study and application
of the laws governing photoplay writing.

CONCERNING NAMES

There's the old saying, "What's in a name?
A rose by any other name would be just as
sweet," or something to that . effect. That may
be all very well in botany, but when it comes to
christening your brain children, great care must
be taken that irreparable injury is not done
them.

While "Lizzie Snaggs" may be the very love-
liest of heroines, your audience will doubt this
and wonder just when she is going to turn into
a comedienne; yet with a fitting cognomen, no
one would doubt her position of heroine.

The reason for this is that audiences have
become accustomed to having the names suggest
the character of the various people in the story.
An example of what not to do is the name given
the villain in a short story I recently read. He
was a man with a reputation for killing people
and his chief aim throughout the story was. to
poison two of the main characters ; and the author
called him Goodman!

Of course, in writing a comedy, the more ab-
surd and laugh-provoking names you can give
the characters, the better.

Another thing to remember about naming the
people in your photoplay is that no two names
should be similar, as this would be confusing to
the audience.

"PROPAGANDA" NOT FILM MATERIAL

Everyone who writes photoplays is constantly
analyzing his material and asking himself, "Is
this a good story?" If he has had much experi-
ence in writing, he has become more or less a
judge of what is, and what is not, story material.

The first requirement is that it be entertaining,
and this is the point which I wish to stress. It
is not enough that you find the subject of inter-
est, but it must be one that will appeal to people
in general. In fact, the greatest themes are said
to be "universal," meaning that they do not
depend for their "heart interest" upon any par-
ticular time, place, or race of people, but are
as true today as when civilization was dawning.

Too many persons become wrapped up in some
particular subject, and are so interested in it,
that they wish to write a photoplay or story on
the topic and so educate others. They forget
that the audiences in a theatre are there to be
amused, and that they will not remain there long
unless they are.

Innumerable people have written me, "Wouldn't
a photoplay based on astrology, thought transfer-
ence, prohibition, thrift, so forth, and so on,
make a goo J photoplay?" I do not say that these
subjects or any of the others which have been
suggested, to me, would not make good material,
as that would depend entirely on the way in
which they were developed. If the writer can
get away from the idea of preaching to others,
of frying to educate them, of "talking down" to
them, he might, 'by using such subjects as a
theme, evolve a very interesting story. George
•Bernard Shaw says he writes plays because they
are the only form in which he can get his ideas
across ; that he first wrote pamphlets and lectures,
but as no one would read them, he was forced
to "sugar coat" his ideas in the form of dramas.

While Shaw undoubtedly gets over his theories
in this way, at the same time he never loses sight
of the fact that his plays must be entertaining
if he wishes people to read or see them.

If you can handle your material as cleverly
as Mr. Shaw, you can safely put over whatever
propaganda you are interested in, but it must
be so cleverly disguised that your audience
will not realize that they are seeing other than
an absorbing 'story ; and, as this is a very difficult
thing to do, it is best to leave such subjects alone.

I Questions and Answers

~ — \

swers J

(Q.) How many sce'nes does it take to make a
five reel picture ?

(A.) That is a matter which comes under the
scope of the continuity writer and not the writer of
the original story. It is difficult to ascertain the
exact number of scenes in a continuity "as they
depend entirely upon the action. However, a five
reel feature usually requires from three to four hun-
dred and fifty scenes.

(Q.) Is it necessary to state in a synopsis when
a closeup is desirable?

(A.) No, it is not necessary. In fact, it is
undesirable,, as the matter of closeUps is left entirely
to the continuity writer.

(Q.) Is the producer privileged to change the
title of an accepted story?

(A.) That privilege usually goes with the purchase
of a story, unless the author has an agreement with
the producer to the effect that the title' must not be
changed. It is only through provisions of this kind
that a producer does not usually use his own judg-
ment in the matter of selecting a suitable title.

(Q.) I sold a story sometime ago and I have been
watching the trade journals constantly for an an- ,
nouncement of its release, but I don t seem to be
able to find anything at all pertaining to it. Can
you suggest how I may learn when it is to be
released ?

(A.) We would suggest that you write to the pro-
ducer to whom you sold the story and ask him when
the picture will be released. It is possible that he
has seen . fit to change- the title and therefore you
would not recognize your story in looking it up in
the trade journals. We are sure that he will be glad
to tell you anything you wish to know about your
story.

(Q.) Is it advisable for me to write the titles into
my script as I work out my story in the detailed
synopsis ?— B. M..

(A.) A few spoken titles are a good thing in a
detailed synopsis, as. they not only help the char-
acterization, but they help you to put over the big
moments in the dramatic action. Titles that are
interposed between scenes are never put in by the
amateur- as these are strictly the work of the studio
staff. Be careful not to overdo your spoken titles.

(Q.1 How am I to know what comes under the
ban of the censors and what will escape them ? — H. F.
■ (A.) Your question is one that dozens of people
would be glad to have solved for them. There is no
certainty, as many towns and cities have their own
rules. If you want to be sure' of your work, then
write something of which there is not the smallest^
doubt.

(Q.) Can you tell me if an editor will pay as much
attention to a story that is .briefly told as he will to
6ne where a good deal of attention has been paid
to the working out? — K. F. C.

(A.) The same attention is paid to all stories sub-
mitted to a studio, but very naturally the story that
is the best told and has the' action written in a vivid
manner, together with good characterization, wili
make a better impression than a story that is very brief.

(Q.) If I write titles into my stories, will they be
changed- by the producer if the story is sold or can
I be assured that my brain-storms will live ? — M. V. T.

(A.) We are sorry to say that your "brain-storms"
as you call them will, . in all probability, be changed.
It is more likely they would not suit the story in its
production form. Do not let this worry you; your
titles have done their work, they have helped you
sell the story.

(Q-) Will you please telljne the proper form in
which to submit a story to the scenario depart-
ments? — G. D-.

(A.) Use a good grade of paper, size 8% x 14, o r
8% x 11. Type'write the story in double space. On
the first sheet place the title of the story, and your
name and address; on the second sheet place the
cast of characters ; next, the brief synopsis, and fol-
low this by the detailed synopsis. Bind these sheets
at the top. .

MOVIE WEEKLY

Page Twtnts-thrtt

A Philanthropic BankBurglar

^JohnWGiey

WlHEN Blackey opened the door to Mor-
I risey*s rom and saw President Barker,
I of the Arlington National Bank of
Philadelphia, he was stunned beyond
expression. Fortunately, he had only
opened the door but an inch or two, and neither
Morrisey, who was still talking on the phone, nor
Barker, whose back was to the door, saw him.
He closed the door noiselessly and dashed up the
stairs to the next floor, where he caught an
elevator, and returned to the lobby.

He dropped into a chair in the corner, pulled
his hat down over his eyes, and began to think.
He was wondering what could have developed
that had brought Barker over to New York to
see Morrisey, and the more his mind dwelt on
the matter, the more intricate it became to him.
"the only possible solution that he could create
was that Morrisey had really obtained a definite
clue of some kind.

At one time he decided that he wouldn't keep
the engagement with the detective that had been
made the night before, and then it dawned on
him if he failed to keep the appointment that his
failure to do so might possibly create suspicion.
While he was in the midst of these thoughts, he
happened to look over toward the elevator. He
saw Barker and Morrisey stepping out of it,
Barker with a small travelling bag in his hand.
He heard Morrisey say : "Good-bye, Mr. Barker,
see you in Philadelphia. Tuesday."

This relieved him and after Morrisey went up
in the elevator, he took the next one and went
direct to his room.

"Come in," said the detective when he knocked
on the door.
"I'm a little late," declared Blackey.
"That's all right, Mr. Kennard. Have a seat.
If you had arrived a few minutes earlier you
would have met Mr. Barker, of the Arlington
National Bank of Philadelphia. He brought me
over something that may be of some help to us
in solving the robbery.

"That's interesting," said Blackey rather curi-
ously. "What is it?"

Morrisey went to his bag and took out a small
two-ounce bottle. "This," he said as he handed
the bottle to Blackey, "was found in the vault.
I wish you would analyze it and let me know
what it's composed of."

"I'll do it to-night and let you know in the
morning," replied Blackey.

"Let me have the information before nine," the
detective said. "I'm leaving for Philadelphia
at ten."

Nine o'clock was striking when Blackey left
the Knickerbocker. He went up Forty-Second
Street and turned north on Fifth Avenue. He
was in a fine mood as he rambled along with his
head in the air, swinging his arms and taking
the long, springy step of the athlete. There was
a lot of fascination to him in the thought of
having one of the world's greatest detectives on
his trail. He smiled as he thought of how he
was outwitting him. eluding him. "I shall play
with him as a cat plays with a mouse."

When he reached the Hotel Plaza at Fifty-
ninth Street, the habitat of New York's aristoc-
racy, he entered and walked around the lobby
for a moment or two. He peeked into the dining
room, that was crowded with elaborately gowned
women and men in evening dress. He smiled at
them sardonically, as they sat at the tables and
ate and drank and made merry in the luxury
surfeited atmosphere.

As he stood there and looked at the diners, he
thought once more of the terrible inequality of
things in general, and he was more firmly con-
vinced than ever that the road that he had chosen
was the right one, even though society had de-
creed it to be the wrong one.

"If it's a crime to burglarize their banks." he
murmured to himself, "it's a damn sight bigger
crime to create a condition' that causes so much
poverty and suffering."

He crossed Fifty-ninth Street and continued up
Fifth Avenue. When he neared _ Sixty-third
Street, he was jarred out of his reverie by a mad,
piercing scream that automatically halted him in
his tracks. He stopped, looked arid listened, try-
ing to detect where it came from. In a second

a;::" |i

SYNOPSIS

Jack Kennard, a great athlete and a graduate
of Tale school of Chemistry, utilizes his knowl-
edge of chemistry to make a new liquid explosive
with which he proposes to burglarize banks to
get funds to build a hospital for his friend, Henry
Haberly the noted neuro-pathologist, who is inter-
ested in reclaiming criminals by scientific
methods. He rescues a crook from a policeman
in Central Park and makes a pal of him. To-
gether they plan the robbery of the Arlington
National Bank of Philadelphia.

By a clever ruse they gain admission to the
bank and bind and gag the watchman. Kennard
then prepares to blow the vault open. They have
lust secured the money when they hear voices
outside the door and have just time to hide when
two policemen step into the bank. Jack covers
them and Jimmy ties them up and places them
with the watchman. After making their getaway
they drive the car into the woods near Trenton.
There Jack blows the car up and, after biding the
money they catch the train to New York.

They read about the robbery in the evening
papers and see that Mike Morrisey, the famous
detective, has been engaged on the case. While
they are discussing this, Jack's friend, George
Biddle, calls up and says that a Mr. Morrisey,
a detective, would like to meet Jack.

Although he does not know what to make of
this new development he goes to the Knicker-
bocker to meet them. He finds that Morrisey has
heard of his fame as a chemist and wants him to
try to analyze the new explosive which he be-
lieves has been used on the wrecked vault

Later Jack and Jimmy go to Trenton to recover
the money they have hidden and on the way back
they ride a freight train. They get into a fight
with three negro bandits and throw them off the
train. They arrive in New York and Jack starts
to keep his appointment with Morrisey.

iiiinn!tiiimimhit!tTiinMi.i:itt>it<'i'timinniiiiiii"!«m

illilllllllllliilGlflllllllilHilillH 1

aiiiiiniiii

he heard it again. Still he couldn't determine the
exact spot whence it came. His nerves were
tingling with suspense as he stood and waited for
a repetition of the yell.

"What the hell can it be?" he muttered. "Not
a murder, I hope."

The words had hardly left his lips when a
woman's voice, alive with terror and fear,
reached his ears again. 'Oh God, oh God, please,
please," and then an indistinct groan, a gurgle
as though someone was being strangled to death.
He put his left hand on the small three-foot wall
preparing to vault it, when the agonized scream
rent the night air louder and louder than before,
and punctuated with : "For'God's sake, let me go !
Murder ! Murder !"

He vaulted the wall and plunged into the
shrubbery with all the swiftness he was capable
of. He had gone about twenty yards when he
heard a faint "Oh." He pushed aside the brush
and stepped into a little open space and found a
big, burly negro attacking a girl.

When the big, black demon spied Blackey, he
dropped her and started for him with a long,
hideous-looking knife in his upraised hand. The
girl uttered a blood-curdling scream and fell to
the ground in a dead faint as the coon crashed
the knife at Blackey's throat. Blackey was un-
armed, so he closed in on the big negro, grab-
bing the hand that held the knife, while the nigger
emitted the most violent oaths.

In the struggle, Blackey slipped and fell to
the ground with the coon on top of him, though
he didn't lose his grip on the hand with the knife.
Over and over they rolled. Once or twice the
big smoke got the knife within an inch of two of
his throat and tried desperately to jab it into
Blackey. Finally, wiith one last superhuman
effort, he wrenched the knife out of his black
antagonist's hand, struggled to his feet, pulled
the nigger up after him, and hit him as hard as
he could drive an uppercut flush on the chin.

The nigger's eyes grew hazy, his arms dropped
to his side, and he fell to the ground with a dull
thud, unconscious.

The girl had recovered in time to witness the
ending of the battle. The defeat of the coon

probably gave her renewed courage, and as she
stood there in the moonlight, hatless, hair dis-
heveled, waist torn in shreds, and tears streaming
down her face, Blackey, for the first time, noticed
that she was young and quite pretty.

With a glance he took in the heavy coils of jet
black hair, the finely moulded features, the deli-
cately chisled scarlet like lips, her eyes, her
form. He picked up her hat and handed it to
her as a cop came through the bush, followed by
a crowd of citizens who had been attracted by
the screams.

"You're perfectly wonderful, wonderful. You've
saved my life and how am I ever to repay you?

I " she burst into tears and became hysterical

while Blackey tried to soothe her.

When she had regained her composure, Blackey
volunteered to escort her home.

"Shall I call a taxi?"

"No, thank you," she replied. "I live but a block
or two. Twelve, East Sixty-third Street."

As they walked out of the park, every other
word was an expression of gratitude.

"It was perfectly wonderful of you," she kept
repeating.

"You must forget about it," said Blackey.

"And you haven't even told me your name?"

"Kennard, Jack Kennard. And yours?"

"Evelyn Galley."

"Galley?" repeated Blackey. "Miss Galley, of
the Metropolitan Opera?"

"Yes ; but I'm afraid that it will be some time
before I'm able to sing after this ordeal to-night."

When they reached her home, she insisted on
Blackey coming in.

"You must meet my father."

Her father, Jim Galley, was the well-known
New York politician who made and broke poli-
ticians over night. "Big Jim," as he was called,
was the dictator o_f the New York political ma-
chine. What he said went, and it was commonly
rumored that he was to be the Democratic
Party's next candidate for Governor. He was a
diamond in the rough, a patron of sports, an all-
round good fellow, who had come up from the
ranks of poverty and privation by virtue of his
ability to plan and organize and handle men.
Evelyn was his only child. He worshipped and
adored her as one would a saint. He had
watched her blossom, step by step, into beautiful
womanhood, and then when he saw that she had
inherited the musical and vocal tendencies • of .
her mother, who had died when she was quite
young, he sent her abroad to be tutored by the
best masters of the Old World.

In the last analysis, life to Big Jim Galley
meant Evelyn, he was wrapped up in her, body
and soul, and when she subsequently became the
premier prima donna at the Metropolitan, his
adoration knew no bounds. Every time she sang
he was there. Then, after, the opera, he went
back stage and waited for her, and took her out
to supper. She, on the other hand, worshipped
him devotedly, and if any of her admirers, who
were legion, proposed an After-the-Opera party,
she brought her "Big Sweetheart," as she called
him, along. They were inseparable.

When her father entered the parlor, he immedi-
ately noticed the condition of her hair, the torn

Vage Twenty-four

waist and the spratches on her face. He hurried
across the room, drew her to his breast and exclaimed
excitedly :

"What's happened dear ? What's happened ?"

Between sobs and tears she related the story of
her experience' and how Blackey rescued her.

He was visibly affected. His big body shook with
emotion, and there was a quiver to his voice when
he grabbed Blacke'y's hand and said :

"Mr. Kennard, words won't tell the story of my
feelings and my gratitude. If anything happened to
Evelyn, there wouldn't be much in life for me. All
I can say is that I owe you my life."

"I was glad to have had the opportunity to have 1
been of service to your daughter, Mr- Galley. I only
did what any red-blooded map would have done."

The tears were streaming down "Big Jim's face
as he continued :

"I hope' you come to me some day for a favor. If
there is anything in the State of New York that
you want, say the word and you shall have it. I
owe you my Jife,"

When Blackey left the house, all Evelyn did was
to talk about him.

"Isn't he wonderful looking, papa?" she asked.

"Great !" he replied. "What business did he say
he was in?"

"He's a chemist. We must have him ever to
dinner. I think he's charming; so manly and strong.
I wish you could have seen him beat that terrible

negro " She became hysterical, and be!gan to

cry as her father led her off to her room after he
had summoned her maid.

When Blackey arrived at his apartment, Henry
phoned him asking him to meet him at the Astor
Grill. . .

"I want to see you right away. Very important.
Will you come down ?" • .

"In ten minutes," replied Blackey.

He gave Jimmy a brief outline of his experience's
with the nigger, and then left for the Astor. He
found Henry off by himself in a corner of the grill,
looking like a man that was going to be electrocuted.

"What's up, Henry?"

"What's up?" repeated Henry. "Everything is
up, including me. Read this."

He handed Blackey a letter, the letter-that Blackey
had had Jimmy \yrite when they sent Henry the
$175,000 which came out of the Arlington National
Bank. He read :

Dear Professor Haberly : Enclosed you will find
$175,000. I have learned that you are interested in
reclaiming criminals by scientific methods, and that
you have been unable to go on with this perfectly
laudable undertaking, primarily because of the fact
that you have been unable to interest people of means
in the project. I want to help finance the building
of a hospital, so you may be able to carry on your
wonderful work. More funds will be forthcoming
later on. This is only my first donation. Will you
please publish in the personal columns of the World
just how much money you will require, and then
I shall see that you get it. Say nothing to anybody
about this matter. Frisco Blackey.

"Wonderful," exclaimed Blackey when he had
finished reading the letter. "Wonderful I" he re-
peated.

"I should say so," declared Henry. "But why, I
wonder, does he' want his identity kept secret? Why
don't he' come and talk with me personally? What's
your opinion of it?"

"I haven't any possible solution to offer," Blackey
replied. "I'm as much at sea as you are. How did
you receive the money, check or cash?"

"It was delivered to me by a bonded messenger,"
replied Henry. "All in cash, big bills, and the damn
messenger couldn't give me any description of the
sender."

"Mysterious and interesting," grunted Blackey. He
longed to open up and tell Henry everything, know-
ing that if he did so, Henry, in all probability, would
approve of everything that he had done and intended
doing: He didn't want to compromise him in the
event of anything happening later on, so he said
nothing.

THE Chelsea National Bank at Twenty-foprth
• Street, and Sixth Avenue, was considered
one of the strongest, as well as one of the
wealthiest banks in New York City.

For twenty years or more, the bank bur-
glars of the old school, fellows like Jimmy
HoDe. Mark Shinburn and Big Frank McCoy, had
looked at it with longing eyes, looked at it, and then
passed on to easier prey, It had therefore acquired
a reputation in the underworld of New York as being
"unbeatable."

For fifteen years Tom Reilly had guarded its
treasures at night. For fifteen long years he had
punched the watchman's clock in the big, tomb-like
building, in which no human being, except himself,
ever entered after the doors closed at four o'clock.
Every night of those fifteen years his good wife,
Mary, carried his supper ■ to him from their little
home on Tenth Avenue arid Twenty-fifth Street, but
a few blocks away.

At eleven-thirty every night, Mary rapped on the
big iron door" and handed Tom his lunch. Every
night Tom embraced her as she left, but he never let

her on the inside of the bank. He kissed her as she 1
stood on the steps and bade her good night.

Frisco Blackey happened to pass the bank one
night, on his way home from the laboratory, and
when he saw Mary knocking on the 1 door, he hesi-
tated a moment. He heard the bolts being pushed
back, saw the door open, saw her hand in the supper
pail, receive her kiss, and then wend her way home.

The next night he was in the vicinity of the bank
again,, and he witnessed the same procedure, the
knocking on the door, the handing in of the supper
pail, the embrace and then the old lady wending her
way homeward.

For a week or more he watched Mary deliver the
pail, and he noted that she never varied three minutes
during the week, it was always eleven twenty- five to
eleven twenty-eight. He also noted that she' invari-
ably traversed the same route every night so he
decided that the Chelsea National was a fine "mark."

First of all the location was ideal. The elevated
trains rambled overhead all night long. Their noise
would detract from the noise and the explosions in
the vault, which would probably not be heard on the
outside as the interior of the bank was so huge.'
After midnight the streets were deserted save for an
occasional straggler on his way home, or a policeman
or two on their way to and from the Seventeenth
Precinct station house a block away.

"It's a big dump," said Jimmy when Blackey took
him down to look the job over.

"The largest bank in New York," replied Blackey.

"Got a Harlan Time Lock pete! in it?"

"Yes, Jimmy, a big one."

"One of them burglar-proof ones, I guess," laughed
Jimmy.

"Yep," continued Blackey, "just about as burglar-
proof as that one that we blasted open over in the
Arlington National Bank."

"What a noive those guys have got saying that
those time lock pete's are burglar-proof !" grunted
Jimmy.

"They have got a Pinkerton sign on the bank door."

"Do they think that the Pinkerton signs will keep
the grifters away from the jug?" inquired Jimmy.

"Possibly," retorted Blackey.

"Ha," grunted Jimmy. "That give's me a laugh.
They might as well stick a Uneeda biscuit sign on
the door."

"Now, now, Jimmy," remonstrated Blackey. "Get
the idea out of your head that the Pinkertons are a'
joke. The Pinks are clever fellows. The crooks
who figure that all dicks are boobs usually wind up
doing life on the instalment plan. As a matter of
fact, there are just as many clever dicks as there
are clever thieves. Don't forget that, old boy."

"I guess y're right," replied Jimmy.

Blackey looked up Sixth Avenue and spied the
ever-faithful and punctual Mary coming down the
street with the supper pail.

"Here she comes, Jimmy. Take a good look at
her. Note her walk and what she is wearing. We've
got to duplicate those clothes. Observe her closely,
because you're going to be Mrs. Reilly before 1 this
bank is robbed."

"What a fine looking broad I'll make !" laughed
Jimmy.

"And think of the nice kiss that the bank watchman
will give you when you hand him the supper paii I"
exclaimed Blackey.

"I'll kiss anything from a dingtf down to get op
the inside of that jug, believe me," Jimmy replied.

Mary was a perfectly methodical old Irish lady.
She never varied the gait and she always walked on
the same' side of the street. She always wore the
same little black bonnet, a black skirt and a little
brown shawl.

"And y' want me to git a rig to look like that
nice, little, gray-haired mom?"

"That's the idea," said Blackey.

"I got y'," said Timmy.

They followed Mary to her home on Tenth Avenue,
and then returned to the apartment.

"When do you figure on pulling this Chelsea job ?"
Jimmy inquired.

"Saturday night." replied Blackey.

"Saturday night?" repeated Jimmy. "Why Satur-
day night?"

"It's going to be a much harder job than the
Arlington Bank," said Blackey. "We mav require
more time, possibly ten or twelve hours. *If we tried
it anv other night, we might lose out."

"Why is it going to be harder than the! Arlington
job?"

"We've got a much bigger vault and a much bigger
safe to open. The Arlington vault was an old one,
while this vault in the Chelsea Bank is an up-to-date
one with a lot of gingerbread on it."

"What's gingerbread ?"

"Gingerbread," continued Blackey, "in the vernacu-
lar of the cracksman, -means clamps and wheels, extra
bolts and cross bars."

"You want to go up against it Saturday night so
that we can work on it Sunday if we have to, is that
the idea?"

"That's the idea," declared Blackey. "This is
Thursdav. We've got three days in which to get
ready. Go downtown in the morning, get your shawl,
skirt and bonnet, and don't forget the grey wig. If
any questions are asked, you can say that you're going
to impersonate an old woman in an amateur theatrical
performance."

MOVIE WEEKLY

The next day, Jimmy came home with the feminine 1
regalia, and Blackey rehearsed him in the part that
he had to play. He put him through the stunts for
three or four hours Friday and Saturday, so that
when Jimmy got ready Saturday night, he felt .like
an old lady sure enough.

"We've got to borrow an automobile for a while,
and I don't know of any better place to get one than
over in front of the Plaza," said Blackey.

Saturday night, about nine o'clock, they drove off
with a Cadillac coupe that they found on the Fifth
Avenue side of the Plaza Hotel.

Jimmy didn't get the idea of a car being necessary,
so he began to shoot questions at Blackey as they
rambled down Sixth Avenue. •

"Why the car; Blackey?"

"The car," replied Blackey, "is for Mrs. Reilly to
repose in after we've kidnapped her. When she
comes out of the house tonight we'll grab her, tie! her
up, gag her and then take the supper pail. You will
go to the bank and knock on the' door; when old
man Reilly opens the door, stick your gun in his
stomach and shove him inside."

Jimmy's face lighted up with a smile of under-
standing.

At eleven o'clock they were in the vicinity of the
Reilly home on Tenth Avenue. On her way to the
bank, the old lady had to pass a vacant lot. Blackey
pulled the car up in front of the lot and waited for
her to come along. About eleven-twenty she put in
an appearance. When she got in front of the lot,
Blackey stepped out of the car and picked her up in
his arms as she fought and scre'amed. Once inside
the car, they tied her up as gently as possible and
put a gag in her mouth.

"We won't hurt you, Mrs. Reilly," said Blackey
rather considerately. "Just keep quiet like a good old
lady and everything will be 1 all right."

At Twenty-fifth Street and Sixth Avenue, he
dropped Jimmy off with the supper pail. He smiled
as he looked at him walking up the avenue toward
the bank with the pail, the bonnet, the skirt, the wig
and the brown shawl. From a distance he certainly
looked like the real Mrs. Reilly,

He parked the car across the street from the bank
and hurried up the steps, as Reilly opened the bank
door. Before he had got to the door, Jimmy : had
stuck his gun in the watchman's stomach and pushed
him inside. They bound and gagged him immediately,
whereupon Blackey dashed out to the car, picked up
Mrs. Reilly and carried her into the bank.

Within ten minutes they were at work on the big
steel vault. Blackey bad just begun to drill it when
he noticed that one of the force cross bars wasn't
pushed into the socket, and upon investigating, he
found that the vault was open. The careless cashier
or some other official, evidently had forgotten to
lock it.

"Well, I'll be damned !" exclaimed Jimmy. "What
do y' think of that?"

"Just an accident." replied Blackey. "You might
go in a hundred banks and never find another vault
open. However, it means so much less work."

"Mavbe the pete's open," grunted Jimmy rather
excitedly^

"No such luck," snapped Blackey as he pulled open
the big vault door and stepped inside the vault. The
time lock pete was locked. Within a few minutes
Blackey had the first charge of the liquid explosive
in it and the first she'eting came flying off with a
crash and a dull, muffled like explosion.

As he was applying the sixth shot on the last
sheeting, Jimmy interrupted him. "What's that
noise?"

They hurried out of the vault to investigate, but
found nothing to warrant Jimmy's suspicions.

"What's the matter with you?" snapped Blackey.
"Are you getting rattled?"

"I could have sworn that I heard a noise," whis-
pered Jimmy.

Blackey got down on his knees in front of the
time lock pete and resumed his work. He noticed
that Jimmy ,was extremely nervous, and once or
twice he kidded him about it, saying : .

"I think this racket is too strong for your nerves,
Jimmy. I'll have to leave you home the! next time
I go out."

"Come on, come on," grunted Jimmy. "Quit your
kidding. It's some racket, but I guess I can stand it,
old pardner."

The sixth explosion blasted off the Jast sheeting
on the big door. There now remained the so-called
burglar-proof "kiester," the toughest part of the
whole job.

For an hour or more they applied shot after shot,
making twenty in all.

"One more shot, Jimmy, and it will be all over.
Hand me that "

Jimmy interrupted him again : «

"What the hell is that noise, Blackey?" he whis-
oered in a voice alive with emotion. "I tell y' I
heard something. I "

"Keep quiet !" barked Blackev as he got up off his
knees and started to put the light out in the vault.
"Are y "

Before he could finish the sentence, there was a
scream and the vault door was slammed too with a
terrific crash. They were caught in the vault ; caught
like rats in a trap.

(Continued next week)

MOVIE WEEKLY

Page Twenty-fivt

A Fiery Romance of Love

*» Qlpntanue'Bw

@ELUCTANTLY, his lips tightened in a
grim line to keep back the flood of pro-
test, Jerry turned in the direction the
officer indicated. And suddenly, from
the green bank just beyond the sign-
board a man sprang up — a man in the grayish
green uniform of a naval aviator.
"Terry!" he yelled.
"Pete!"

Inarticulate, joyous, they pumped each other's
arms up and down, babbling foolish nothings.
Three years stretched between them, and back
of these years were memories, hateful, tender,
gha'stly, humorous, poignant memories, crowding
one another breathlessly.

For a moment the officer looked on With kindly
indulgence. Then, "Sorry, lad, we'll have to be
movin'," he reminded.

Jerry's mind came back to the present and its
difficulties. "See here, Pete," he said. "Can
you get me out of this? You see, 1 borrowed
this cycle this morning, and — and they think I
was stealing it. I had to have it — matter of life
and death, almost, and I didn't stop to think —
I just jumped on and hit *er up — and now I'm

pinched, and "

"Same old Jerry!" broke in Pete. "You never
will grow up. Need a guardian worse than
ever I" He turned away from Jerry and addressed
the officer. "Listen, Pat," he said. "I'll vouch
for my friend here. He's reckless but he's not
a criminal. And when a man's covered as many
miles of the enemy's territory as he has. on
motorcycles, snatching anything in sight if his
own little machine got wrecked with a shell, it
gets to be second nature to grab something and
start, in an emergency. You see that, don't you ?"
"But we've had orders," began Pat, half-
heartedly, his sense of duty pitted against his
inclination. "I don't see how I can fix it up."

"You found this Indian, abandoned, by the
roadside. You picked it up. and ran it up to
headquarters. That's easy enough."

"Well, of course, you being an officer, and
known to us all down here, makes a difference.

But you know if it ever got out "

"It won't," both cut in, in joyous concert.
"Well, my life's in your hands," he declared
and mounted the cycle. "Better than walkin', I'll
say," he yelled back at them.

"Well, that's that\" said Lieutenant Peter Fen-
ton. "Let's, sit down here and talk. I was wait-
ing for somebody to come along and give me a
lift". And to think you should come by ! Thinking
of you just this morning."

"Lord ! I've shut my eyes a million times and
seen old Dunkeque," sighed Jerry. "Those nights
you took me up with you — sailing with the clouds,
flirting- with the moon, leaving all the awful,
bloody mess 'way down below, so far it seemed
for a blessed little while as if it wasn't there at
all ! And you're still in ?"

"Yep. Naval Air Station. Rockaway. Rode
up here this afternoon with a guy who suddenly
developed a craze to go to town, and dumped me
here to catch a ride back. Along comes you.
Well, let's hike down to the station. Don't mind
walking when I have company. I'll show you my
place and we'll have dinner and then I'll give you
a nice little ride up to the moon."

"But I can't. Pve got to find a girl that "

"Oh, Jerry, Jerry, Jerry!" Forget it for once.
A girl, of course ! Can't you let her have one
solitary evening? Do her good. Like you all
the better tomorrow night."
"Oh, shut up. Nothing like that. Listen !"
Breathlessly he- poured out the story of his day.
By the time he finished his listener was rocking
with unholy glee.

"You poor nut!" he chuckled. "Don't you see
the way it was? You need a guardian just as
much as you ever did. That girl wasn't being
kidnapped, my child. She was eloping."

"Eloping? Nonsense! Does a man grab a girl
by the hair and drag her into a car to elope with
her?"

"Certainly he does, if it is to lend plausibility
to a thing that has been planned. Did she show
any fright, any nervousness? You said yourself
she didn't. Did she let you take her home? She

rail

synopsis

Doris Dalrymple, beautiful screen star, matte a
young nun, Jerry Grlswold, farmer Midler, who
Is now out of work. He Mill of his ambitions
and the sympathizes with him.

She then starts hack to where her company Is
staging the nest scene, and Jerry, following her
with his eyes, sees her picked up by a man In a
yellow racer and thinks she Is kidnapped, tn
reality, she Is merely taken up by one of the
players In a scene they are working on, but Jerry,
not knowing this, steals a motorcycle standing
near and follows the yellow car.

Doris and her companion stop their car and
the man goes into a store, while Jerry following
on his machine, perceives his advantage, and
snatching Doris, dashes away just as Jimpsey
comes ont of the doorway. He also thinks Doris
Is being kidnapped and, in turn follows the fleeing
motorcycle,

Jerry, eluding Jimpsey, brings Doris to the city
and she leaves him at a corner, refusing to allow
him to see her home. He is on the point of turn-
ing away, when Doris is snatched into a big, blue
car standing on the side street, which immediately
dashes off, with Jerry in grim pursuit.

Jerry, still following Is arrested for speeding
and loses the blue car entirely.

Doris Is taken to a lighthouse on a lonely
island, where the wife of the lighthouse keeper
recognises her as a motion picture star, and sees
that they have kidnapped the wrong girl.

She is treated kindly but after supper is told
that she must be locked in her room. Later she
escapes from the window and hides, down on the
beach, where she sees another girl whose motor
boat has run out of gas and they plan to steal
some from the lighthouse.
■ Jerry, in the meantime is arrested for having
stolen the motorcycle. He tries to explain to the
policemen but the latter refuses to listen.

IIIIIIffllllllllllllllM

did not ! She knew the man would be waitlng_ in
the offing for her — and he was. You saw him.
Cheer up ! The beautiful maiden is now with
her clever and resourceful lover."

"But why didn't she tell me, then ?"

"My gentle, trusting lad, sometime it will dawn
on your youthful mind that the female of the
species always has a little time to play around
with a handsome hero who's smitten with her
charm. Now think it over. Was the girl scared
or nervous or upset ? Wasn't she sitting all alone
in the little yellow car, calmly, waiting for her
abductor to come back and go on abducting her?
Would she have insisted on leaving your knightly
protection and walking home alone if she hadn't
been expecting, rather than fearing someone?"

"But she was such a nice girl !" Jerry pro-
tested stubbornly.

"I grant you that. Nice girls have been known
to elope. Come along and eat and go for a little
spin down the milky way."

"Oh, all right!" consented Jerry, falling into
step beside his friend. Probably old Pete was
right, he thought. What a fool he'd been not to
see through it. And yet — and yet

The brown eyes of the girl seemed to be look-
ing at him through their curling fringe of lashes,
wistfully, reproachfully. Almost, he could hear
her voice calling, and its sweetness held a note
of fear and dread.

It was pleasant down at Rockaway, meeting a
bunch of young officers, dining at a table that
overlooked a bay where white sails drifted lazily
on a tinted sea, where motor-craft scudded rest-
lessly up and down, where a hydroplane lettered
U-24 waited serenely for its chance to forsake
the opalescent waters for the rainbow-hued skies.-

"Jove, but it's good to see you again !" declared
Jerry— and thought how exactly that western
cloud bank matched his rose-girl's frock.

"That chap can sure make his guitar talk!"
he declared again— and remembered how the rose-
girl's laughter had rippled out with just that
cunning, tinkly sound.

Even when the plane, under the skillful hands

of Lieutenant Fenton, soared to its place among
the stars, the spirits of Jerry refused to soar with
it. His body sat beside his chum, his lips prattled
restlessly of old days and old adventures, but his
mind remained below, wondering, searching, lis-
tening, unable to free itself from doubt and
apprehension.

Below them the waters darkened to a grayish
blue. Lights came out everywhere. Long rows
of jewels girdling the curving shores; flaming
eruptions of beach resorts; rosy squares of radi-
ance that spelled homes. Far out on a tower a
blazing eye began to wink with monotonous
rhythm. '

• "Graystone Light," said Fenton, circling above
it. "I used to drop down there occasionally, throw
off an anchor and fish awhile. Nice smooth water
on the east, but a nasty lot of submerged rocks
on the other side. Jolly, sociable chap was there
for awhile and his wife would cook the fish and
bake some potatoes. But a new man was ap-
pointed and he enforces the 'no landing' injunc-
tion to the letter. Surly looking villain. Think
of a man choosing to live a life like that !"

"Good place for one who longs for peace,"
said Jerry absently. Again, his mind had gone
to the girl. He could not shake off the feeling
of having failed her. For once, he was glad
when ' his friend announced that it was time to
get back to headquarters and brought the plane,
like a homing gull, to its abiding place.

"Come oh up to my room. I've got a . pretty
good radio outfit and we can listen in on the
universe," invited Fenton. "You may as well stay
here with me. There's an extra cot."

"Thanks. But — of course. I'm a fool " he

hesitated, and Fenton smiled indulgently.

"Yes. of course you're a fool," he agreed with
cheerful composure. "You feel that you should
go roaming up and down the island looking for
the eloping lady. Well, wait until morning.
Things look different by daylight. This moon is
enough to make any man foolish."

Up in Fenton's room Jerry moved restlessly
about while his friend made an attachment or
two. pressed a lever, turned a knob, adjusted, a
headpiece, scowled, made another adjustment,
then. settled contentedly to listen.

"Just dot-and-dash stuff now," he said, reach-
ing for pad and pencil. I'll let you know when
any phone stuff comes through. We get a lot
of it a little later, lectures and jazz and "

He broke off, and began to scowl, evidently
concentrating on something. There was about
him an air of suppressed excitement which com-
municated itself to the restless Jerry, who paused
in his pacing the room and watched intently.

"By Jove !" muttered Fenton, once. And then,
"of all the unbelievable . . . hm-m-m-m . . . who'd
think . . . Great Scott!"

He sprang to his feet, looking at Jerry with a
curious intensity. "It Sounds too wild to be
true," he said, "but I believe I've found your girl.
Yes— wait. That was Graystone Light sending.
I know their call— KCKW. I knew the. other
fellow had a set out there. Evidently this guy
can work it. He was sending to someone who
was watching out for the message, of course.
I'll say he took a chance, for anyone on the same
wave length can get it. But there's one chance

Page Turemtf'StM

in a million of anyone picking it up who would. know
what he meant."

"Well, what did he mean? What did he say?" de-
manded Jerry.

"He said, 'Mistake made. Have wrong girl. She
knows too much to make release safe. What shall I
do?' Something tells me, old man, that it's your little
friend he's referring to," .

"Something tells me I'm going after her now!" yelled
Jerry, starting for the door.

"But look here, you can'tl It's "army property; It
can't be done! I can't let you!" Fenton was dashing,
after Jerry, throwing the sentences out in sharp little
explosions.

"You can't stop me, you mean," Jerry shouted back. He
was in the row boat now, sending it with swift strokes
out toward the plane.

"Don't be a mad fool! You'll ruin me," danced Fenton
on the shore.

"I won't hurf the plane. Bring it back before morn-
ing," retorted Jerry, casting the boat adrift as he leaped
into the hydroplane.

F the girl in- the motor boat was a surprise to
Doris, Doris herself was no less a surprise
to her visitor. She had changed back to her
own clothing before her escape from the room,
so she stood now; a dainty . winsome thing in
the pink frock which had somehow escaped
rents or smudges, holding out a hand to help
her amazing visitor from the boat.

"Who are you? Where did you come from? What
are you here for? Can we get away?" The questions
tumbled from the lips of Doris in an anxious flood. The
.other girl laughed . a little.

"Jean Martin. Came from home — over there on the
South Shore. Was out, like a fool, without gas enough.
Had .to row with the tide. Thought I could get gas
here. We can't get away without it. Now, I've told it
all. What about you? Sitting on a rock at midnight
f in mid-ocean, looking like a debutante at an afternoon
tea. I always understood mermaids wore pale green arid
had sea-weed hair, and — and distinctly not two silk-
stockinged legs!"

In spite of her anxiety, Doris laughed. There was
something very fresh and wholesome about, the girl,
feminine to her finger tips in spite of the knickers and
tie dark, rough Norfolk coat.

"I like you!" declared Doris. "I'm Doris Dalrymple,
and "

But she got no further than that. The girl gave a
little, ecstatic cry of interruption. "Of course you are!
I knew I had seen you before — but how could I think
where? Would anyone expect to find their favoritest,
adorablest star cast up on an island without so much
as a Man Friday in sight?. And I've been blaming the
devil because my gas gave out! It was an act of Provi-
dence ! I don't care if we never leave here."

"You will when I tell you. We're in danger— really
awful danger, I'm afraid. If we can't do any better,
We must get in your boat and row away."

"We can't row toward land in the face of the tide, and
it's a bit precarious for two lone females to row out
to open sea without so much as a sandwich or a flask
between 'em. What's the danger, anyhow? Pirates in
the lighthouse? Do'they keep a bear to eat little girls?"

"It isn't a joke." Briefly, hurriedly, Doris outlined
the events of her day. "They must have been after
a rich girl, to hold for ransom, you see," she finished.
"And by some mistake they got me. And now they're
afraid to keep me and afraid to let me go. If it hadn't
been for the woman, I know that man would have "

She broke off, shuddering, on the verge of collapse
now that someone had come to share the burden, after
her lone . hours of solitary fear and dread. And in-
stantly Jean Martin proved herself a person of decision
and of action.

"Here, here," she said, with brisk authority, "don't
lose your nerve now, after you've been so wonderful.
As you say, we can row out to Sea. Somebody'd
pick us up, of course. My folks think I'm spend : ng the
night with a friend, but in the morning they'll find
out, and there'll be a fleet of boats searching the sound.
But we've got to have some water, at least. Is there
a well on the island?"

"The pump is in the kitchen. I could see it from the
table where I ate my supper. And I remember a small
can marked gasoline on the balcony," she finished. "Oh,
and I quite forgot! The man's boat! We could take it."

"Not one chance in a hundred I could run it— I'm
just an amateur, not supposed to go out alone. Then
we'd have to take the chance of being seen crossing the
rocks and getting down to it. And it may be low in
gas. No, I'd rather trust to rowing my own little ship.
But this gas on the balcony— that's our best stunt. If
we can get that— how big is the can?"

"A gallon I think. But it may not be full of course.
I just happened to notice it. And I don't see how we
can get it. That man may be awake— he's such an
awful beast! It would be better to row," she finished
desperately.

"Now look here, child. I know something about boats
and the sea, and the weather. It's going to storm toi-
morrow— notice how the moon flashes in and out of the
clouds tonight? It's going to be noon probably before
anybody realizes I've disappeared with my little boat.
And lastly, you evil friend here may have the brilliant
idea of starting out with his little motor to find us,
and I wouldn't put it past Fate to send him skittering
straight down on our trail. I don't seem tq fancy meet-
ing up with him on a solitary sea! No, the least
hazardous thing is for me to go up after the gas. If
the can is even half full I can make shore."

"No," Once more Doris was her resourceful, intrepid
self. "If either of us goes, I'm the one. I know exactly
where the can is, so I can find it instantly. I can take
advantage of the moon's absence under a cloud, where
you'd have to wait for light. And then I'm accustomed
to climbing and crawling and making all sorts of get-
aways." ' ,

"I'll say you are! To think of the nights I've lain
awake, imagining myself in a thrilling picture with you.
Wishing I could take part in any wild and thrilly
scene. And now I'm doing it, and it's real life instead
of reel life, if you get what I mean."

"I do," laughed Doris. "Well, I'll start now. I'll

get the gas, and if the kitchen is open, shall I try for
water?"

"M-m-m," considered the girl. "You can't pump it, of
course, they'd hear. No, if the can seems to be even
half full of gas just make your getaway with it. Don't
take any chances."
"I'll take off these silly, clattering pumps." Doris said.
"Look here!" A sudden inspiration had seized Jean.
"You'd do a lot better in these things of mine. Climb
easier,- and everything. Then if the man should"- wake
and see you, it would throw him off his trail. He'd
think it was .a boy, be dazed — and — don't you see?"
she finished, excited and eager.

"I believe you're hoping ne'll wake up! I hereby
engage you to write my next serial," declared Doris.
Youth had resumed its sway of courage and optimism
in . the hearts of tire two girls. Hurrying, trembling
with eagerness, even giggling a little, they made the
exchange. Then Doris, a slim, boyish figure now, set
. forth on her expedition, while the moon was hidden by
a friendly cloud. Jean in the pink frock, seated herself
in the boat.

"I'll be all ready to push off if you come back with
the villain pursuing you," she said gaily.

The moon hid its face until Doris reached . the top
of the ladder, then came out again. In its light she
could see the cann setting on the floor of the balcony.
So she picked up the can and was almost back to the
ladder when a sound within the house brought her. to
a stop, while a fear which was absolutely paralyzing
for the moment, clutched at her whole being.

A heavy step was crossing the floor of the room just
inside, coming straight toward her!

Like a flash came the impulse to drop the can and
dart down the ladder, but her ready wit came to her
rescue. He would see jier, would overtake her ...

Quickly she turned toward the man who came strid-
ing toward her. She hung her head, with its rough
cap pulled well down over her bright hair, as if she
were afraid to meet his eyes.

"I'm sorry, mister," she said, "I got stalled, and I
needed gas, and I come up and seen this— I meant to
bring it back to you, honest I did."
"Hm-m-m. Where's your boat?" demanded the man.
"Down by that little pebbly place. If you'll just let
me take the can of gas I'll return it within twenty-
four hours."

"I'll go down and fill your tank. Then you won't
have to return the can, and of course, you're welcome
to a bit of gas.

Doris felt her heart go plunk into the rubber-soled,
bovish shoes she wore. Bravely she sparred for time.

"Thank you, sir. I wonder if you'd be so good as
to give rae a can of water? I spilled all I had."
"Sure. Come in and pump it in the kitchen."
There was nothing to do but follow him into the
kitchen. So far, he seemed to suspect nothing. He
struck a match, and lighted a lamp while Doris crossed
to the pump, turned her back to him and began working
the pump handle experimentally.

"I'll give you a fruit jar with a tight cover," he
•offered good-naturedly. '"I know what it is to go fish-
ing all night. . The missus has some up here on the
top shelf of the closet."

There was a big closet at one side of the kitchen. He
lifted a wooden chair into it, and stood on it, exploring,
his head thrust forward, absorbed in his quest. And
Doris, daring to look now that his back was turned,
suddenly saw something that sent her forward on swift,
silent little feet.
The closet door had a heavy bolt!
Tt was the work of a second to slam the door shut
and slip the bolt into place. Doris, chuckling with glee,
filled a pail with water, took the can of gasoline and
ran back across the rocks, exulting over the story she
had to tell.

Down to the little beach she sped, watching her steps
so carefully that she noticed nothing amiss until she
stood on the pebbles where the boat had .lain. There
she stopped, rubbing her eyes, unable to believe what
they told her..
"Why— why— it can't' be!" she said aloud.
For the girl was gone. The boat was gone. There
was absolutely nothing within sight but the gray
stretches of water, and the jagged outlines of rocks.

HERE was not the slightest doubt in Jerry
Oriswbld's mind, as he took his impetuous
flight through the air, that the Fates were
smiling on him. What he had taken for
bad luck had really proven to be the best
possible fortune. If he hadn't found old Pete
he wouldn't have had access to a plane, nor
heard the message that had gone singing through the
air. All was well! He didn't know just how he was to
get the girl off the island, but a way would open— ways
always did open for him.

So triumphant, exulting, he came to a point above the
tower, and circled it, low enough to enable him to scan
everything closely.

There — it was too incredibly, miraculously wonderful
to be true!— she sat, in a tiny cove on the eastern
side of the island, in a boat, oars in hand, as if waiting
for him. Yes, she was looking up now, and waving a
white arm.

He shut off the engine and descended soundlessly, as
near as he dared. "Row out here, quick," he called
softly.

"Wait. I have to bring the other girl," her voice
came back.

"Wait nothing! Every second counts. Do as I tell
you. I know what I'm about. There's a light just
gone on in the lower floor of the lighthouse. Come on."

Instantly the girl put out to him with swift steady
strokes. And just then the moon decided to slip out
of sight. "Not too close," he warned. "Creep along—
thaft's it. Now!"

"But we've got to wait," she protested, "you see "

"I e that I'm here to take care of you," he inter-
rupter,. "You can talk after you're in here with me."

Swift and sure as a bird the plane skimmed
the water, rose and was off, up and up, to the stars,
she thought,, gasping in the new sensations of her. flight,
Utterly Unable to speak, in those first dizzying minutes.

The moon decided to show her face in a dazzling fare-

MOVIE WEEKLY

well for the night. The girl laid a trembling hand on
Jerry's arm.

"Please," she begged, and he turned his head now to
look full at her face, illumined in the white moonlight,

"My Godl" he cried out sharply. "Who are you?"

(Continued next wteh)

Procuring "Props"

If you ever get a brand new job procuring
the "props" for a property man, see to it that you
haven't had any of the stuff out of your hip
pocket — or elsewhere. Otherwise you'll think
you're seeing things when you look at the list
the property man hands you.

This is a list of "props" requisitioned from the
Goldwytt art department one day — you'd never
credit an art department with these supplies.
But here they are :

One picked chicken, with a few feathers left.

One flashy, striped Ford.

House flies and cobwebs.

Baggage — Turkish, Hindu, Greek, Dutch, and
Russian.

Four beef shin bones. One rib — no meat on it.

One Irish bagpipe.

One monkey to pick fleas from a dog.

One string of garlic; three pounds of liver.

Five loaves of mildewed bread.

Soap bubbles. Must be at least two feet in
diameter.

One dead cat.

Where to Find

Your Favorite

Helen Ferguson and Bryant Washburn are finish-
ing work in Goldwyn's "Hungry Hearts."

Lon Chaney has recently finished portraying a
dual role in Goldwyn's "Blind Bargain," formerly
titled "The Octave of Claudius." Jacqueline Logan
and Raymond McKee are among the supporting cast.

Lee Moran, comedian, has left Universal to be
his own boss and have his own producing unit with
the Century Comedies Company.

* * *

James Rennie, husband of Dorothy Gish, is playing
opposite Helene Chadwick in Goldwyn's "The Dust
Flower," a Basil King story. Mona Kingsley and
Edward Peil are among the 1 cast.

* * »

Gareth Hughes' present starring picture for S-L is
named "Adventures of a Ready Letter Writer." Bar-
tine Burkett, a recent "find," is Gareth's leading

Unive'rsal's all-star production of Hal Reid's fam-
ous old play, "Hungry Hearts," is being directed by
King Baggot. The strong cast includes Rouse Peters,
Russel Simpson, Mary Philbin, George Hackathorne,
Gertrude Claire, Lucretia Harris and George West.

Frank Mayo is in Arizona on location for de'sert
scenes in Universale "Slipper Tongue." Virginia
Valli is playing opposite the star.
* * *

Harry Carey has just finished his latest starring
picture for Universal, "Man to Man." Lillian Rich
was Carey's leading woman in this picture.

The all-star cast for Paramount's "Is Matrimony
a Failure?" include's T. Roy Barnes, Walter Hiers,
Lila Lee, Lois Wilson, ZaSu Pitts, Sylvia Ashton,
Otis Harlan, Lillian Leighton and Tully Marshall.

Jack Mulhall is playing opposite Constance Binney
in her current starring picture for Realart, and
Edythe Chapman and Bertram Grassby are in sup-
porting roles.

* * *

Wanda Hawley's next picture for Realart will be
an adaptation of a Saturday Evening Post story and
will have a golfing theme.

* » *

Bob Ellis is playing opposite Marie Prevost in
her newest starring picture for Universal, wioamedl
as yet.

MOVIE WEEKLY

Page Twenty-seven

THE TRIUMPH OF LOVE

"The Business of Life"

{Continued from page 10)

armchair and laughed until Jacqueline's unwilling smile
began to glimmer in her wrath-darkene i eyes,

'•Don't torment me. Cynthia" she said. "You know

quite well that it's a business matter with me entirely."

"Was it a business matter with that Dawley man?

You had to get me to go with you into that den of

his whenever you went at all."

Jacqueline shrugged and resumed her knitting: "What
a horrid thing he was," she murmured,

Cynthia assented philosophically: "But most: men
bother a girl sooner or later," she concluded. "You
don't read about it in novels, but it's tru.;. Go down
town and take dictation for a living. It's an educa-
tion in how to look out for yourself."

"It's a roten state of things," said Jacqueline under
her breath.

"Yes, It's funny, too. So many men are that way.
What do they care? Do you suppose we'd be that way,
too, if we were men?"

"No. There are nice men, too."

"Yes— dead ones,"

"Nonsense I"

"With very few exceptions, Jacqueline. There are
horrid, horrid ones, . and mice, horrid ones, arid dead
ones and dead ones— but only a few nice nice ones.
I've known some, You think your Mr. Desboro is one,
don't you?"

"I haven't thought about him^—

"Honestly, Jacqueline?"

"I tell you I haven't! He s nice to me. That s all
I know."

"Is he too nice?" .

"No, Besides, he's under his own roof. And it
depends on a girl, anyway."

"Not always.. If we behave ourselves we're dead
opes; if we don't we'd better be. Isn't it a rotten deal,
Jacqueline! Just one fresh man after another dropped
into the discard because he gets too gay. And being
employed by the kind who'd never marry us spoils us
for the others. You could marry one of your clients,
I suppose, but I never could in a million years,"

"You and I will never marry such men," said Jacque-
line coolly. "Perhaps we wouldn't if they asked us."

"You might. You're educated and bright, and— you
look the part, with all the things you know— and your
trips to Europe— and the kind of beauty yours is, Why
not? If I were you," she added, "I'd kill a man who
thought me good enough to hold hands with, but not
good enough to marry."

"I don't hold hands," observed Jacqueline scorn-
fully. '••■'•*

"1 do. I've done it when it was all right; and Pre
done it when I had no business to; and the chances
are I'll do' it again without getting hurt. And then I'li
finally marry the sort of man you call Ed,'.' she added
disgustedly.

Jacqueline laughed, and looked intently at her; ' You're
so pretty, Cynthia— and so silly sometimes."

Cynthia stretched her young figure full length in the
chair, yawning and crooking both arms back under her
curly brown head. Her eyes, too, were brown, and had
in them always a half-veiled languor that few men
could encounter undisturbed. ,

"A week ago," she said, "you told me over the tele-
phone that you would be at the dance- I never laid
eyes on you,"

"J came home too tired. It was my first day at
Silverwood. I overdid it, I suppose."

"Silverwood?"

"Where I go to business in Westchester," she ex-
plained patiently.

"Oh, Mr. Desboro's place!" with laughing malice.

"Yes, Mr. Desboro's place."

The hint of latent impatience in Jacqueline's voice
was not lost on Cynthia; and she resumed her torment-
ing inquisition:

"How long is it going to take you to catalogue Mr.
Desboro's collection?"

"I have several weeks' work. I think— I don't know
exactly."

"All winter, perhaps?"

"Possibly."

"Read the Tattler, dearest."

Jacqueline was visibly annoyed: "He has happened
to be, so far. I believe he is going South very soon—
if that interests you."

" 'Phone me when he goes," retorted Cynthia, unbe-
lievingly.

"What makes you say such things!" exclaimed Jacque.
line. "I tell you he isn't that kind of a man.

"Read the Tattler, dearest"

"I won't,"

"Don't you ever read it?"

"No. Why should I?"

"Curiosity."

"I haven t any."

Cvnthia laughed incredulously:

"People who have no curiosity are either idiots or
they have already found out. Now, you are not an
idiot."

Jacqueline smiled: "And I haven't found out, either,"

''Then you're just as full of curiosity as the rest
of us."

"Not of unworthy curiosity "

"I never knew a good person who wasn't. I'm good,
am I not, Jacqueline?"

"Of course."

"Well, then, I'm full of all kinds of curiosities-
worthy and unworthy. I want to know about every-
thing!"

"Everything good."

"Good and bad, God lets both 'exist. I want to
know about them."

"Why be curious about what is bad? It doesn't con-
cern us."

"If you know what concerns you only, you'll never
know anything. Now, when I read a newspaper I read
about fashionable weddings, millionaires, shows, mur-
ders—I read everything— not because I'm goinj to be
fashionably married, or become a millionaire or a
murderer, but because all these- things exist and hap-
pen, and I want to know all about them because I'm
not an idiot, and I haven't alreaay round out. And
so that's why I buy the Tattler whenever I have five
cents to spend on it!"

"It's a pity you're not raor" curious about things
worth while," commented Jacqueline serenely.

Cynthia reddened: "Dear, I haven't the education or
brain, to be interested in the things that occupy you."

"I didn't mean that," protested Jacqueline, embar-
rassed. "I only "

"I know, dear. You are too sweet to say it; but it's
true. The bunch you play with knows it. We all
realize that you are way ahead of us— that you're dif-
ferent "

"Please don't say that— or think it,"

"But it's true. You really belong with the others—"
she made a gay little gesture— "over mere in the Fifth
Avenue district, where art gets gay with fashion; where
lady highbrows wear tiaras; where the Jims and Jacks
and Reggies float about and hand each other new ones
between quarts; where you belong, darling— wherever
you finally land!'

Jacqueline was laughing: "But I don't wish to land
there! I never wanted to."

"All girls do! We all dream about it!"

"Here is one girl who really doesn't. Of course,
I'd like to have a few friends of that kind. I'd rather
like to visit houses where nobody has to think of money,
and where young people are jolly, and educated, and
dress well, and talk about interesting things — -"

"Dear, we all would like it. That's what I'm saying.
Only there's a chance for you because you know some-
thing—but none for us. We understand that perfectly
' well— and we dream on all the same. We'd miss a lot
if we d'dn't dream."

Jacqueline said mockingly: "I'll invite you to my
Fifth Avenue residence the minute I marry what you
call a Reggie."

"I'll come if you'll stand for me. I'm not afraid of
anv Reggie in the bench show!"

They laughed; Cynthia stretched out a lazy hand for
another chocolate; Jacqueline knitted, the smile still
hovering on her scarlet lips.

Bending over her work, she said: "You won't mis-
understand when I tell you how much I enjoy being
at Silverwood, and how nice Mr. Desboro has been."

"Has been.'

"Is, and surely will continue to be," insisted Jacque-
line tranquilly. "Shall I tell you about Silverwood?"

Cynthia nodded.

"Well, then, Mr. Desboro has such a funny old
housekeeper there, who gives me 'magic drops' on
lumps of sugar. The drops are aromatic and harmless,
so I take them to please her. And he has an old, old
butler,, who is too feeble to be very useful; and an old,
old armourer, who comes once a week and potters about
with a bit of chamois: and a parlor ma'd who is sixty -
and wears glasses; and a laundress still older.. And a
whole troop of dogs and cats come to luncheon with
us. Sometimes the butler goes to sleep in the pantry,
and Mr. Desboro and I sit and talk. And if he doesn't
wake up, Mr. Desboro hunts about for somebody to
wait on us. Of course there are other servants there,
and farmers and gardeners, too. Mr. Desboro has a
great deal of land. And so," she chattered on quite
happily, "we go skating for half an hour after lunch
before I resume my cataloguing. He skates very well
we are learning to waltz on skates "

"Who does the teaching?"

"He does. I don't skate very well; and unless it were
for him I'd have such tumbles. And once we went
cleighing— that is, he drove me to the station— in rather
a roundabout way. And the country was so beautiful!
And the stars— oh, millions and millions, Cynthia! It
was as cold as the North Pole, but I loved it— and I
had on his other fur coat and gloves. He is very nice
to me, I wanted you to understand the sort of man
he is."

"Perhaps he is the original hundredth man," re-
marked Cynthia skeptically,

"Most men are hundredth men when the nine and
ninety girls behave themselves. It's the hundredth girl
whn makes the 'ine and ninety men horrid."

"That's what you believe, is it?"

"I do."

"Dream on, dear." She went to a glass, pinned her
pretty hat. slipped into the smart fur coat that Jacque-
line held for her, and began to draw on her gloves.

"Can't you stay to dinner," asked Jacqueline.

"Thank you, sweetness, but I'm dining at the Beaux
Arts." . ••■ .

. "With any people I know?"

"You don't know that particular 'people'," said Cynthia,
smiling, "but you know a friend of his."

"Who?" ■ .

"Mr, Desboro."

"Really!" she said, coloring.

Cynthia frowned at her: "Don't become sentimental
over that young man!"

"No, of course not."

"Because I don't think he's very much good."

"He is — but I won't," explained Jacqueline laughing.
"I ''now quite well how to take care of myself."
. "Do you?"

"Yes; don't you?"

"I— don't — know."

"Cynthia! Of course you know!"

"Do I? Well, perhaps I do. Perhaps all girls know
how to take care of themselves. But sometimes — espe-

cially when their home life is the limit " She hesi-
tated, slowly twisting a hairpin through the button-
hole of one glove. Then she buttoned it decisively.
"When things got so bad at home two years ago, and
I went with that show— you didn't see it— you were
in mourning— but it ran on Broadway all winter. And
I met one or two Reggies at suppers, and another man
—the' same sort — only his name happened to be Jack—
and I want to tell you it was hard work not to like
him."

Jacqueline stood, slim and straight, and silent, lis-
' tening unsmilingly.

Cynthia went on leisurely:

"He was a friend of Mr. Desboro— the same kind
of man, I suppose. That's why I read the Tattler—
to see what they say about him.'

"Wh-what do they say?"

"Oh, things — funny sorts of things, about his being
attentive to this girl, and being seen frequently with
that girl. I don't know what they mean exactly — they
always make it sound queer— as though all the men
and women in society are fast. And this man, too —
perhaps he is." '

"But what do you care, dear?"

"Nothing. It was hard work not to like him. You
don't understand how it was; you've always lived at
home. But home was hell for me and I was getting
fifteen per; and it grew horribly cold that winter. 1
had no fire. Besides — it was so hard not to like him.
I used to come to see you. Do you remember how I
used to come here and cry?"

"I — I thought it was because you had been so tin-'
happy at home."

"Partly. The rest was— the other thing."

"You did like him, then!"

"Not — too much."

"I understand that. But it's over now, isn't it?"

Cynthia stood idly turning her muff between her
white-gloved hands.

"Oh, yes," she said, after a moment, "it's over. But
I'm thinking how nearly over it was with me, once or
twice that winter. I thought I. knew how to take care
of myself. But a girl never knows, Jacqueline. Cold,
hunger, debt shabby clothes, are bad enough; loneli-
ness is worse. Yet, these are not enough, by themselves.
But if we like a man, with all that to worry over —
then it's pretty hard on us."

"How could you cure for a bad man?"

"Bad? Did I say he was? I meant he was like other
men. A girl becomes accustomed to men."

"And likes them, . notwithstanding?"

"Some of them. It depends. If you like a man, you
seem to like him anyhow. You may get angry, too,
and still like him. There's so much of the child in
them, I've learned that. They're bad; but when you
like one of them, he seems to belong to you, somehow
— badness and all, I must be going, dear."

Still, neither moved; Cynthia idly twirled her muff;
Jacqueline, her slender hands clasped behind her, stood
gazing silently at the floor. ■

Cynthia said: "That's the trouble with us all. I'm
afrpid you like this man, Desboro. I tell you that he
isn't much good; but if you already like him, you'll go
on liking him, no matter what I say or what he does.
For it's that way with us, Jacqueline. And where in
the world would men find a living soul to excuse them
if it were not for us? That seems to be about all we're
for — to forgive men what they are — and what they do."

"I don't forgive them," said Jacqueline fiercely;
" — or women, either."

"Oh, nobody forgives women! But you will find
excuses for some man some day — if you li.ke him, I
guess even the best of. them require it. But the general
run of them have got to have excuses made for them,
or no woman would stand for her own honeymoon, and
marriages would last about a week. Good-bye, dear."

They kissed.

At the head of the stairs outside, Jacqueline kissed
her again.

"How is the play going?" she inquired.

"Oh, it's going."

"Is there any chance for you to get a better part?"

"No chance I care to take. Max Schindler is like
all the rest of them."

Jacqueline's features betrayed her wonder and dis-
gust, but she said nothing and presently Cynthia turned
and started down the stairs,

"Good-night,, dear," she called back, with a gay little
flourish of her muff. "They're all alike — only we always
forgive the one we care for!"

— ■ N Monday, Desboro waited all the morning for
her, meeting every train. At noon, she had
not arrived. Finally, he called up her office
and was informed that Miss Nevers had been
detained in town on business, and that their
Mr, Kirk had telephoned him that morning
to that effect.

He asked to speak to Miss Nevers personally; she
had gone out, it appeared, and might not return until
the middle of the afternoon.

So Desboro went home in his car and summoned Far-
ris, the aged butler, who was pottering about in the
greenhouses, t which he much preferred to attending to
his own business,

"Did anybody telephone this morning?" asked the
master.

Fai-ris "had forgotten to mention it — was very sorry
— and stood like an aged hound, head partly lowered
and averted, already blinking under the awaited repri-
mand. But all Desboro said was:

"Don't do it again, Farris; there are some thing I
won't overlook."

He sat for a while in the library where a sheaf of
her notes lay on the table beside a pile of books — Gren-
bille, Vanderdyne, Herrara's splendid folios— just as
she had left them on Saturday afternoon for the long,
happy sleigh-ride that ended just in time for him to
swng her aboard her train.

He had plenty to do beside sitting there with keen,
gray eyes fixed on the pile of manuscript she had left
unfinished; he always had plenty to do, and seldom
did it.

His first impulse had been to go to town. Her ab-
sence, was making the place irksome. He went to the
long ▼windows and stoods there hands in his pockets,
smoking and looking out over the familiar landscape—

Page Twenty-eight

a rolling country, white with snow, naked branches glit-
tering with ice under the gilded blue of a cloudless sky,
and to the north and west, low, wooded mountains —
really nothing more than hills, but impressively steep
and blue in the distance.

A woodpecker, one of the few feathered winter rest-
dents, flickered through the trees, flashed past, and
clung to an oak, sticking motionless to the bark for
a minute or two, bright eyes inspecting Desboro, be-
fore beginning a rapid, jerky exploration for .sustenance.

The master of Silverwood watched him, theti, hands
driven deeper into his pockets, strolled away, glancing
aimlessly at familiar objects— the stiff and rather pic-
turesque portraits of his grandparents in the dress of
1820; the atrocious portraits of his parents in the
awful costume of 1870; his own portrait, life size, mounted
on a pony.

He stood looking at the funny little boy, with the
half contemptuous, half curious interest which a man
in the pride of his strength and youth sometimes feels
for the absurdly clothed innocence of what he was.
And, as usual when noticing the picture, he made a
alight, involuntary effort to comprehend that he had
been once' like that; and could not.

At the end of the library, better portraits hung—
his great-grandmother, by Gilbert Stuart, still fresh-
colored and clear under the dim yellow varnish which
veiled but could not wither the delicate complexion and
ardent mouth, and the pink rosebud set where the folds
of her white kerchief crossed on her breast.

Arid there was her husband, too, by an unknown or
forgotten painter— the sturdy member of the Provincial
Assembly, and major in Colonel Thomas's Westchester
Regiment— a fine old fellow in his queue-ribbon and
powdered hair standing in the conventional fortress
port-hole, framed by it, and looking straight out of
the picture with eyes so much like Desboro's that it
amused people. His easy attitude, too, the idle grace
of the posture, irresistibly recalled Desboro, and at
the moment more than ever. But he had been a man
of vigor and of wit and action; and he was lying out
there in the snow, under an old brown headstone em-
bellished with cherubim; and the last of his name
lounged here, in sight, from the windows, of the spot
where the first house of Desboro in America had stood,
and had collapsed amid the flames started by Tarleton's
blood-maddened troopers.

To and fro sauntered Desboro, passing, unnoticed,
old-time framed engravings of the Desboros in Charles
the Second's time, elegant, idle, handsome men in peri-
wigs and half armor- and all looking out at the world
through port-holes with a hint of the race's bodily
grace in their half insolent attitudes,

But office and preferment, peace and war, intrigue
and plot, vigor and idleness, had narrowed down through
the generations into a last inheritance for this young
man; and the very last of all the Desboro's now idled
aimlessly among the phantoms of a race that perhaps
had better be extinguished.

He could not make up his mind to go to town or to
remain in the vague hope that she might come in the
afternoon.

He had plenty to do — if he could make up his mind
to begin— accounts to go over, household expenses, farm
expenses, stable reports, agents' memoranda concern-
ing tenants and leases, endless lists of necessary repairs.
And there was business concerning the estate neglected,
taxes, loans, improvements to attend to — the thousand
and one details which irritated him to consider; but
which, although he maintained an agent in town, rnust
ultimately come to himself for the final verdict.

What he wanted was to be rid of it all — sell every-
thing, pension his fathers servants, and be rid of the
entire complex business which, he pretended to himself,
was slowly ruining him. Put he knew in his heart
where the trouble lay, and that the carelessness, extrava-
gance, the impatient and good-humored aversion to eco-
nomy, the profound distaste for financial detail, were
steadily wrecking one of the best and one of the last
old-time Westchester estates.

In his heart he knew, too, that all he wanted was to
concentrate sufficient capital to give him the income he
thought he needed.

No man ever had the income he thought he ' needed.
And why Desboro required it, he himself didn't know
exactly; but he wanted sufficient to keep him comfort-
able—enough so that he could feel he might do any-
thing he chose, when, how, and where he chose, with-
out fear or care for the futftVe. And no man ever
lived to enjoy such a state of mind, or to do these
things with impunity.

But Desboro's mind was bent on it; he seated him-
self at the library table and began to figure it out.
Land in Westchester brought high prices — not exactly
in that section, but near enough to make his acreage
valuable. Then, the house, stable, garage, greenhouses,
the three* farms, barns, cattle houses, water supply,
the timber, power sites, meadow, pasture— all these ought
tp make a pretty figure. And he jotted it down for
\\if hundredth time in the last two years.

Then there was the Desboro collection. That ought
to bring

He hesitated, his pencil finally fell on the table, rolled
to the edge and dropped; and he sat thinking of Jac-
queline NeverSj and of the week tnat had ended as
the lights of her train faded far away into the winter
night.

He sat so still and so long that old Farris Came twice
to announce luncheon. After a silent meal in company
with the dogs and cats of low degree, he lighted a
cigarette and went back into the library to resume his
meditations.

Whatever they were, they ceased abruptly whenever
the distant telephone rang, and he waited almost breath-
lessly for somebody to come and say that he was wanted
on the wire. But the messages must have been to the
cook or butler, from butcher, baker, and gentlemen of
similar professions, for nobody disturbed him, and he
was left free to sink back into the leather corner of
the lounge and continue his meditations. Once the fur-
tive apparition of Mrs. Quant disturbed him, hovering
ominously at the library door, bearing tumbler and
spoon.

"I won't take it," he said decisively, '

There was a silence, then:

'Isn't the young lady coming, Mr. James?"

T don't know. No, probably not to-day."

"Is — is the child sick?" she stammered.

"No, of course not. I expect she'll be here in the
morning."

She was not there in the morning. Mr. Mirk, the
little old salesman in the tilk skull-cap, telephoned to
Farris that Miss Nevers was again detained in town
on business at Mr. Clydesdale's and that she might
employ a Mr. Sissly to continue her work at Silver-
wood, if Mr. Desboro did not object. Mr. Desboro was
to call her up at three o'clock if he desired furthef
information.

Desboro went into the library and sat down. For a
while his idle reflections, uncontrolled, wandered around
the main issue, errant satellites circling a. central
thought which was slowly emerging from chaos and
taking definite weight and shape. And the thought was
of Jacqueline Nevers.

Why was he waiting here until noon to talk to this

firl? Why was he here at all? Why had he not gone
outh with the others? A passing fancy might be
enough to arouse his curiosity; but why did not the
fancy pass? What did he want to say 10 her? What
did he want of her? Why was he spending time think-
ing .about her — disarranging his routine and habits to
be here when she came? What did he want 'of *her?
She was agreeable to talk to, interesting to watch,
pretty, attractive. Did he want her friendship? To
what end? He'd never see her anywhere unless he
sought her out; he would never meet her in any circle to
wh.ch he had been accustomed, respectable or otherwise.
Besides, for conversation h preferred men to women.

What did he want with her or her friendship — or
her blue eyes and bright hair— or the slim, girlish grace
of her? What was there to do? How many more
weeks did he intend to idle about at her heels, follow
her, look at her, converse with her, make a habit of her
until, now, he found that to suddenly break the habit
of only a week's indulgence was annoying himl

And suppose the habit were to grow. Into what
would it grow? And how unpleasant would it be to
break when, in the natural course of events, circum-
stances made the habit inconvenient?

And, always, the main, central thought was grow-
ing, persisting. What did he want of her? He was
not in love with her any morethan he was always lightly
in love with feminine beauty. Besides, if he were,
what would it mean? Another affair, with all its in-
itial charm and gaiety, its moments . of frivolity, its
moments of seriousness, its sudden crisis, its combats,
perplexities, irresolution, the faint thrill of its deeper
significance startling both to clearer vision, and then
the end, whatever it might be, light or solemn, gay or
sombre, for one or the other.

What did he want? Did he wish to disturb her
tranquility? Was he trying to awaken her to some
response? And what did he offer her to respond to?
The flattery of his meaningless attentions, or the honor
of falling in love with a Desboro, whose left hand
only would be offered to support both slim white hands
of hers?

He ought to have gone South, and he knew it, now.
Last week he had told himself— and her occasionally—
that he was going South in a week. And here he was,
his head on his hands and his elbows on the table,

looking vacantly at the pile of manuscript she had left
there, and thinking of the
pen to them both.

there, and thinking of the things that should not hap-
ten to them both.

And who the devil was this fellow Sissly? Why had
she suddenly changed her mind and suggested a crea-
ture named Sissly? Why didn't she finish the cata-
loguing herself? She had been enthusiastic about it.
Besides, she had enjoyed the skating and sleighing,
and the luncheons and teas, and the cats and dogs—
and even Mrs. Quant. She had said so, too. And now
she was too busy to come any more.

Had he done anything? Had he been remiss, or had
he ventured too many attentions? He couldn't _ re-
call having done anything except to show her plainly
enough that he enjoyed being with her. Nor had she
concealed her bright pleasure in his companionship.
And they had become such good comrades, under
standing each other's moods so instinctively now — and
they had really found such unfeigned amusement in
each other that it seemed a pity— a pity

"Damn it," he said, "if she cares no more about it
than that, she can send Sissly, and I'll go South!"

But the impatience of hurt vanity died away; the
desire to see her grew; the habit of a single week was
already unpleasant to break. And it would be un-

? feasant to try to forget her, even among his own
riends, even in the South, or in drawing-rooms, or at
the opera, or at dances, or in any of his haunts and
in any sort of company.

He might forget her if he had only known her bet-
ter, discovered more of her real self, unveiled a little of
her deeper nature. There was so much unexplored—
so much that interested him, mainly, perhaps, because
he had not discovered it. For theirs had been the light-
est and gayest of friendships, with nothing ivisible to
threaten a deeper entente; merely, on her part, a happy
enjoyment and a laughing parrying in the eternal com-
bat that never entirely ends, even when it means noth-
ing. And on his side it had been the effortless atten-
tions of a man aware of her young and unspoiled
charm — conscious of an unusual situation which always
fascinates all men.

He had had no intention, no idea, no policy except to
drift as far as the tides of destiny carried him in her
company. The situation was agreeable; if it became
less so, he could take to the oars and row where he
liked.

But the tides had carried him to the edge of waters
less clear; he was vaguely aware of it now, aware,
too, that troubled seas lay somewhere behind the veil.

The library clock struck three times. He got up
and went to the telephone booth. Miss Nevers was there;
would speak to him if he could wait a moment. He
waited. Finally, a far voice called, greeting him pleas-
antly, and explaining that matters which antedated
her business at Silverwood had demanded her personal
attention in town. To his request for particulars, she
said that she had work to do among the jades and
Chinese porcelains belonging to a Mr. Clydesdale.

"I know him," said Desboro curtly. "When do you
finish?"

"I have finished for the present. Later there is
further work to be done at Mr. Clydesdale's. I had

MOVIE WEEKLY

to make certain arrangements before I went to you —
being already under contract to Mr. Clydesdale, and
at hit service when he wanted me."

There was a silence. Then he asked her when she
was coming to Silverwood.

"Did you not receive my message?" she asked.

"About— what's his name? Sissly? Yes, I did, but
I don't want him. I want you or nobody I

"You are unreasonable, Mr. Desboro. Lionel Sissly
is a very celebrated connoisseur."

"Don't you want to come?"

"I have so many matters here——"

"Don't you want to?" he persisted.

"Why, of course, I'd like to. It is most interesting
work. But .Mr. Sissly "

"Oh, hang Mr. Sissly! Do you suppose he interests
me? You said that this work might take you weeks.
You said you loved it. You apparently expected to be
busy with it until it was finished. Now, you propose
to send a man called Sissly! Why?"

"Don't you know that I have other things "

"What have I done, Miss Nevers?"

"1 do./t understand you."

"What have I done to drive you away?"

"How absurd! Nothing! And you've been so kind
to me "

"You've been kind to me. Why are you no longer?"

"I— it's a question — of business— matters which de-
mand "

"Will you come once more?"

No reply.
"Will you?" he repeated.

"Is there any reason "

"Yes."

Another pause, then :

"Yes, I'll come — if there's a reason "

"When?"

"To-morrow?"

"Do you promise?"

"Yes."

"Then I'll meet you as usual."

"Thank you."

He said: "How is your skating jacket coming along?"

"I have — stopped work on it.

"Why?"

"I do not expect to — have time — for skating."

"Didn't you ever expect to come up here again?"
he asked with a slight shiver.

"I thought that Mr. Sissly could do what was neces-
sary."

"Didn't it occur to you that you were ending a
friendship rather abruptly?"

She was silent.

"Don't you think it was a trifle brusque. Miss
Nevers?"

"Does the acquaintanceship of a week count so much
with you, Mr. Desboro?"

"You know it does."

"No. I did not know it. If I had supposed so, I
would have written you a polite letter regretting that
I could no longer personally attend to the business in
hand."

"Doesn't it count at all with you?" he asked.

"What?"

"Our friendship."
"Our acquaintanceship of a single week? Why, yes.
I remember it with pleasure — your kindness, and Mrs.
Quant's "

"How on earth can you talk to me that, way?"

"I don't understand you."

"Then I'll say, bluntly, that it meant a lot to me,
and that the place is intolerable when you're not here.
That is specific, isn't it?"

"Very. You mean that, being accustomed to hav-
ing somebody to amuse you, your own resources are
insufficient."

"Are you serious?"

"Perfectly. That is why you are kind enough to
miss my coming and going— because I amuse you,

"Do you think that way about me?"

"I do when I think of you. You know sometimes
I'm thinking of other things, too, Mr. Desboro."

He bit his lip, waited for a mement, then:

"If you feel that way, you'll scarcely care to come
up to-morrow. Whatever arrangement you make about
cataloguing the collection will be all right. If I* am
not here, communications addressed to the Olympian
Club will be forwarded "

"Mr. Desboro 1" •

"Yes?"

"Forgive me — won't you?"

There was a moment's interval, fraught heavily with
the possibilities of Chance, then the silent currents of
Fate flowed on toward her appointed destiny and his
— whatever it was to be, wherever, it lay, behind the
unstirring, inviolable veil.

"Have you forgiven me?"

"And you me? he asked.

"I have nothing to forgive truly, I haven't. Why
did you think I had? Because I have been talking flip-
pantly? You have been so uniformly considerate and
kind to me— you must know that it was nothing you
said or did that made me think— wonder— whether—
perhaps "

"What?" he insisted. But she declined further ex-
planation in a voice so different, so much gayer and
happier than it had sounded before, that he was content
to let matters rest— perhaps dimly surmising something
approaching the truth.

She, too, noticed the difference in his voice as he
said:

"Then may I have the car there as usual to-morrow
morning?"

"Please."

He drew an unconscious sigh of relief. She said
something more that he could scarcely hear, so low and
distant sounded her voice, and he asked her to repeat it.

"I only said that I would be happy to go back,"
came the far voice.

Quick, unconsidered words trembled on his lips for
utterance; perhaps fear of undoing what had been done
restrained him.

"Not as happy as I will be to see you," he said, with
an effort.

"Thank you. Good-bye, Mr, Desboro."

"Good-bye."

(.Continued next week)

SoBBH

MO FIE WEEKLY

Page Twenty-

Bucking" into
the Movies

Hollywood, 1922.
Mr. H. 0. Potts,

Hog Run, Ky.
Dear Maw and Folks : —

Yours of the 13th instinct received per se, as the
Portugese so quaintly phrase it, and was sure glad
to get it, inasmuch as I need cheering up this even-
ing about as bad as Padetewski needs a hair-cut.
Because I had a job this morning which eventually
ended in a catastrophe more violent even than usual.

The scene of action was for a Cecil de Mille pic-
ture down on the Lasky lot and, consequently, the
"set" we worked in was an excellent imitation of
the average Easterner's idea of Hollywood on a quiet
Saturday night, which is to say that it was composed
of equal parts of women, confetti and alleged wine.
Confetti, Maw, is not an Italian salad dressing, which
it sounds like, but is a form of granulated and

"Half the guests were in bathing suits and half in
evening dress."

shredded tissue paper which in all scenes depicting
parties in high life is thrown promiscously about
through the eair in order to give the desired frivolous
and immoral effect.

Well, anyway, it was supposed to be a Hallowe'en
party and the scenery was accordingly very liberally
decorated with various and numerous rampant black
cats, papier mache pumpkins, and demoralized witches
straddling broom-sticks. For, you see, there is a
slight difference, folks, in the ways in which Hog
Run and Society celebrates Hallowe'en.

In Hog Run, for instance, the occasion is usually
celebrated by an evening of organized destruction,
winding up by placing Ursulus Higgins' front gate in
a reclining position on the steeple of the Methodist
Church. But in Society they do it a little differently;
they make a social affair out of it, and the only
damage resulting is to the' morale of the guests, the
extent of this damage being in direct proportion to
the length of the party.

1 A Cecil de Mille picture would be as incomplete
without an indoor swimming-pool parked somewhere
in the scenery as a Bill Hart production would with-
out a pair of prominently featured six-guns, and this
set was no exception. It contained in the center a
marble-lined pool with a velvet covered spring-board
and, consequently, half the guests was in bathing
suits and half in evening dress. In the case of the
men it wasn't so hard to make a distinction, but when
it come to the "women's costumes about the only dif-
ference apparent to the naked eye was that the. even-
ing dress comprised a set of shoes and stocking,
while the batching outfits didn't.

Well, anyway, I was elected one of the bathing-suit
division, and it was my Mack Sennett outfit which
shortly afterward was to lead to my downfall, so to
soeak. Because when the Director called for a can-
didate to stage a little diving exhibition for the first
scene in the morning's work, like an idiot I volun-
teered. My entire previous knowledge of the aquatic
arts was confined to a fairly extensive experience in
a bath-tub, and witnessing a one-reel exhibition by
Annette Kellerman once, but I figured that the stunt
shouldn't be so gosh-awful hard to get away with if
one only had a little nerve and luck.

As far as I could see, it was a very simple sort of
a proposition, — all you had to do was just separate
yourself from the spring-board and, if you left the
board in the right general direction, you couldn't pos-
sibly help but arrive in the water a very short time
thereafter, — and that was about all there was to it.
Personally, I thought that the difficulties of the
thing, like 1 Mark Twain's death and G. Carpentier's
fighting ability, had been very much exaggerated.

But, the minute I climb up on that blooming spring-
board, I knew that I had made an awful mistake.

Because in the first place the spring-board had ap-
parently gained about ten feet in altitude all of a
sudden, and in the second place the pool looked so
darned small from that dizzy height that I had
serious doubts where I would be able to hit the
blooming thing at all. Honest, Maw, I felt like some
idiot trying to dive from the fiftieth floor of the
Woolworth Building into a quart tin-cup !

But the thing that worried me the most was the
spring-board itself. It wouldn't have been so bad if
the pesky thing had been fastened on both ends, but
it wasn't. One end swung entirely free to follow its
own sweet will and, as that happened to be the end
that I was standing on, complications began to develop
very pronto. Because the more the board trembled
beneath me the more my knees shook, and the more
my knees shook the more the board quivered. The
consequence was that in less than two minutes I was
giving an excellent impersonation of the business
section of an electric vibrator.

"All right !" yelled the Director finally. "Why
the delay, sister ? You're not cast as 'Living Statu-
ary,' or anything like that, you know. Come on —
snap cut of it and jump!"

As far as jumping was concerned, I never wanted
to do anything less in all my life, but the camera
was clicking and I've learned by how not to argue
with a director. So I made a frenzied effort to recall
one of the dives I had seen Annette pull in that
one-reeler. But the only stunt of the whole bunch
that I could think of at the moment was one which
consisted of the candidate turning over one and a
half times in mid-air, and then straightening out
gracefully and entering the water head first.

It seemed rather involved for the maiden effort of
a strictly amateur diver, but it was- either that or
nothing, so I selected an auspicious moment between
the vibrations of the board, took a long breath, closed
my eyes, and took off. I turned over in the air all
right, but I must of put too much effort in it or
something because, instead of straightening out then
like I wanted to, I kept right on rotating around an
invisible axis like a locoed pin-wheel.

If it hadn't have been for the force of gravity and
the surface of the water, I'd very probably have' been
turning over yet. I'll probably never know what part
of me it was hit the water first, but I do know that
it wasn't' my head. I heard an awful crash like a
dynamite factory letting go, then my mind and rea-
soning powers both departed from me simultaneously.

When I come to again, I was flat on my back at
the edge of the pool, with a couple of hombres pump-

"/'// probably never know what port of me hit first."

ing my arms up and down like they thought I was a
hand-car or something, and the first thing that I heard
was the Director asking for another volunteer to
do the diving stunt over again.

"What's the grand idea?" I queried indignantly,
sitting up unassisted to the obvious disgust of the
First Aid practioners, "didn't I do it all right?"

The Director swung a look in my direction which
was so mean that it would have' curdled milk, "Miss
Potts," he warbled in a tone of voice which matched
the look, "you might be a raving success as the star
in an educational reel showing the hippopotamus in
Central Park Zoo taking a bath, but as a graceful
diver, your only competitor is a depth-bomb!"

Which I guess will be all for this time, only I am
going over to the Hollywood Public Library now and
look, up "hippopotamus" and "depth-bomb" in the
dictionary, and if that Director meant what I think
he did, then there is going to be a violent casualty
among the Lasky forces to-morrow morning.
Your loving daughter, resp'y yours,
SOPHIE POTTS,

Via Hal WBLts.

ity-nme

JIOVIE WEEKiy

Dictionoutuuk

"Movie Weekly" presents to
its readers the following diction-,
ary of special terms which have developed
with the growth of the screen industry.
This dictionary includes words and phrases
which apply to everything from the writing
of the script to the projection of the com-
pleted film on the theatre screen. Clip the
instalments and save them, they will enable
you to obtain a more complete understanding
of the technique of motion picture produc-
tion.

K
Kill — To remove. "To kill a chair" means

to remove it from the scene.
Knock-out — An unusually good photoplay.
Klieg-eye — Temporary blindness due to

exposure of the eyes to the powerful

Klieg lights.

L

Lot — Studio.

Location — Any place used for scenic back-
ground which is not in the studio.

Lab— -Laboratory.

Leader — Blank negative attached to the be-
ginning of each reel of film.

M
Mugging — To overdo facial expression.
Middle distance — Shooting a scene halfway

between a close-up and a long shot.
Mob scene — Scene in which more than half

a dozen extras are used.

p rops — The property man, or his properties.
Panning the camera — To "panorama" the

camera, or turn it sideways while it is

being cranked, thus taking in several parts

of a scene in succession.
Press book — Literature supplied to exihibi-

tor which he uses to exploit a film.
Program picture — An ordinary feature film.
Prints — Copies of a film from the original

negative.

R

Patch — To put together parts of a film,
Rushes — First prints of scenes, rushed out

after the day's work.
Reverse cranking — Reversing a scene by

turning the crank the wrong way.
Riot — A very successful picture.

c
Shooting a scene — To photograph a scene.
Set — A replica of the surroundings in which

the action of a story takes place. It may

be the corner of a room or a specially

built mansion or street.
Striking a set — To. tear a set down.
Screen credit — Mention of one's name on

the screen.
Scratch titles — Typewritten titles inserted

for convenience of the editor before art

titles are made.

(To be continued.)

Page Thirty

Secrets ^Success

in LaOe, Courtship
and TforriggA

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Charlie Chaplin

—A soul tragedy

(Continued from page 7)
throne for a long time in the moving picture
world. Men of the stamp of Griffith, men with
vision, will always be welcomed by the picture
people. I would rather spend many hours with
the hard workers of Hollywood, who have ideas
of their own manufacture, than months with
some of the complacent millionaires of New York,
who sit about fairly dripping with Standard Oil,
having no real knowledge of any form of art. It
makes me perfectly wild, the way they sniff in a
superior manner at the very word 'movies' 1"

Mrs. Sheridan stood aside, viewing the inani-
mate face before her. The soft light centered
upon her and the well-wrought work of her
hands. Behind, on pedestals were the busts of
Lenine and Trotsky, both of whom were her
subjects in Moscow last year. Somehow, they
seemed to disapprove of the great Charles . . .
So much for their sense of humor I (According
to Mrs. Sheridan, Russia boasts no moving pic-
ture "palaces!")

"Engaged to Charlie Chaplin!" Her mood
again changed. She became naively confidential.
"I admit I should have been glad to marry
Trotsky had he not already boasted a wife ! But

Charlie " Suddenly she turned, her tone

thoughtful, with something of the prophetic fill-
ing it. "Mark what I say . . . Some day this
stupendous comedian will face about into the
stupendous tragedian ! For the pendulum of such
an art as his must of necessity swing both ways !"

The Colorful Story of

Wm. D. Taylor's Life

(Continued from page 8)
Such a group of men there was at the Los An-
geles Athletic Club, of which. Taylor was a
member.

But, even though this coterie could consider
themselves as the film director's inthitale friends,
there was none in the crowd who received his
fullest confidence, particularly in the matter of
his erstwhile marriage some years ago in New
York.

But these men — all of them in their late thirties
and early forties — remember the day, during the
war, when Taylor entered their midst announcing
that he had enlisted in the Canadian forces.

It was the war that offered the supreme test
of Taylor's physical and moral calibre. He, being
well over the age limit, had every claim to exemp-
tion. Instead, however, he maintained a specified
contempt for various younger men who were
frantically trying to dodge service, and it was,
hence, not a great surprise to his friends when
he announced his enlistment as a private.

But there was one of his associates, a kindly,
motherly woman, Mrs. Julia Crawford Ivers, his
scenarist for years, who could offer a plausible
reason why he should not undertake the hard-
ships of war. Woman-like, Mrs. Ivers for
months had been ministering to Taylor's stomach

STATEMENT OF THE OWNERSHIP, MANAGEMENT, CIRCULATION, ETC., REQUIRED BY THE ACT

OF CONGRESS OF AUGUST 24, 1912,

of "MOVIE WEEKLY," published weekly at New York,
N. Y., for April 1, 1922.

State of New York ) ..
County of N. Y. J

Before me, a Notary Public in and for the State and
County aforesaid, personally appeared O. J. Elder, who.
having been duly sworn according to law, deposes and
says that he is the Business Manager of the "MOVIE
WEEKLY," and that the following is, to the best of his
knowledge and belief, a true statement of the ownership,
management (and if a daily paper, the circulation), etc,,,
of the aforesaid publication for the date shown in the
above caption, required by the Act of August 24, 1912,
embodied in section 443, Postal Laws and Regulations,
printed on the reverse side of this form, to wit:

1. That the names and addresses of the publisher,
editor, managing editor, and business managers are:
Publisher, PHYSICAL CULTURE CORPORATION, 119
West 40th Street, New York, N. Y.; Editor, DOROTHEA
B. HERZOG. 602 West 137th Street. New York, N. Y.,;
Managing Editor, W. H. CAMPBELL, Freeport, Long
Island; Business Manager, 0. J. ELDER, 95 Harrison
Street, East Orange, N. J.

2. That the owners are: (Give names and addresses of
individual owners, or, if a corporation, give its name
and the names and addresses of stockholders owning or
holding 1 per cent or more of the total amount of stock):
Physical Culture Corporation, 119 West 40th Street, New
York, N. Y.; Bernarr Macfadden, 527 Riverside Drive,

New York, N. Y.; 0. J. Elder, 95 Harrison Street, East
Orange, N. J. r

3. That the known bondholders, mortgagees, and other
security holders owning or holding 1 per cent or more
of total amount of bonds, mortgages, or other securi-
ties are: (If there are none, so state.) None.

4. That the two paragraphs next above, giving the
names of the owners, stockholders, arid security holders,
if any, contain not only the list of stockholders and
security holders as they appear upon the books of the
company but also, in cases where the stockholder or
security holder appears upon the books or the company
as trustee or in any other fiduciary relation, the name
of the person or corporation for whom such trustee is
acting, is given; also that the said two paragraphs con-
tain statements embracing affiant's full knowledge and
belief as to the circumstances and conditions under which
stockholders and security holders who do not appear upon
the books of the company as trustees, hold stock and
securities in a capacity other than that of a bona fide
owner: and this affiant has no reason to believe that any
other -person, association, Qr corporation has any interest
direct or indirect in the said stock, bonds, or other
securities than as so stated by him.

(Signed) O. J. ELDER.
Business Manager.
Sworn to and subscribed before
me this 17th day of March, 1922.

ABRAHAM BROADWW
(My commission expires March 30th, 1923.)

MO FIE WEEKLY

trouble, from which he had been a sufferer for
years. At the studio she had a miniature kitchen-
ette installed in her office, and would daily pre-
pare the director's lunch for him and give him
a menu of viands that he could eat digestibly.

And it was because she feared a return of the
stomach affliction that she did not want him to
go to war, but he went and suffered agonizingly.

The war— his last great adventure — left its im-
press upon him. He was sufficiently mature to
realize the full significance of its heart-crushing
suffering. Yet he was young enough to be an
optimist after it was over. And, in the eternal
struggle, he had progressed as singularly as he
had progressed as a private citizen, for while the
beginning had seen him as a "buck" private with
the British Fusileers, the armistice saw him
ranked as a lieutenant.

And it was not until after the war that Taylor
reallv accomplished his best work on the screen.
"The Furnace" "The Witching Hour," "The
Soul of Youth," stand out as being truly great
pictures and proclaim their producer as being not
merely a man with a megaphone, but as an in-
spired figure in the midst of a great art.

And it was because the film industry knew
Taylor and respected him — because they readily
epitomized his life and his success. — that the
mourners at his bier were legion. There is no
one in the motion picture industry who will ever
speak unkindly of his memory, and his name
stands respected and beloved as that of a gentle-
man, a friend, a scholar — and a true artist.

— and they lived

happily ever after

(Continued from page 4)
conversation is perhaps a trifle brighter, and you
hear more talk of stage and cinema than else-
where, but otherwise it is the normal, healthy
confab of any American household.

The sentiment which surrounds some of the
family dinners and parties is just as real as that
in any home. In the Pickford household, for
example, every birthday is a festive occasion. No
member of the family would think of missing
the celebration. Christmas and the other festivals
are equally observed. And this is not true only
for the Pickfords, but for most of the other film
families throughout Hollywood.

Of course, there is a spectacular interest in the
doings of film stars, their presence at the cafes
and the various resorts which many of them fre-
quent, the way they dance and, in general, how
they conduct themselves. They are in the public
eye more than any other people, because each and
every one is known to many people through his
or her screen presence.

As soon as a prominent film star appears in a
theatre box, all the opera glasses hi the house
are immediately fastened on the occupants of
that box. There is a buzz-buzz of conversation
and details professional and intimate are whis-
pered from person to person and echoed from
row to row.

Picture people are consequently always under
a magnifying glass in their actions. What they
do and say, how they behave, whom they are
engaged or married to, and other facts, intimate
and personal, are recounted from lip to lip, and
picked up and repeated in the news column of
dozens of different publications.

Whether you live in Halifax or on the Rio
Grande, in Portland, Maine or Portland. Oregon,
you, as well as everyone else who is interested in
the movies, know pretty much about the lives of _«
your stars, as they are probed via fact and fancy.
You have, in manv instances, perhaps, come to
know them too well, and have lost your interest
in what they are doing by becoming too much
interested in what they are. Familiarity always
breeds a certain amount of contempt.

There _ was a time when publicity was shunned
by the pictures. Such things as write-ups for the
film star were unheard of. I don't say that we're
coming to that state again. Hardly. But I do
believe that every effort will be made to eliminate
scandal on the one hand and slush on the other,
so that you will have some sort of accurate per-
spective on what your favorite star is like, and
what he is doing professionally that is worth
while. And those hangers-on, who don't uphold
the higher ideals of the profession, won't receive
so much attention as formerly.

MOVIE WEEK

Page Thirty-one

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The Life Story of

Dick Barthelmess

(Continued from page 15)

too. "But I haven't the time, and besides I am
afraid I'd be tempted to tell too much of the
truth if I wrote anything. I am kept very busy
nowadays reading scripts, looking for possible
stories. I don't find much worth while stuff in
this sort of reading; most of it is trash, but it
occupies a good deal of my leisure time.

"I have just been elected to membership in
'The Coffee Club.' that literany organization which
was formed a few years ago/ Douglas Fairbanks
and I are the only screen actors who are mem-
bers, the rank and file of membership consisting
of authors, artists, sculptors and the like."

Of the more popular, yet standard playwrights,
Dick likes Barrie' greatly. "I was never able to
solve the meaning of 'Mary Rose,'" he says, "but
it possessed an eerie quality that fascinated me.
I find Shaw too wordy, nowadays. 'Back to
Methusaleh' was entirely worth seeing, but much
of it was boresome.

"I am afraid I shall have to take a course in
public speaking soon. I have always talked in-
formally, and have usually got away with it, but
I have had numerous requests this winter for
formal talks."

Up at the Biograph studio, where Dick works,
a happy family enjoys the business of making
pictures. Stardom has left Dick entirely un-
affected. You don't have to force your way into
the studio. Access is easy. And Dick has friends
everywhere, from the lights crew up, up being
Henry King, his director, who has done the best
work of his long career with Dick.

Otherwise, Dick is still one of the boys. Mary
Hay's hit in "Marjolaine" this season has kept
his little wife busy, but she sees as much as
possible of him during the afternoons when she
is not playing, and dinner is always served at
home, with Joseph, the Filipino man-servant,
officiating. Friends drop in, Dick spends the
evening reading or at the theatre, following the
course of dramatic history on Broadway, and
then to call for his wife, at the Broadhurst, where
"Marjolaine" holds forth.

With summer coming, Dick may spend part of
his time in the delightful cottage he owns at
Harrison Beach, near Rye, on Long Island Sound.
It was there that he spent his happy honeymoon
days with Mary. Between pictures, he used to
putter on a miniature golf course he had laid
out near the cottage.. There he would seek se-
clusion to study his next part, to read, and to
maintain that intellectual life he began at college.

"I don't get much chance to play, anymore,"
is one of Dick's plaints. "I haven't played tennis
in ages. My work is taking all my time. This
summer I hope to do a special production, not a
big spectacle, but something elaborate. Next
winter, I plan to go south to make a couple of
semi-tropical pictures.

And that might be Dick Barthelmess' motto :
"Keep on living, even if you are a star."

Here and There With
the Movie Folks

"Can I 'shoot' the front of your display win-
dow?" asked Director Edward Sloman, who
wanted to film the exterior of a pawn shop for
a scene in "The Man Who Smiled."

The proprietor waved his hands in the air in
distress.

"Vy pick on me?" he said fearfully, sure that
the bandits had found him at last. "I'm a poor
man with a fambly and anyhow I ain't got no
plate glass insurance."

Theodore Kosloff, the famous Russian dancer,
recently received a letter from his family in
Petrograd. On it were two 1,000-ruble stamps.
Three years ago these stamps would have been
worth $1,000, but now they are worth only a few
cents.

If the telephone girls in this country ever go
on strike en masse, we suggest that their places
be at once filled from the ranks of those para-
gons who preside at switchboards in the movies.
In ten years of photoplay attendance, we fail to
recall a single instance wherein one of these
super-efficient operators of the celluloid ever in-
formed the hero that the "line's busy," or gave
him seven wrong numbers in succession.

Anna Q. Nilsson feels that the railroad workers
in Italy must have a personal grudge against her.
"The Man From Home," in which she is playing
a prominent part, is being produced in Italy, ana
that's "how come" this tale of woe. Miss Nilsson
made a week-end trip from Naples to Rome, and
just as she arrived the Italian railroad workers
went on strike. And it cost the actress 1,150 liras
to get back to Naples by automobile. Then as
soon as she had returned the strike ended. Now
she wonders if she doesn't deserve a strike benefit.

Vera Gordon Working

Vera Gordon — you know her well — is working
on a new Fannie Hurst story, at precisely the
same studio and under precisely the same direc-
tor as she made "Humoresque" — the International
Studio and Director Borzage. The picture is
called, temporarily, "The Good Provider," and
was written especially for the "greatest mother
of the screen."

Dore Davidson is back with Vera Gordon and
so is little Miriam Battista, both of whom were
in the "Humoresque" picture.

Jack Holt has become so far removed from his
former villain roles that in his second Paramount
star picture, "While Satan Sleeps," he plays the
part of Parson Phil. He lives in a typical parson-
age decorated by the parishioners with shells, a
stuffed owl, embroidered mottoes, etc. And one
girl presents him with a bible inscribed, "To our
new pastor from one of the lambs of his flock."

That for an ex-villain!

California's bracing weather may be all very
well for some folk, but Frank Hayes doesn't
think much of it these days. Frank has a comic
character role in Benjamin B. Hampton's pro-
duction of "Wildfire," and his costume for the
role is a bathing suit wrapped round with
branches. Frank thinks he ought to be given a
"Garden of Eden" to live in.

When Rupert Hughes was first persuaded to
write scenarios, _ there was much speculation as
to how deeply interested in motion pictures he
would become. In connection with his first sce-
narios, Mr. Hughes acted in an advisory capacity
on continuities and directing. He liked that.
Then he wrote the scenario and the continuity
as well. That was even better. Now, for "The
Wall Flower," his latest photoplay, he has written
the scenario and continuity and has directed the
picture besides 1

Maybe he will act in his next one. Who
knows ?

"If you can't keep the wolf from your door, at
least you don't have to answer the bell. Let him
stay out on the front porch and maybe he'll bite
a couple of collectors."

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Btnghamton — Hills, McLean & Hasklns

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Detroit— John V. Sheehan A Co.. Inc.
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Are you talking to the right man
about your motion pictures ?

Get acquainted with the manager of your theatre

You people who care more
about better motion pictures
than any other section of the
community, must act.

There is one man in your
midst who desires nothing bet-
ter than to be guided by your
wishes.

If your ideals of quality in
photoplays are as high as Para-
mount's he wants to know
about it, and he wants to show
you and your friends all the
Paramount Pictures he can get.

It's no good simply talking
among yourselves when your

indignation is aroused by some
inferior picture.

Talk to the man who can
change it, the manager of your
theatre. If you like the show,
tell him — if you don't like it,
tell him.

His creed is the survival of
the fittest pictures, which
means Paramount Pictures —
the photoplays that bring large
and admiring audiences.

If you want the world's
greatest entertainment all you
have to do is act, — and re-
member that

If ifs a Paramount Picture
it's the best show in town

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flFAMOUS PIAYERS-IASKY CORPORATION L'J

, AOOLPM 2UKOR. P...»..irt . wBk

Paramount Pictures

listed In order of release
March 1. 1922, to June 1, 1922

Ask your theatre manager when kt will
skew them

"The Mistress of the World"

A Series of Four Paramount Pictures

with Mia May, Directed by .Toe May

From the novel by Carl Figdor

Wallace Reid in

"The World's Champion"

Based on the play, "The Champion"

. By A. B. Thomas and Thomas

Louden

Gloria Swanson in

"Her Husband's Trademark"

By Clara Beranger

Cecil B. DeMille's Production

"Fool's Paradise"

Suggested by Leonard Merrick's

story "The Laurels and the Lady"

Mary Miles Minter in
"The Heart Specialist"

By Mary Morison
A Realart Production

Marion Davies in "Beauty's Worth"

By Sophie Kerr

A Cosmopolitan Production

Betty Compson in

"The Green Temptation"

From the story, "The Noose"

By Constance Lindsay Skinner

May McAvoy in

"Through a Glass Window"

By Olga Printzlau

A Realart Production

"Find the Woman"

With Alma Rubens

By Arthur Somers Roche

A Cosmopolitan Production

Ethel Clayton in "The Cradle"

Adapted fro'n the play by

Bugenr Brieux

Constanol Binney in

"The Sleilp Walker"

By Aubrey Stauffer

A Realart Production

Agnes Ayres and Jack Holt in

"Bought and Paid For"

A William DeMille Production

Adapted from the play by

George Broadhurst

Pola Negri in "The Devil's Pawn"

Dorothy Dalton in

"The Crimson Challenge"

By Vingie E. Roe

Wanda Hawley in
"The Truthful Liar"

By Will Payne
A Realart Production

John S. Robertson's Production

"The Spanish Jade,"

with David Powell

From the novel by Maurice Hewlett

"Is Matrimony a Failure?"
With T. Roy Barnes, Lila Lee,
Lois Wilson and Walter Hiers

Gloria Swanson in Elinor Glyn's
"Beyond the Rocks,"

Mia May in "My Man"

Marion Davies in

"The Young Diana"

By Marie Corelli

A Cosmopolitan Production

Jack Holt and Bebe Daniels in
"Val of Paradise"
By Vingie E. Roe

Agnes Ayres in "The Ordeal"

In Production; two great
Paramount Pictures

Cecil B. DeMille's

"Manslaughter"

From the novel by Alice Duer Miller

George Melford's

"Burning Sands"

From the novel by Arthur Weigall

A man's answer to Mrs. E.M.Hull's

"The Sheik"