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Full text of "Movie Weekly, April 8, 1922"

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THE EDITORS VIEWPOINT 



Federal Censorship in the Offing 



A CONTRIBUTION reaches the Editor's desk from one 
who has made a conclusive study of Federal Censor- 
ship, and so enlightening is this contribution, that we 
print it herewith. After reading it, we are sure our 
readers will have a firmer grasp of this subject, one that 
has, hitherfore, proven rather elusive : 

"The Federal Censorship Bill has been introduced into 
the House of Representatives 
by Representative Tt Frank 
Appleby, of New Jersey. It 
provides for a commission of 
three members to be appointed 
by the President, the chairman 
to receive a salary of $6,000 a 
year ; the other two, $5,000 a 
year. 

"The commission may ap- 
point a secretary and such 
deputy and advisory commis- 
sioners as may be necessary to 
assist in the examination and 
censoring of films. No one 
shall be appointed an adVisory 
commissioner who has any 
direct or indirect pecuniary in- 
terest in motion pictures. * The 
entire cost of the commission is 
to be limited to $60,000. The 
commission is to have power to 
make rules and regulations and 
to exercise functions neOessary 
to the efficient performance of 
its duties. 

"Every film submitted to the 
commission shall be licensed 
'unless such film is obscene, in- 
decent, immoral, inhuman, or 

, depicts an actual prize fight, or 

- is ' of such a character that its 
exhibition would tend to impair 
the health, or debase or corrupt 
the morals of children or adults, 
or incite to crime, or produce 
depraved moral ideas, or debase 
moral standards, or cause moral 
laxity in adults or minors.' 

"The commission may grant 
a license upon condition that ob- 
jectionable parts are eliminated, 
and may require all condemned 

lilms, both positives and nega- 
tives, to be left in its possession. 
Provision is made for an appeal 
from the decision of a dc 
commissioner to at least 

member of the commission, and a further appeal to the full 
commission. 

"Licensed films are to be provided with a special tag 
which must be attached when the film is offered for trans- 
portation. It is to be unlawful to transport or to exhibit 
unlicensed film. The penalty for any violation of the Act 



PRINTED IN U. S. A. 



MOVIE WEEKIY 

1 April 8, 1922 1 

Vol. II Xo. 9 



CONTENTS 

INSIDE STORIES OF THE MOVIES 



Doris Kenyon — (A Study by Alfred Cheney 

Johnston) ...... Cover Design 

Hollywood Morals .......3 

The Life Story of William D. Taylor - - - 5 
Dick Rarthelmess' Story (By His Mother) - 6 and 7 
Doris Kenyon — A Story of Success .... 9 

How to Get Into the Movies (VIII) . - • 11 

Secrets of the Movies (XI)' - - - - - 11 

Norma Talmadge — Fortune Teller - - - - 14 

More Things You Don't Know About the Stars - 14 
Rambling Through the Studios of the East - • 15 
Our Weekly Letter From Sophie Potts 18 

"Movie Weekly's" Screen Dictionary 18 

Under the Orange Pekoe Tree 19 

The Colonel's Page — Queries and Answers - - 20 

Film-Flam — Funny Stories About the Screen Folk - 21 
Hints to Scenario Writers (Frederick Palmer) - 22 
Current Play Reviews ...... 28 



not more than one year, and the films unlawfully transported 
or exhibited may be seized and destroyed. 

"A fee of one dollar is to be charged for the examination 
of each 1,000 feet of film, and fifty cents for each duplicate. 
It is provided, however, that the license fee may be reduced 
from time to time to such a sum as will produce no larger 
income than is necessary to defray the nis- 

sion. Any change in a film after 
it is lice- 

as a violation of I 
be punished by fine or impr 
mem. 

"Just now there are 
seven States that have m 
picture censor- 

sors agree on what should be 
passed or what shoul 
bidden, and no producer ha 
been heard to express un- 
bounded enthusiasm 
censor. If it did nothing i 
possibly Federal 
might stave off Stan 
ships in the remaining I 
three commonwe.-. 



PAGE 



IN THE EYE OF THE CAMERA 

Bernarr Macfadden's Beauty Pages - 

Corinne Griffith (Centre Spresjd) ... 

THRILLING ACTION STORIES 
The Triumph of Love (Robert W . Chambers) 
A Philanthropic Bank Burglar (John W. Grey) 
A Fiery Romance of Love (Montanye Perry) 



12 and 13 
16 and 17 

- 10 

- 23 

- 25 



Published weekly by the PHYSICAL CULTURE CORPO- 
RATION, 113 West 40th Street. New York City. Rernarr 
ilacfadden. President; Harold A. Wise. Secretary. Entered 
as second-class matter Tan. 20, 1921, at the postoffice at 
New York, N. Y., under the Act of Mar. 3, 1K79. Sub- 
scription. $5.00 a year. In Canada- -single copy, 15 cents. 



TELL US IV HAT Y 
THINK 



Having printed thi> author- 
ized report of i 
made a stud>- of Federal Cen- 
sorship, and having pr 
from time to tin -ial> 

concerning State Ci 
we are especially interested in 
knowing what our readers 
think of both forms of ct 
ship. 

Do you believe in either? Do 
you think motion pictures, to- 
day, need "censorial guard- 
ians?" 

We are prone to shy at the 
familiar clause in the Federal 
Censorship Bill: "Every film 
submitted to the commission 
shall be promptly licen-ed 'un- 
less such film is obscene, inde- 
cent, immoral, inhuman, or de- 
picts an actual prize fight, or 
is of such a character that its 
exhibition would tend to impair 
the health, debase or corrupt the morals bf children or 
adults or incite to crime, or produce depraved moral 
ideas, or debase moral standards, or cause moral laxity in 
adults or minors." 

Personally, we can't figure out how a commission of three 
people is fitted to decide such momentous problems for over 



may be a fine of not more than $500 or imprisonment for 1 00,000,000 people. What do you think ? 



MOVIE WEEKLY 



Page Thrrt 



Hollywood Morals 

Is Hollywood a Wild Jungle of Drunken Orgies? 



DO you believe that Hollywood is a wild 
jungle of drunken orgies, dope parties and 
free love? Have you a general, hazy idea 
that the ten commandments and federal 
state and civic laws have no connection with daily 
life in the capitol of movieland? 

A newspaper editor recently suggested that 
Hollvwood should be burned to the ground, his 
theory being that such a holacaust would purify 
the morals of the world. He pointed to the case 
of a comedian arrested on the charge of con- 
tributing to the death of an actress. He pointed 
to the assassination of a motion picture director. 
Holding these two cases before his readers he 
shrieked that Hollywood should be destroyed. 

If you have such thoughts, let us reason to- 
gether, as fair-minded folks are always willing 
to do, and see if we can get at the truth. 

The geographical, civic entity bearing the name 
of Hollywood, California, is one of the most 
beautiful, best behaved, best schooled, best man- 
aged cities on earth. Neither the comedian nor 
the dead director lived in Hollywood. The com- 
edian lives in the most fashionable section of the 
fashionable West Adams district of Los Angeles, 
and the director's home was in a modest, com- 
fortable bungalow in a most respectable residence 
district of Los Angeles. So that if Hollywood 
should have been burned to make a holiday for 
a frantic editor, the comedian's social events 
would not have been disturbed, nor would a 
cowardly assassin have been prevented from mur- 
dering an unarmed man. 

****** 

No one can get at the truth of motion picture 
morals until he understands the creation of star 
salaries, and the events that follow in the train 
of suddenly acquired wealth. 

Five thousand dollars a week!— $10,000 a week! 
— $20,000 a week ! Figures such as these stagger 
the ordinary mortal. 

"Such wages cannot be possible. These stories 
are mere fictions of press agent imagination," 
you say. 

Yet the figures are true. For several years a 
number of young women and men each have been 
receiving $50,000, $100,000, $150,000 to $200,000 : 
vear. A very few have exceeded $250,000 a year, 
but many have been paid $500 to $750 a week. 

These huge salaries were made possible — yes, 
they were made imperative — by the public's ap- 
proval of the same men and women who created 
the "Hollywood" that is at present receiving so 
much attention. 

As an illustration of the work- 
ings of the system of making 
screen stars, and the effect of the 
operation on the star and on pub- 
lic opinion of the picture industry, 
let us briefly review the history 
of an actress whom we will call 
Georgia Columbia. 

In 1918 this girl was "free lanc- 
ing." that is, she was accepting 
such positions as she could get, 
and her salary was $75 to $100 a 
week. Toward the end of the 
year she was chosen by a famous 
picture maker to play a part in 
one of his productions, and for 
this employment she was paid $125 
a week. The photoplay was a tre- 
mendous success and the girl 
leaned from obscurity to fame in 
a few months. 

Georgia became known quickly 
to millions of theatre goers ; and 
picture producers, believing that 
audiences would welcome her as 
a star, entered into a bidding 
contest for her services. Early in 
1919_»she accepted a contract at 
Lisoo a week salary, and when 



By Benj. B. Hampton 




this ended within a year she went with another 
company at $2,500 a week. Within less than two 
years this girl has progressed from $125 a week 
to $2,500 a week. Public approval -of her work 
has given her this ''box-office value'' and the 
producers believe it good business to give the 
public what it wants. 

One of the several great differences between 
the screen and the spoken drama is revealed right 
here. The enormous salaries of the screen are 
not duplicatd in spoken drama nor in vaudeville. 
There are high salaries on the stage, but they 
are not so large nor so numerous, nor do they 
come into existence so quickly as in picture circles. 
Stage audiences choose their entertainments more 
carefully. A play may become a great success on 




its merits, without the support of a star's name. 
Picture audiences have developed "star-worship" 
to a heighth unknown to the stage, and "star- 
worship" is followed by sudden inflation of in- 
comes, as illustrated in the case of Georgia 
Columbia. 



Can you imagine what happened to Georgia 
Columbia, whose "free lancing" in 1918 brought 
her an income of perhaps $2,000, when 'she found 
a check for $1,500 or $2,500 in her pay envelope 
every Saturday night in 1919 and thereafter? 
Well, many things happened. 

First of all, Georgia was swamped with new 
"friendships." She was deluged with "fame" and 
"popularity." Women and men who had barely 
nodded to her as she made the dull round of the 
studios looking for work in 1918, now thrust for- 
ward to greet her effusively, obsequiously. Others 
whom she had never known, never heard of. 
pushed into her orbit, pleading and flattering for 
a share of the great star's attention. 

Newspapers and magazines sent writers and 
photographers to see her. Her mail suddenly 
filled several baskets daily. This is not a flight 
of fancy; it is a solemn recital of facts. Letters 
from admirers of a screen star reach enormous 
daily totals. And this correspondence comes from 
all sorts of people — boot-blacks, servant girls, 
college presidents, bankers, newspaper editors, 
ministers ; all. of the groups in the social system 
are represented. 

The merchants of Los Angeles were ready to 
assist Georgia in meeting her new responsibilities. 
The realtors were present to sell her a "palatial 
residence." Decorators and furnishers assured 
her of their ability and willingness to make her 
new home the most artistic in America. The auto- 
mobile dealers showed her the grades of limou- 
sines, town cars, and runabouts appropriate to 
her new position. The jewelers, the gown makers, 
the milliners — everyone was present with earnest, 
eager offers of assistance. 

Is it any wonder that Georgia was bewildered? 
Would any girl in any industry anywhere keep 
her head when bushels of press clippings and 
thousands of letters assure her that she is the 
most beautiful, most finished, most exquisite, most 
everything artiste that ever came into a world 
hungering for the radiant inspiration of her 
glorious personality? 

****** 

Georgia does not read the press 
notices and the fan letters of other 
stars. Indeed, she cannot take 
time to read her own ! Her secre- 
taries skim through the postman's 
burden and select the cream, the 
most flattering specimens, to read 
to Georgia. How, then, can 
Georgia realize that every star re- 
ceives identical publicity stuff and 
fan letters so nearly alike that all 
of them might have been written 
in the same insane asylum ? Geor- 
gia does not know, and being quite 
a human little person, she quickly 
accepts herself as a genius thrust 
into this world for_the purpose of 
elevating its artistic standards, as 
per press stuff and admirers' mail. 

Every week the $2,500 check 
finds its way to her bank account. 
True, it is like a bird of passage. 
It is quickly absorbed by payments 
on the new mansion and its con- 
tents, and the beautiful new motor 
cars, and gowns and furs and 
jewels, and wages of secretaries, 
butter, house servants, personal 
maids, etc., etc. 

Georgia's new host of friends 



HHMMMHBH 






Page Four 

press her with social invitations. Georgia has 
youth's yearning for "a good time." Why have 
beauty, wealth and fame unless these elements 
co-ordinate in the tangible result of "having a 
good time?" Georgia enthusiastically enters into 
"having a good time" by following the path of 
all newly-rich since riches first began. When 
Georgia's chauffeur drives her gaily decorated 
limousine into the pathway of pleasure, it rolls 
along the ancient highway of peacock display, of 
vanity, selfishness and carelessness. 

The thrifty Egyptian steward who got rich 
quick three thousand years ago — the political and 
business bosses of the Roman Empire who fat- 
tened by exploiting colonies — the group of new 
millionaires thrust into the limelight when An- 
drew Carnegie and J. P. Morgan reorganized the 
steel industry— the Wall Street plungers that rise 
to great wealth in every boom period — in each 
group history repeats itself. 

Few men and women can be drawn suddenly 
from poverty into riches, from obscurity into 
dazzling publicity, and avoid folly. Adulation, 
flattery by speech, letter and printed page, in addi- 
tion to a weekly check of huge size, is too great 
a burden for any human being to assume easily, 
Georgia and her associates have been no more 
successful, nor no less successful, in attempting 
the impossible than have any of their predecessors 
from the time of Thebes to date. 

There is, however, the noteworthy distinction 
that film stars are more widely known than the 
"fast sets" of Pittsburg steel or Newport high 
society. The screen is a mighty engine of pub- 
licity, and the professional personalities of its 
famous players have become familiar to members 
of millions of households. Because of this in- 
timacy — this "star-worship" — there is deep-seated, 
genuine distress and indignation when scandal 
attaches to the name of a famous player. 



Unfortunately for the motion picture industry, 
the playground of its pleasure-seekers is Los Ang- 
eles instead of New York. Los Angeles has six 
hundred thousand population, and New York has 
six million. In Manhattan, Georgia's extravagance 
and enthusiastic manners would pass unnoted. 
Georgia would be swallowed and easily digested 
by the great Broadway of the East. But the 
smaller Broadway of the West is composed of 
different material. 

"Dishing the dirt" is the favorite pastime of 
studio people. It is their great indoor and out- 
door sport. "Dishing the dirt" is movie lingo for 
gossip, and no folks anywhere can excel the pic- 
ture people in this line of exercise. If a girl buys 
a new gown, if a man gets a new motor car ; if a 
director is pleasant to an actress; if two players 
dance together twice at Cocoanut Grove or Sun- 
set Inn — the tongues begin to twitter. No small- 
town barber shop or sewing society equals the 
movie group as gabblers and scandal-mongers. 

Every journey of a star's limousine is noted. 
Every dollar she owes on her jewels is discussed. 
Gossip travels rapidly from the studios to the hair- 
dressing parlors, dressmaking and other establish- 
ments and filters into the hotels and apartments 
that house the tourists. Not only are Georgia and 
her playmates made famous by press and screen — 
they are subjects of such constant, colorful gossip 
in Los Angeles that every visitor hungers to get 
glimpses of them in real life. Admission to 
studios is hard to get, so that the ordinary tourist 
must be contented to gaze at the residences of the 
stars or to stand in admiration as Georgia's limou- 
sine flashes through the streets. The wealthy 
visitors can afford to visit Cocoanut Grove, the 
Green Mill, Sunset Inn and other public places 
where kings and queens of moviedom congregate, 
and when Georgia appears at one of these places, 
eastern bankers and their wives struggle for a 
glimpse of her, and the daughters of New York, 
Boston, Philadelphia, Chicago industrial kings 
park their eyes on her from her entrance to her 
exit. 

The gossip does not stop in Los Angeles — it is 
taken home by the tourists, and the stories lose 
nothing in their travels. The silly or jealous 
tittle-tattle of the studios assumes the form of 
serious slander after it has passed into national 
circulation. 

"Dishing the dirt" in the studios is the founda- 
tion stone of the widespread misunderstanding of 
picture morals— and movieland has only itself to 
blame for this condition. It has gossiped about 



itself, and slandered itse 1 .; -in jealousy, vanity, 
carelessness and ignorance it has sown the wind 
of tittle-tattle and it is now reaping the whirlwind 
of unjust and terrible notoriety. 

Foolish? Yes, Extravagant? Yes, Lack of 
refinement? Yes, often, and in the same degree 
that gave fame to the Waldorf-Astoria's "Pea- 
cock Alley" in the days of the Pittsburg effort 
to make a dent on little old New York. 

A "modern Babylon," with a dash of "Sodom 
and Gomorrah?" Let us see. 

When you think it over, do you not agree that 
.you expect picture people to be human beings? 
Although the press agents strive earnestly to por- 



rrrKK 




Priscilla, Dean, wife of 
Wheeler Oakman, and a 
home lover, who, neverthe- 
less, admits .to' living in 
Hollywood. 



tray the players as a group of supermen and 
superwomen — gods and goddesses far removed 
from ordinary mankind — the players- themselves 
are merely plain folks, such as you and I. There 
is no difference between them and other residents 
of any large city. Is it not reasonable, then", to 
measure them by the same standard of morals 
and ethics that is used in appraising the conduct 
of lawyers, bankers, merchants, stenographers, 
clerks, school teachers, newspaper reporters, me- 
chanics and other classes ? Is it not fair to regard 
the picture people as human beings and to insist 
that they subscribe to the same laws as other 
human beings and that they receive the treatment 
from press and public similar to that accorded 
to other members of society? 

Individuals deserving of censure should be cen- 
sured, but the entire motion picture colony should 
not be thrown into the shadows because of a 
noisy, foolish minority. 

A minister's son is on trial for murder. Does 
the community declare that all minister's sons 
are murderers? 

A doctor is charged with assault. Does the 
community infer that all doctors may be charged 
with assault? 

A lawyer is threatened with disbarment because 
of alleged dishonorable practices. Does the com- 
munity believe that all lawyers are dishonorable? 

Certainly not. The public distinguishes be- 
tween individuals. 



The overwhelming majority of players, direc- 
tors and highly paid technical workers conduct 
themselves in the same manner as other residents 



MOVIE WEEKLY 

of Los. Angeles. They buy h"mcs. rai-c ch- 

pay taxes, go to church or play pi 

to their individual tastes and inclination. Their 

conduct differs in no degree from that of the 

other business and professional people oi Lis 

Angeles. 

This statement is supported by abundant evi- 
dence. The court records of Los Angeles county 
prove that very few players, directors, tech- 
nical or business people have been accused of 
crimes. The cases are so few in number as to 
be negligible. The one outstanding criminal 
charge is that against a famous comedian. 

Hints of "wild parties," "drunken orgies," "t'ope 
parlors" and "licentious debaucheries rivalling 
those of Rome in her days of decline," are con- 
spicuously not accompanied by specific informa- 
tion in regard to these degrading events, but a 
stream of innuendo causes the public to absorb 
the idea that Los Angeles is a hotbed of iniquity. 

The evidence is to the contrary. Los Angeles 
is preeminently a church and home city. The 
religious elements of the community are so pow- 
erful that Los Angeles is regarded as almost 
Puritanical. Long before the Volstead act, Los 
Angeles drove the saloons out of existence by 
the passage of sensible enforceable laws; and for 
years there has been no "red-light district." I 
am familiar with nearly all the large cities on 
this continent and I am confident that no large 
city is better governed than Ijss Angeles nor is 
any city more jealous of its reputation. 

The leading industry of Los Angeles is that 
of caring for the scores of thousands of tourists 
who go there annually. These tourists are nearly 
all family folks, and Los Angeles is careful to 
convince its visitors that it is the best city in 
America for them to choose as permanent homes. 
That Los Angeles succeeds in so convincing them 
is proved by her steady large increase in popu- 
lation. 

If dope, drunkenness and licentiousness pre- 
vailed in the picture colony, the police force and 
sheriff's office would be compelled by the church 
people and the city's business interests to drive 
the movie makers out of town. The case of the 
comedian and the assassination of a famous di- 
rector have caused most rigid, most complete ex- 
aminations of every phase and every detail of 
picture life. Not only have scores of detectives, 
and private investigators spurred by the offer of 
large rewards, gone into every scandal, they have 
traced each piece of gossip to its farthest end. 
Xo corruption, and no hint of corruption, has 
escaped them. It is doubtful if any group in 
the country has ever been subjected to such an 
exhaustive examination. 

What evidences d( degradation and debauchery- 
have been revealed by these investigators? Almost 
none, or the jails of Los Angeles would now be 
packed. The officials of the law have learned that 
there are very few evil men and women in pic- 
tures, and that the great majority of even the 
foolish, vain, extravagant newly-rich are neither 
dopsters. drunkards, nor degenerates. This is 
the testimony not only of police officers, but of 
business men, linisters and club women and 
other citizens who have studied the situation, and 
of famous novelists who live in the colony. 



Estimates of the number of people employed in 
the production of motion pictures in Los Angeles 
places the total at forty to fifty thousand. Ar- 
tisans and mechanics of all trades and laborers 
form the bulk of this army. 

I have tried to calculate the number of promi- 
nent men and women in the industry, including 
all professional, business and technical depart- 
ments, and the number cannot fall short of three 
thousand. Perhaps five thousand would be more 
nearly correct. 

Aside from those I have classified as "promi- 
nent." many men and women are employed in 
small parts in pictures. These are known as 
"extras." They work day by day, as they can 
secure employment. If a picture requires several 
hundred cowboys, they are available. If a hun- 
dred girls are wanted for a Turkish harem scene, 
several hundred apply for the positions. Smartly 
dressed men and women furnish the "atmosphere" 
for great ballroom sets. Thousands of men, 
women and children can be obtained for street 
scenes in a strike or a riot, or for any of the 
sets in which large crowds are required. 
: (Continued on page 29) 



MOVIE WEEKLY 



P«.?«? Five 



I 



nhe Cobrful and Romantic 

Story of WrnQfJaylorsBfe 

Cby7ivmcaiB.J£andy 



N a room of a far downtown New York 
hotel, a worn, anxious man showing the after- 
effects of intoxication, paced the floor nerv- 
ously. He would walk to the window ever 
so often and look out. He seemed to be expect- 
ing someone. 

A knock on the door . . .he is nervous, yet 
cheered. It is a messenger . . . and William D. 
Taylor, the expectant, seems gladdened. 

The messenger brought him what, a short while 
before, he had telephoned to his office for — six 
hundred dollars. The money, in greenbacks, h<j 
pocketed eagerly, and he could hardly wait for 
the messenger to depart before he took his hat 
and also departed. 

For blocks he walked — down through crowded 
business streets, small by-ways where sidewalk 
peddlers hawked their wares, narrow alleys where 
tenements flanke4» : the,.-, sidewalks and children 
played noisily, dirtrfy, in the streets. At length 
he reached the waterfront — and it was there, 
among the dross, that he intended to seek solace 
for the time being from his inner woes. 

Taylor was worried. For several days past he 
had been drinking rather heavily. Trouble with 
his wife, certain of his friends asserted. But this 
pilgrimage of his into the slums was not neces- 
sarily a new thing for him, for, frequently in 
those days, he would relieve his mind of its 
varied cares by participating in the life the "other 
half" of society lives. 

On numerous other occasions— on other pilgrim- 
ages — he had thus communed with his less for- 
tunate brothers. Throughout his entire life, 
however, he never regarded wayward humanity 
as beneath notice. Other artists, at other times, 
have communed likewise — and, like him — have re- 
turned to their uptown habitations mentally re- 
freshed and spiritually enlivened for their contact 
with the other half's suffering. 

There were wharvesmen on the Battery who 
used to call Taylor "Bill." And, in tiny Wash- 
ington Square, there was even a gin-sotted pit! 
woman who referred to the handsome art con- 
noisseur as "her son," for he befriended her at 
a moment when a policeman was on the verge of 
arresting her as a vagrant. 

With the shades of early evening falling, with 
the lights of boats in the river twinkling on the 
water. Taylor sought refuge in a "joint" wherein 
corned beef and cabbage formed a questionably 
delectable menu for the lower strata of New 
York's humanity. He was seated at a table eat- 
ing and drinking; various acquaintances, knowing 
that he would have money to "stand treat," joined 
him — and a good-natured revelry ensued wherein 




3 



In his Captain's uniform 
the British Army. 



Ethel Clayton, one of the 
stars directed by Taylor. 



Tn.ilor was host to as varied an aggregation of 
types as could be possibly found. Some were 
already in their cups, and he was the merry 
toastmaster, singing his "Pat O'Leary" song and 
getting them to join in the chorus. 

And the party continued until late. He arose 
to go and paid for his "feed," and when he walked 
out of the establishment two dark-visaged men 
who had been standing by. watching him — men 
who had not joined in his merry-making — fol- 
lowed. 

Up dark streets he picked his way, headed for 
the more happy section of New York that was 
his home. Around a corner . . . into an alley . . . 
a short cut . . . hurried, muffled steps behind him 
... a sudden blow . . . and Taylor fell to the 
sidewalk, stunned . . . two men going through his 
pockets. 

Having robbed him of his remaining green 
backs, the thugs picked him up and carried" him 
back up the alley, through other alleys — and even- 
tually to a wharf where a wind-beaten schooner 
lay with the muddy waters of the East River lap- 
ping its sides. They took him into a darkened 
hole below decks and left him to revive — and 
when he came to, he could hear the pounding of 
waters on wooden ship walls, and could realize 
that he had been — shanghaied. 

The trip was a long one, months in the making. 
The ship, a "tramp," sailed at random into mam 
ports on many seas. Africa, the Canary Islands, 
and the Mediterranean were included in its itin- 
erary, and Taylor had become used to the sea- 
man's hard labor lot to which he had unwittingly 
fallen. 

At an African port he had an opportunity to 
leave the ship, but the life appealed to him and 
he stuck to its standards. There were other land- 
ings made and other seas sailed — and, finally, one 
day, the weather-scarred "tramp" put into the 
harbor at Portland, Ore. 

With money in his pockets, new life in his body, 
Taylor set about rehabilitating himself accord- 
ing to his precepts of a gentleman. He heard of 
a repertoire company forming to play in Eastern 
cities, and, by virtue of his past experience with 
Fanny Davenport, was able to qualify as one of 
its actors. 

But. on arriving in Montreal, he found that 
the fortunes of the company were not altogether 
lucrative. The actors fought among themselves, 
and discord reigned generally. 

A group of men were making plans for a trip 
into the Klondike, where gold offered alluring 
enticements — sufficient reward for the hardships 
(Continued on page 8) 







Page Six 



MOVIE WEEKLY 



QheHappy Struggles oP r 

(^yifPectionatdi] recounted by 

■—MfflrMi *— " fatlipr vvlin ImH h*»1rsncr*»H tn tUp ?7nH Ppcrimpnt T-T*» t^t^l r«o !,*> Vi'jrl Kaait oy-»^ hitt latpr urhpti 




A/rs. Caroline H . Barthelmess, Uick's mother. 

This photo of his mother in her youthful 

days, reveals the likeness between mother and 

son. 



It is hard to make a diffident' person talk 
about himself. Dick Barthclmcss doesn't 
like to. He prefers to be accepted by those 
he meets as a "regular feller." You have 
to talk with his mother to hear stories of 
him, of how he grew up under her care. 
how he went to school, wrote poems, articles, 
short stories, was cheer-leader at college, 
and valedictorian, how he paraded about in 
a uniform when he was at military school, 
how he dabbled about with theatricals, ama- 
teur and professional, until finally he made 
off to o motion picture studio, to rise slowly 
at first, and then- with amazing suddenness, 
into prominence as a featured player and 
then as a star. But enough, Mrs. Barthcl- 
mcss tells "Movie Weekly" readers about 
the son she so dearly loves.- 



DICK takes after his father. There never 
was such a man as his father . . . 
We were living in an apartment on 
Central Park West, overlooking the park, 
when Dick was born, in 1895. In those days we 
never thought any of us would attempt to make 
our living on the stage, and the motion picture 
wasn't even heard of then. I had spent my own 
youth in China. My uncle was the episcopal 
bishop, William J. Boone, and I had lived in 
the atmosphere of the foreign mission in the 
Orient. We had had no professionals to amuse 
us, so occasionally we put on amateur perform- 
ances, and I played in some of them when I was 
a girU But ~that had been the extent of my 
experience with the stage. 
A little over a year after Dick's birth, his 



father, who had belonged to the 22nd Regiment, 
died. We lived on at the old place on Central 
Park West, but when my resources became low, 
about the time Dick was eight years old, I deter- 
mined that Dick would not suffer for lack of 
education or the proper upbringing on my ac- 
count, so I determined to try my hand at the 
stage. I had met Mr. Belasco, and through him 
I obtained an engagement with Mrs. Fiske, in 
"Mary of Magdalen." 

Until that time, Dick had gone to Hamilton 
Institute, opposite the American Museum of 
Natural History, a few blocks from where we 
lived. But as soon as I saw that my efforts to 
become an actress were meeting with success, I 
knew that I would have to send him to an insti- 
tution where his entire welfare would be watched 
over. He had been a dutiful boy; he was entirely 
devoted to me, but I was just as well satisfied that 
he should go to a boys' school, where he would 
learn to be a man among men. 

After a great deal of examination of the pros- 
pectuses of various schools, I chose the Hudson 




J3t 



A later photo of Dick and his mother. 

They are great pals, and Dick usual! 

goes over a story with her. 



River Military Academy, near Nyack. It wa: 
ideally situated, overlooking the river, and it 
offered education plus plenty of good exercise out- 
of-doors. This was during the height of Col. 
Roosevelt's popularity and the school was bm'* 
on the lines of a cavalry academy, training the 
boys for special horsemanship and in cavalry 
drills. Dick wore a cavalry uniform, with a broad 
yellow stripe down the pants, attd he was a pretty 
picture as he strode along beside me. The boys 
rode on small ponies, and Dick went through his 
part of things very manfully. 

Nevertheless, I think he must have been more 
or less awed by his freedom at first, and not at 
all unafraid of the drills. One reason why I chose 
the Nyack school was that a distant relative of 
ours had sent his boy there. This lad, who was 
known as "Sud" Palmer, was Dick's constant 
companion. 

I remember visiting the school one day and 
asking Dick whether he had been a good boy. 



He told me he had been good, but later, when 
he was. talking about the drills, he mentioned 
that "Sud" had been afraid of the ponies and had 
gone through the formation with tears streaming 
down his face. 

Then Dick's habit of telling the truth came to 
the front. "Mother," he said, "you think I was 
a good boy. Well. I pummelled the life out of 
'Sud* Palmer for crying." 

Dick's first appearance in public took place at 
that school. At the commencement, he recited a 
poem called "Little Brown-Eyed Rebel." I ar- 
rived at Nyack too late to be present at the 
commencement, but early enough for the dance 
that was to follow. Dick met me at the station, 
looking rather peculiar. 

"Well, what happened, son?" I asked him. 

"Nuthin'," he replied. 

"But why do you look at me so funnily? Some- 
thing must be wrong." 

He could contain himself no longer. He pushed 
hack the lapel of his coat and showed me the 
medal he had won for his recitation. 

Dick's first trip with show people took place 
at that time. During one of the holidays, I took 
him with me to Chicago. Tyrone Power headed 
the company. He played the part of a man who 
was supposed to be down-and-out, and on his 
return to his home, he appeared on the stage in 
a makeup that was positively repulsive. The 
critics scored his makeup, but he persisted in 
using it. saying that the role required it.. One 
dav Dick remarked : 

"Whv does Mr. Power make himself look so 
dirtv?" 

The stage manager laughed, and remarked that 
the boy certainly had good judgment in deter- 
mining stage effects. 

Dick's first appearance on the stage took place 
in those Nyack days. Mrs. H. C. de Mille had 
produced a nlay for children which was being 
offered at holiday week matinees in Boston. Dick 
came down to visit me. wearing his uniform as 
m'anfullv as possible. The play, which was called 
"The Little Princess," had a bov's part in it, % 
part olaved then by Donald Gallagher, but re- 
quired also the use of a large number of little 



Dick's father. Alfred IV. Barthelmess. 
n officer in the U. S. 22nd Regiment. 




MOVIE WEEKLY 



Page Sever, 



DickBarthelmess toTopuhrStar 

his Mother ,Mis. Caroline RBarthclmess 



girls. Dick fitted i« as a little girl and so he was 
made up for that part and played it, as an extra. 
He enjoyed it mightily, so much so, that when, 
during the following year, Mrs. de Mille obtained 
the use of the Lyceum Theatre in New York, she 
was given a full two weeks' engagement. 

Dick came to New York that time, his trunk 
full of Christmas gifts, and during the first week 
he went back to his old part, one without lines. 
as a girl. But Donald Gallagher fell ill at the 
end of the first week, and the manager of the 
company suggested to me that Dick would do 
in the part. 

I told him quite frankly that Dick had had no 
real experience, and might make a miserable fail- 
ure of it. 

"I think he can do it. Let's give him a chance," 
he replied. 

I was playing the role of a mother of several 
children, in steps, from a tiny tot to a sizeable 
girl. Dick was to be the only boy. He cried 
bitterly because he couldn't play a girl. We 
rehearsed the boy's role together at home, and 
Dick learned it letter perfect, all except one part. 
I was supposd to wear a long train, and to play 
a great lady. I was to rise in my drawing room 
and to greet a visitor, saying : 

"I am charmed to know you." 

As I turned and extended my hand, Dick, in 
the boy's part, was to unroll himself from my 
train, to execute a flop and to come up standing. 
This bit was always worth a good laugh, and 
Dick was so afraid that he would miss on the 
flop that he made me rehearse him in it a dozen 
times, and he went on with the part successfully. 

When Dick completed his course at the Hudson 
Academy, he didn't know what prep school to 
enter. He was visiting some friends at that 
time, and found himself in a Christian Science 
group. During his visit, the family dog, a beauti- 
ful shepherd named Tad, fell ill. Dick's hosts, 
instead of catling in a veterinarian, employed 
Science to cure the dog. They succeeded so well 
that Dick was greatly impressed, and insisted on 
adopting their recommendation to go to Manor 
School, at Stamford, Connecticut, a Christian 
Science institution. 



Dick, a rolly-polly youngster at the age /^""V 
of five. 



'lhere he again lived in ideal surroundings. 
Manor was on a bluff overlooking the ocean, and 
Dick had a room in an old house which had for- 
merly been occupied by Edwin Booth. He was 
very active at Manor. At Hudson he had been 
trained in horsemanship, and he had gone skating, 
ice-boating on the river and had had considerable 
out-of-door exercise, although he was not par- 
ticularly inclined toward athletics. At Manor he 
did a little in the track meets, but he excelled more 
as a writer. He was editor of the Papyrus, the 
school publication, he tried, out for the football 
team, and he was the valedictorian. 

When he was still at Hudson, I had forbidden 
him to swim in the river, principally because the 
school was below Nyack and I was afraid that 
the water would be contaminated by the sewage. 
But you couldn't keep him out of the water. I 
visited the school one day, and was with a group 
of the boys. Dick had assured me he had never 
gone in swimming, but I heard the boys say they 
thought they would go in for a swim. 

"But you don't swim down here, do you?" I 
asked. 





"Oh, nOj" one of them replied. "We don't go in 
swimming^ do we, Dick?" 

And my boy looked at me rather sheepishly. 
He was too active to withstand restraint of that 
kind. And it was this same activity which earned 
for him the honor of being ' valedictorian at 
Manor, The school wanted to honor some of the 
sons of richer parents than Dick had, but his 
work had been so good that the offer was made 
to him, after the failure of a boy who had been 
designated previously to write something accept- 
able. Dick was told to choose any subject he 
cared for. He went to the library and, as he 
had. seen Maeterlinck's "Blue Bird"" with me, he 
wrote an article called "The Joy of School Life," 
based on that play. 

When Dick left Manor, we knew that we did 
not have a business man on our hands. Like his 
father, who often said that he could not stand 
being cooped up- in a business office, Dick-had 
shown evidences of a desire to break away from 
the routine of a business life. "He had shown 









One of Mrs. Barthetmcss 
favorite pictures of her sai, 
during his school days- 
some little talent as an artist, principally in draw- 
ing valentines for me, I must confess, but he had 
written a great deal, and had entered activeh 
the literary life at school. 

I still have a copy of one of his poems. It :- 
a crude thing, but it is air evidence of his ten- 
dencies. 

It is called "Friends of Shakespeare.' - The 
frayed, yellowing copy I have is pencilled, and 
was written when he was no more than twelve." 

It was only a childish effort, yet it showed 
what Dick preferred. But I could not afford lo 
send him to college just then. That season I 
playing the mother in "The Only Son'' cm the 
road. We had booked Kansas City, and when 
I reached that city I was visited by Sidney C 
Partridge, whom I had known in China. He was 
a pastor and he had always shown a deep interest 
in Dick. We talked Dick's- future over one i veil 
ing during my stay in Kansas City. On my way 
back to the East, I stopped off again to see Mr. 
Partridge. He had recommended Trinity Col- 
lege, and said he might be able to arrange to 
help Dick through Trinity. T had written to Dick 
in the meantime and asked if he would like to go 
to Trinity. It was near Manor, He had met 
several Trinity boys and it was acceptable to him 
in every way. Later, he was given a scholarship 
there, and his university career began. 



In her concluding article, Mrs. Barthcl- 
mess relates' the story of Dick's days i>< 
Trinity. How Dick xvent into pictures xtrill 
be related both by his mother and by 
himself. 



MOVIE WEEKLY 



nhe Colorful and Romantic 
Story of Wm&fjaylors &Fe 



rWt^TH, 




UNDLKVV'JOD AND UNDERWOOD 

Showing Director Taylor wearing the stripes of 
a "non-com" in the ranks of the English Army. 

that an Alaskan expedition would surely bring 
forth. 

But Taylor was used to hardships. In his 
heart was the continual desire for adventure, and 
he felt that no hardships that he would experience 
on a gold-hunting expedition could in any Way 
compare with those he had rather recently under- 
gone as a seaman on the tramp schooner. 

He set out from Montreal via the famous "long 
route" across Canada. Eventually he found him- 
self crossing the Canadian Rockies — and still he 
and his fellow voyage'tirs kept on. 

History tells of the rough-and-tumble assort- 
ment of characters that went into the Klondike 
in those boom days. There were the dregs of 
humanity and the dross of civilization gone "north 
of S3" to seek their fortune, but Taylor was un- 
daunted. He had met rough people before in his 
life ; ' in fact, he enjoyed the freshness of their 
viewpoint, the primitive quality of their inherent 
conventons. 

At first he worked with other prospectors in 
the ice-clad Alaskan fields. Later, however, he 
found it to his advantage to keep a store for 
miners, and this proved to be a bonanza for him. 
In Nome he fell ill with typhus fever and nearly 
died, and, weakened, he began to yearn once again 
for his home in the States. With a small fortune 
in his pockets he returned, and finally made his 



Continued Fvom Qcxge S 

way to Boston, wheie he was a member of the 
;amous Castle Garden theatre company. 

But, at that time of his life — when he was 
merging from youth into the fullest of manhood 
—when he had • found his ideals alternately 
strengthened and shaken, shaken and strengthened 
—he could not control his desire to see the land 
uf the midnight sun. Alaska seemed to be in 
his blood. 

And, beside, he was embittered, made sorrow- 
ful by the outcome of his marriage, for he learned 
that his wife had divorced him. 

Again he set out for the frozen north ; and 
again do we find him fighting in the eternal strug- 
gle of mankind for his stake. The scratching of 
•.lie earth for its gold did not directly appeal to 
him and, in Dawson, a town that had sprung up 
mushroom-like and comprised only the most basic 
' undamentals of civilization. Taylor soon came 
to be known as "the man who could play a banjo." 

But he had both ability and ambition. Merely 
playing a banjo — even though its metallic tones 
brought him ready money from the amusement- 
hungry denizens of the north country — failed to 
satisfy him. The proprietor of a small theatre, 
wherein a company of stock actors labored un- 
ceasingly, recognized, in Taylor, a man who could 
carry on the work successfully. 

He was engaged as producer and stage director. 
Often he would act — and, frequently, he would 
paint the scenery to suit his requirements. 

None of the old sourdoughs who are now scat 
tered throughout the country, living on the wealth 
they amassed in those earlier days, are impressed 
by a name so imposing as William Desmond Tay 
lor. But they all remember him as "Bill," who 
produced what they considered very high-cla>- 
'lays at "Arizona Charley's" popular house. Sonn 
recall him as Jimmy Taylor — and, to others, h: 
was known as 'Gene. 

But, according to an old miner acquaintance of 
Taylor's, the carefully-groomed, reserved, quiet 
Englishman harbored a secret sorrow, which, with 
him, was deep and everlasting. 

And it was apparent to his two housemates, a 
prospector and a poet, botl' of whom had gone 
north to recoup lost wealth and fortunes. Hi 
would work at his theatre until late at night and. 
frequently, on arriving home, would be steeped 
in deep thought. 

But he never divulged the reason for that 
sorrow — and persons who knew him could onl> 
sense what he was suffering by the deep sighs 
that occasionally made themselves heard, much 
against his wishes. 

For Taylor's was "a grief that you can't con- 
trol," to use the phrase of a poet. 

The money Taylor made in the north he in- 
vested unwisely in the United States. Came :i 
letter to him one day telling him that his presenci 
was needed in San Francisco. As silently as hi 
had slipped into Alaska, he slipped out of it. 
Perhaps, he kept thinking, he could live quieti> 
in the States on his earnings — perhaps . . . ! 

But, as the hand of tragedy has pointed so 
poignantly in his direction all through his life. S" 
does it point again toward him. For, in Sai. 
Francisco, his solicitors informed him that he had 
lost his savings. 

He was penniless ! 

Again there was that heart-rending search for 
work — something, anything, to do to keep food 
in his mouth and a roof over his head. And yet 
even though his talents were many, he suffered 
horrible privations for days, for work was scarce. 

Finally he met Harry Corson Clarke, the globe- 
trotting actor, who was preparing to take hi- 
company en tour to the Hawaiian Islands. He 
offered the down-and-out man a chance, once 
again, to return to the stage, and Taylor took it. 
Nevertheless, his craving for the money-fields of 
Alaska had not been stilled. He told his em- 



ployer tales of the northern Eldorado — of the 
chances a man had to rehabilitate himself in the 
graces of his God and his fellow men. And, 
further, he would say that he had a claim "up 
there" that he wanted money to work — a claim 
that would make him fabulously rich if he could 
but get sufficient backing to open it. 

Always with this ambition of getting fabulously 
rich in mind, he set sail for Honolulu with the 
Clarke aggregation. Rehearsals were in progress 
while the boat journey was being made, and by 
the time the company reached their mid-Pacific 
destination, the show was ready to go on. 

For a month Taylor acted in the play. And 
then, one day, he learned that carpenters were 
needed to help build a new theatre which was 
in course of construction. 

Alaska! His dream of getting money to work 
his claim ! 

Once again did his mind revert to these musings. 
And, to earn more money — or, as he afterward 
said, to "bring Alaska some months nearer" — he 
got work as a carpenter. 

It was a trying ordeal, this working by day 
with hammer and saw and acting in the theatre 
at night, but Taylor did it for the remaining two 
months that Clarke played in Honolulu. 

His one thought — his sole ambition — was then 
to make a success of his mining claim in far-ofi 
Alaska. But, even though he had worked un- 
(Continucd on page 31) 



riVVw 




Director 



William de Mille, cue if Taylor's 
studio co-workers. 



MOVIE WEEKLY 



Page Nint 



fDoris K&ny on s<xys:— 

Qakp your zoork^notjdurself, seriously.." 



WITH memories of Doris Kenyon's 
excellent work as feature player in 
the Broadway success, "Up the Lad- 
der," and in such screen productions as 
"Get Rich Quick Wallingford" "The Ruling 
Passion," and others, we meander over to 
her New York apartment, one delightful 
spring day in April to see that charming 
individual in person. 

You are exuberant with the vague promise 
of something new that springtime breathes 
into your being. And so you enter the 
elevator and up to Doris' apartment, where 
she lives with her mother and father. It is 
Doris, herself, who opens the door to your 
ring. And the promise of spring is per- 
sonified, in the sincerity of her who smiles 
gladly as she welcomes you. 

You are guided to the living room, simply 
and artistically furnished, with a row of 
fascinating books at the far end. The spirit 
of home is in this room. And you are 
happy. 

Doris takes your .things and as you seat 
yourself with a gratefulfisigh into the yield- 
ing softness of the chaii-e lounge, your eyes 
view with pleasure the tall, willowy grace- 



Tramping — a favorite 
outdoor pastime. 



by BilJie Blenton 





ful figure that walks across the room. Your 
heart responds to the radiant smile and the 
happiness shining from the violet-blue eyes. . 
They revel in the dimple that is the natural 
beauty spot that guide them to the soft lips. 
It is good to be alive. 

You talk — of many subjects. Not of Doris. 
You commence to air your views with daring 
emphasis on things you don't know much 
about. Doris is interested. So are you. Why 
not? Aren't you doing all the talking? Doris 
listens earnestly, and now and then disagrees, 
whereupon an argument ensues. Suddenlyyou 
become conscious of a dark suspicion — Doris 
is an extraordinarily good interviewer. If you 
don't watch your p's and q's she'll get a story 
— not you. Therefore, finding yourself at a 
loss how to approach the subject of Doris 
with interview — subtlety, you resort to blunt- 
ness. 

Naturally, those of us who are doing this 
interview want to know how Doris achieved* 
her first humble start on stage and screen. 



APEDA 

Doris Kenyan in a happy mood. 



She sighs, and gazes at you dolorously, a 
whimsical smile slightly parting the lips. De- 
liberately you gaze fiercely at nothing. Being 
thus trapped, Doris needs must talk about 
herself. 

"To tell you the truth," she confesses with a 
laugh broken by a serious undertone, "I didn't 
intend going into pictures at all. I aspired to 
be an opera singer, I hope to be one, some 
day. So while I went to school, I studied 
voice. One day at my teacher's studio, I sang 
for Victor Herbert. He knew Madame Von 
Feilitzach and through her. became interested 
in me. and offered me a small part in his new 
musical comedy, "Princess Pat." 

"Wasn't I the proud person when I entered 
to say my few words! And wasn't I sur- 
charged with a confidence that awes me to 
this day. I had all my nerve them. But not 
now. 

"Well, we opened on Broadway, The prima 
donna was suffering from first-night nervous- 
ness.. I wondered how she could. I don't any- 
more? Being fired with confidence, I taxed it 
to the extreme by gazing blissfully around at 
the audience. In the front row was a man 
who stared at me continually, only to turn to 
talk to his companion and then to resume his 
staring. 

"I was standing next to Sam Hardy and was 
so thrilled at this attention that I turned to 
him and whispered: 'That man in the first row 
there is talking about us.' Sam motioned for 
me to be quiet but I couldn't, I was so excited. 

"The long and short of it," chuckled Doris, 
"was the stage manager came to see me after 
the performance and told me that the Presi- 
dent of a motion picture company, believed I 
had a screen face and wanted me .to 'phone him 
the next day to make an appointment for a test. 

"I wasn't especially excited at this. My 
career was to be a singer — not an actress. 
Nevertheless, I wrote the produce^ a note, and 
in due course an appointment was made and 



we motored over to. his Fort Lee Studio 
where a test was made. 

"I didn't want to go into pictures, but the 
offer was too interesting, and I signed up 
for two years with an option for the third. 

"My first picture part was in an • Alice 
Brady production, "The Rack." And her 
leading man was Milton Sills. This was a 
coincidence," she leaned forward, lightly 
clasping her hands, a movement peculiarly 
her own when she is enthused. 

"When I went to private school, my chum 
and I used to save our allowance and cut 
afternoon classes to go to a show. We saw 
one in which Milton Sills played, and we 
both fell in love with him ,at once. Yoi 
know how school girls are. 

"We went to see Milton Sills again and 
again, until the play finally left for the road. 
When I met Mr. Sills at the studio, his fact- 
struck me as vaguely familiar but I couldn't 
place him, not until those school days came 
back to me. Then I told him all about it, 
and he enjoyed the telling as much as I did. 



- la'vn 




y home. 



But wasn't that an interesting co-incidence nn 
first picture being with him?" She paused, the 
better to relish the memory. 

"Well," taking up the thread of the narra- 
tive, "it seemed that I was destined to stay in 
pictures, for I'm still in. I never abandoned 
my stage work, though, or my music — And »o 
I've just kept on working." 

"But what," we question, "what is the secret 
of your success?" 

She laughed heartily, but disagreeingly, at 
the word "success." 

"I have no secret. I simply believe in taking 
your work seriously; not yourself. If you take 
yourself seriously, it won't take you long to 
be warped by. egoism. If you take your work 
seriously, you never forget just how long and 
hard a road really lies before you before you 
arrive anywhere near the goal, Success." 

Perhaps, too, this explains Doris' broad- 
mindedness. Her onward march as a poetess, 
(Continued on page 29) 



Past Ten 




MOVIE WEEKLY 



( JfoTiiumph of Love ^ 

a< T7xe Business of Life" 



A eleven o'clock the next morning Miss 
Nevers had nol arrived at Silverwood. 
It was still raining haYd. the brown West- 
chester fields,- the leafless trees, hedges, 
paths roads, were soaked ; pools stood in hollows 
with the dead grass awash ; ditches brimmed, 
river and brook ran amber riot, and alder swamps 
.widened into lakes. 

The chances were now that she would not come 
at all. Desboro had met both morning trains, but 
she was not visible, and all the passengers had 
departed leaving him wandering alone along the 
dripping platform. 

For a while he stood moodily on the village 
bridge beyond, listening to the noisy racket of 
the swollen brook ; and it occurred to him that 
there was laughter in the noises of the water, like 
the mirth of the gods mocking him. 

"Laugh on, high ones !" he said. "I begin to 
believe myself the ass that I appear to you." 

Presentlv iie wandered back to the station plat- 
form, where he idled about, playing with a stray 
and nondescript dog or two, and caressing the 
station-master's cat; then, when he had about 
decided to get into his car and go home, it sud- 
denly occurred to him that he might telephone to 
Xew York for information. And he did so, and 
learned that Miss Nevers had departed that morn- 
ing on business, for a destination unknown, and 
would not return before evening. 

Also, the station-master informed him that the 
morning express now deposited passengers at 
Silverwood Station, on request — an innovation of 
which he had not before heard; and this put him 
into excellent spirits. 

"Aha !" he said to himself, considerably elated. 
"Perhaps I'm not such an ass as I appear. Let 
the high gods laugh !" 

So he lighted a cigarette, played with the 
wastrel dogs some more, flattered the cat till she 
nearly rubbed her head off against his legs, took 
a small and solemn child onto his knee and pre- 
sented it with a silver dollar, while its over- 
burdened German mother publicly nourished an- 
other. 

"You are really a remarkable child," he gravely 
assured the infant on his knee. "You possess a 
most extraordinary mind !" — the child not having 
uttered a word or betrayed a vestige of human 
expression upon its slightly soiled features. 

Presently the near whistle of the Connecticut 
Express brought him to his feet. He lifted the 
astonishingly gifted infant and walked out; and 
when the express rolled past and stopped, he set 
it on the day-coach platform beside its stolid 
parent, and waved to it an impressive adieu. 

At the same moment, descending from the 
train, a tall young girl, in waterproofs, witnessed 
the proceedings, recognized Desboro, and smiled 
at the little ceremony taking place. 

"Yours?" she inquired, as hat off, hand ex- 
tended, he came forward to welcome her— and 
the next moment blushed at her impulsive 
informality. 

"Oh. all kids seem to be mine, somehow or 
other," he said. "I'm awfully glad you came. I 
was afraid vou wouldn't." 

"Why?" 

"Because I didn't believe you really existed, for' 
one thing. And then the weather " 

"Do you suppose mere zveather could keep me 
from the Desboro collection? You have much to 
le.-jrn about me." 

'Til begin lessons at once," he said gaily, "if 
you Hon 't mind giving them. Do you?" 

She smiled non-committally, and looked around 
her at the departing vehicles. 

"We have a limousine waiting for us behind 
the station." he said. "It's five muddy miles." 

"I had been wondering all the way up in the 
train just how J was to get to Silverwood " 

"You didn't suppose I'd leave you to find your 
way, did you?" 

"Business people don't expect limousines." she 

Copyright by Robsn W. Chatnvw 



H r '3 



By Robert W. Chambers 



IIIIIillilMiM 



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. 

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

He is strangely interested in her and engages 
atr to catalogue his antiques. 

He puts off a pleasure trip to the south so that 
he may be home when she calls to start work. 



IIIIIIUl! 




EflMiW 



said, with an unmistakable accent that sounded 
priggish even to herself — so prim, indeed, that 
he laughed outright ; and she finally laughed, too." 

"This is very jolly, isn't it?" he remarked, as 
they sped away through the rain. 

She conceded that it was. 

"It's going to be a most delightful day," he 
predicted. 

She thought it was likely to be a busy day. 

"And delightful, too." he insisted politely. 

"Why particularly delightful, Mr. Desboro?" 

"I thought you were looking forward with keen 
pleasure to j'our work in the Desboro collection !" 

She caught a latent glimmer of mischief in his 
eye, and remained silent, not yet quite certain that 
she liked this constant running fire of words that 
always seemed to conceal a hint of laughter at 
her expense. 

Had they been longer acquainted, and on a dif- 
ferent footing, she knew that whatever he said 
would have provoked a response in kind from 
her. But friendship is not usually born from a 
single business interview : nor is it born perfect, 
like a fairy ring, over night. And it was only 
last night, she made herself remember, that she 
first laid eyes on Desboro. Yet it seemed curious 
that whatever he said seemed to awaken in her 
its echo ; and, though she knew it wa an absurd 
idea, the idea persisted that she already began to 
understand this young, man better than she had 
ever understood any other of his sex. 

He was talking now at random, idly but agree- 
ably, about nothing in particular. She. muffed 
in the fur robe, looked out through the limousine 
windows into the rain, and saw brown fields set 
with pools in every furrow, and squares of win- 
ter wheat, intensely green. 

And now the silver birch woods, which had 
given the house its name, began to appear as 
outlying clumps across the hills ; and in a few 
moments the car swung into a gateway under 
groves of solemnly-dripping Norway spruces, 
then up a wide avenue, lined with ranks of leaf- 
less, hardwood trees and thickets of laurel and 
rhododendron, and finally stopped before a house 
made of grayish-brown stone, in the rather in- 
offensive architecture of early eighteen hundred. 
Mrs. Quant, in best bib and tucker, received 
them in the hallway, having been instructed by 
Desboro concerning her attitude toward the ex- 
pected guest. But when she became aware of the 
youth of the girl, she forgot her sniffs and mis- 
givings, and she waddled, and bobbed, and curt- 
sied, overflowing with a desire to fondle, and 
cherish, and instruct, which only fear of Desboro 
choked off. 



But as soon as Jacqueline had followed hei 
to the room assigned, and had been divested of 
wet outer-clothing, and served with hot tea, Mr?. 
Quant became loquacious and confidential con- 
cerning her own ailments and sorrows, and the 
history and misfortunes of the Desboro family. 

Jacqueline wished to decline the cup of tea, 
but Mrs. Quant insisted ; and the girl yielded. 

"Air you sure you feel well, Miss Nevers?" 
she asked anxiously. i 

"Why, of course." 

"Dont be too sure," said Mrs. Quant ominously. 
"Sometimes them that feels bestest is sickest. I've 
seen a sight of sickness in my day, dearie — typod, 
mostly. You ain't never had typod, now, hev 
you ?" 

"Typhoid ?" 

"Yes'm, typod !" 

"No, I never did." 

"Then you take an old woman's advice, Miss 
Nevers, and don't you go and git it !." 

Jacqueline promised gravely ; but Mrs. Quant 
was now fairly launched on her favorite topic. 

"I've been forty-two years in this place — and 
Quant — my man — he was head farmer here when 
he was took. Typod, it was. dearie — and you 
won't never git it if you'll listen to me — and 
Quant, a man that never quarreled with his vittles, 
but he was for going off without 'em that morn- 
ing. Sez he, 'Cassie, I don't feel good this morn- 
in' !' — and a piece of pie and a pork chop layin' 
there onto his plate. 'My vittles don't set right,' 
sez he ; T ain't a mite peckish.' Sez I, 'Quant, 
you lay right down, and don't you stir a inch ! 
You've gone and got a mild form of typod,' sez 
I, knowing about sickness as I alius had a gift, 
my father bein' a natural bone-setter. And those 
was my very words, dearie, 'a mild form of typod.' 
And I was right and he was took. And when 
folks ain't well, it's mostly that they've got a 
mild form of typod which some call malairy " 

There was no stopping her ; Jacqueline tasted 
her hot tea and listened sympathetically to that 
woman of many sorrows. And, sipping her tea. 
she was obliged to assist at the obsequies of 
Quant, the nativity of young Desboro, the disso- 
lution of his grandparents and parents, and many, 
many minor details, such as the freezing of 
water-pipes in 1907, the menace of the chestnut 
blight, mysterious maladies which had affected 
cattle on the farm — every variety of death, de- 
struction, dissolution, and despondency that had 
been Mrs. Quant's portion to witness. 

And how she gloried in detailing her dismal 
career ; and presently pessimistic prophecies for 
the future became plainer as her undammed elo- 
quence flowed on : 

"And Mr. James, he ain't well, neither," she 
said in a hoarse whisper. "He don't know it, and 
he won't listen to me, dearie, but I know he's 

{Continued on page 27) 



MOVIE WEEKLY 



Page Eleven 



How to Get Into the Movies 



b 



cMabel cVormancb 



VIII. 



AS I said in the previous chat, your first stop 
in Hollywood should be at the Studio Club, 
. where you may . get some tips as to to 
employment, and learn in particular, the 
studios which are using ''extras." 

You must know that certain pictures require 
only a small cast, while others have scenes that 
call for a large number of people. Such scenes 
may take only a day to shoot; then again they 
may run along for a week or more. 

Occasionally a studio inserts a notice in the 
papers calling for extras. Usually, however, they 
can get all they want by telephoning those whom 
they have listed and whom they have employed 
before. 

Unless you are exceptionally fortunate, you 
will have to take your place in line with those 
who patiently wait at the casting offices of the 
studios. It is impossible for me or for anyone 
to tell you how to attract the attention of the 
casting director or his assistant who stands behind 
the little window marked "casting department." 

In a previous article I did advise you about 
"your appearance. Dress neatly in your best suit. 
See that your shoes are trim and polished, your 
nails manicured and your hair done in its most 
becoming fashion. Do not attempt to attract 
attention by gaudy clothes or affected manner. 
The scenes which call for "extras" are usually 
ballroom scenes, cafes or social functions of some 
sort, and for these girls are required who appear 
to be ladies. 

If possible make the acquaintance of someone 
who can introduce you to the casting director or 
his assistant. Even though there is no work at 
the moment he will be able to give you some 
advice and probably will tell you to register at 
an exchange from which 'extras" are employed. 
This exchange is a regular employment agency 
for players who do "atmosphere" or "bits." 

It will be necessary for you to have photographs 
of yourself to leave at this exchange and at the 
offices of the casting directors. .Before you have 
finished you will find that you need several dozen, 
for once you part with them you will see them 
no more. They will be placed on a file with a 
card giving information as to your appearance, 
your previous experience if any, your address 
and telephone number. 

Decide at the outset that you have perseverance 
and that you will keep going the rounds until you 
get in. Don't feel that you are being turned down 
when the casting director tells you coldly that 
there is nothing doing. 'He probably speaks the 
truth. There are no companies needing extras 
at that special time. Ask him in your best man- 
ner to take your name and telephone number in 
the event that something turns up later. Casting 
directors usually are willing to register applicants. 

I would try first to find someone who could 
introduce me or give me a note to a casting 
director, or to someone in a studio who would 



perform the introduction. Then 1 would mak* 
my call at once. It will be impossible, of course, 
to get letters to all the studios. Those where 
you have no introduction must be approached, as 
I have said, through the casting office. 

Get a list of all the studios in Hollywood, 
Culver City and Los Angeles. Visit each in turn 
until you have made yourself known to the cast- 
ing office — then keep on going until you are given 
a chance to earn an extra's pay. 

It's hard work, this making the rounds. You 
will have to spend a good many hours on the 
trolley going from Hollywood to Los Angeles, 




CMoubel cVorrnccncL 
-the (Author 



from Los Angeles to Culver City or Edendale, 
or out to the Selig studio near East Lake Park. 
It's tiresome and discouraging as are all pursuits 
that are worth while. But if you start out with 
determination and optimism you will be able to 
enjoy the game of it. By making friends you^ 
will find the road more congenial and much, much- 
easier. 

A great deal is said about the necessity for 
"pull" in getting into pictures. ' 'Pull" means 
simply friendships. You have a better chance of 
getting into any business and securing promotions 
if you have friends in that business. Personality 
counts off screen as well as on. An engaging, 
genial person soon has a lot of acquaintances, 
some of whom are travelling the same road «s 
she is and others who may be somewhat ahead 
in the game. It isn't necessary to make a chum 



of everyone you meet, but it docs no harm to 
make a friend of everyone. ■ 

You will find that there are a great many 
people in the film game who are not your sort, 
people with whom .you haven't a great deal in 
common, but there is no harm in being friendly 
toward them. Every girl must cultivate tact, if 
she doesn't already possess it, for it will he 
needed in making friends and also in keeping 
from being drawn too intimately into associations 
that she does not desire. It is fine to be a good 
fellow — the right sort of good fellow. Directors 
like to have players who are cheerful, who can 
mix fun with work and who can endure hard 
ships without grumbling. A girl who can live 
up to Kipling's poem "If" should have a great 
future in films. But a lot of beginners imagine 
that being a "good fellow" means doing exactly 
what others do. That isn't so. People respect 
you for having the character to do what you want 
to do, provided that in so doing you do not inter- 
fere with the rights of others. You do not have 
to go on parties to be a good fellow. You only 
have to be amiable, sincere, and always on the 
job at the studio. A girl who stays up late at 
night is not going to appear at her best at nine 
o'clock in the morning when the studios start 
work. Of course, you need recreation, but be 
conservative. If you want to go to a dance, make 
it a week-end night when there is no work the 
next day. I have -riade it a habit to go to bed 
early every nigh, previous to a working day 
Sometimes I retire a? early as eight o'clock, have 
my dinner served in bed and just read and relax 
until sleep comes. Sleep is the greatest beauttfier 
and health-giver in the world. And you cannot 
have too much either of beauty or of health. 

I cannot tell you in advance just which studios 
will be needing girls for extra work, but I do 
advise you to pay special attention to those which 
make comedies — such studios as the Mack Sennett. 
Christie, Hal Roach, Buster Keaton, Vitagraph 
and Universal. A producer of two-reel comedies 
is willing to take an inexperienced girl if she is 
pretty, because not much acting ability is re- 
quired for minor parts in comedies. I recently 
heard a we'1-known comedian complain that he 
found it impossible to secure enough really pretty 
girls for his comedies. There are plenty who 
are attractive to the eye, perhaps, but not many 
who stand the camera test. 

I consider the two-reel comedies the best prim 
ary schools of motion picture work. They make 
you over-act, and that is a good thing, for the 
trouble with most young actresses is that they 
cannot let fro of their emotions. They seem cold. 
Comedy calls for quick and breezy action, which 
eventually relieves a girl of self-consciousness 
and gives her spontaneity of expression. Consult 
the list of popular stars today and you will find 
that the majority started in two- reel comedies — 
Gloria Swanson, Bebe Daniels, Betty Compson 
Priscilb Dean. Marie Prevost and even Pola 
Negri, I'm told. 



SECRETS of the MOVIES 



At the Bottom of the Ocean 



XI 



THERE was a young cartoonist in Norfolk, 
Va., who had a hobby of photography. His 
father was an old sea captain who had in- 
vented a contrivance for removing treasure 
from sunken ships and, if possible, raising them. 
It consisted of a big steel coil covered on the 
outside with canvas and rubber and down the 
inside of which they could go. At the bottom it 



flanged out into a bell shape, and with glass sides 
to look out the divers could see what was go- 
ing on. 

Between the hours on the paper, the young 
cartoonist-photographer would slip out to Hamp- 
ton Roads and enjoy life. He found that by 
running a light to the bottom the fish would 
come flocking around it — that is, if fish flock. 
He made some pictures under water by pressing 
his camera • against the sides of the diving-bell 
and photographing some "croakers." 



An idea hit him. Why not put people there 
instead of croakers ? He did, with a .more com 
plex and elaborate equipment — and thus made the 
first under-water motion picture. The man was 
J. Ernest Williamson, and today he and his brother 
make practically all the under-sea pictures. 

Most of the submarine movies are made around 
the Bahamas, as the water is clear. There is much 
sunlight to help out and the white coral on the 
bottom also reflects the light. Big electric lights 
are used, and thus equipped, a camera will reach 
more than a hundred feet under the water. 



Page Twelve 



MOVIE WEEKLY 



BERNARR MACFADDEN'S 



v^- 




IT is ;i source of interest to me to know how the 
various motion picture players indulge themselves in 
physical relaxation, for, after all, that is what exer- 
cise amounts to. 

Lila Lee, now, of the younger contingent of players, 
says her two favorite sports are basketball and swim- 
ming. In fact, she goes a step further to say : "no duck 
was ever happier in the water than I when I am taking 
my plunge and swim." 

Having been on the stage and screen since she was a 
little girl. Miss Lee's time has been pretty well occupied 
with her work, but the "busier one is, the more he does." 
So it is that she says: "1 have always taken advantage 
of every opportunity to indulge in outdoor exercising. 
This is one reason, perhaps, for my splendid health and 
physical condition. I can't remember ever being sick 
and am always in the best of health." 

Then there is Charlie Chaplin who works continuously, 
either in completing one comedy or in planning his next. 
A producer-star is kept busy attending to the commercial 
as well as the artistic end of his affairs, and, even though 
a special man takes the burden of actual financial details 
off his shoulders, Charlie is kept "on the go." 



Mack Sennett 




Mack Sennett 



Betty Comfison 



MOVIE WEEKLY 



Page Thirteen 



BEAUTY PAGE 



He recognizes, however, the value of bodily welfare. Thus it is 
that right on the lot he has a swimming pool. A plunge and a hard 
rubdown quiets the nerves and pummels the blood through the weary 
body with renewed force. From what I have been told, Charlie also 
is quite a gym goer. Muscles must be kept strong and not be per- 
mitted to get flabby and soft. It stands to reason that only by actual 
work can the brain achieve success. Borne down by physical weak- 
ness, how can success come to any man or woman? 

Wallie Reid is another who is an enthusiast for sports and exer- 
cises. Mr. Reid is a member of the Hollywood Athletic Club, and 
here he enjoys the pleasure of a well equipped gym. "The value of 
athletics and good, consistent exercise," he says, "is three-fold. 
They prevent many of the small ills and indispositions to which a 
weak physique is subject; they give one the stamina to withstand 
any physical hardship which might arise at any time, and they 
develop and sustain the body in its normal, healthy state, hardening 
the muscles and keeping the human mechanism in perfect running 
order." 

Exactly! And very well put. Mr. Reid admits he never lets a 
day go by without spending an active hour in the gymnasium, this 
being quite outside his partaking of such sports as golf, tennis, polo 
and swimming. 

Those who read, take a lesson from picture players who take care 
of themselves physically with the same attention as most people 
attempt to earn their own living. 



->. 



■ i i 



V 



X 



Muck Sonn'tl 



Mack ScnncH 



BT 



Mack Snineti 



Page Fourteen 



MOIIE WEEKLY 



FORTUNE fTELLEP ~) 

Try These At Your Hallowe'en Party 



Moie Things 

you don't know abootr 
the Stars 



YOUR FUTURE FORETOLD 

IF an engaged girl wishes to know if her lover 
is faithful she must, on the eve of the festival, 
put two nuts on the bars of the grate, nam- 
ing one after her lover and one after herself. 
Should the nut named after her lover crack or 
jump, he will prove unfaithful ; if it begins to 
blaze or burn, he has a true regard for the person 
making the test; if both nuts burn together, the 
girl and her lover will be married within a short 
period. 

One of the most fortunate of Hallowe'en love 
spells is to put on a tray, 
near the bedside, before 
going to sleep, three ber- 
ries — one white, one red, 
and one black. On wak- 
ing, stretch out the hand 
and take one of the ber- 
ries with the eyes closed. 
If it is the white one, 
tradition says you will be 
married within twelve 
months ; if red yon will 
be engaged within the 
same period ; but if 
black, your destiny is to 
remain an old maid. 

To put a horseshoe un- 
der the pillow on this 
night will keep away evil 
influences from yourself 
and your lover for the 
year to come. 

Here is another Hal- 
lowe'en method by which 
a girl can discover her 
lot in marriage. Place 
three dishes on a table — 
one should be empty, an- 
other should be filled 
with plain water, and 
the other should contain 
colored fluid. Then, 
blindfolded, she must 
dip her fingers into one 
of these dishes at ran 




Suchld^ e sTn P gTe Iff e A LOVELY PHOTO OT NORMA 



If you receive a written promise of marriage, 
or any declaration of love in a letter," prick the 
words with a sharp-pointed needle; fold in three 
folds, and place it under your head when you 
retire to rest. If you dream of diamonds, castles, 
or even a clear sky, there is no deceit in the 
letter; trees in blossom, or flowers, a proposal 
soon; washing or graves show you will lose him 
to a rival; and water shows he is faithful, but 
that you will go through severe poverty with 
him for some time, though all may end well. 

AN INDIAN LOVE CHARM 

If you wish to know 
how your present love 
affair will turn out, take 
two halves of a walnut 
shell, fix a wax match in 
each with sealing-wax, 
light the matches, name 
the half shells for your- 
self and your lover, and 
set them floating in a 
basin of water. All will 
go well if they keep side 
by side with their lights 
burning; but if they 
drivt apart or overturn, 
love will grow cold or 
troubles will come to 
mar your happiness. As 
the lights burn, so you 
may judge of your 
sweetheart's fidelity and 
your own feelings. This 
is an Eastern love charm 
which comes from an- 
cient India. 

Another spell is to wet 
a shirt sleeve, Hfng it up 
near the fire to dry, and 
lie in bed watching it till 
midnight, when the ap- 
parition of your future 
partner in life will come 
into the room and turn 
the sleeve. 



is portended ; • if the 
plain-water vessel, a 
happy marriage is de- 
noted • whilst the dish of colored fluid means 
that the girl will outlive him whom she marries. 

WHOM SHALL I MARRY? 

It is not difficult to discover the initials of 
your future husband. You have only to make a 
circle with the letters of the alphabet. In the 
center mark a small circle. Over this a wedding 
ring must be steadily suspended on a single hair 
of your head. Watch to which letter the ring 
swings. The first time it will indicate the initial 
of the Christian name, the second that of the 
surname. 

AND WHEN? 

To discover when you will marry, pull a long 
hair from your head and sling on to it a bor- 
rowed wedding ring. Hold the ring suspended 
on the hair just below the top of a tumbler half- 
filled with water. Try to keep your hand as still 
as possible. The ring will begin to swing gently, 
and at last to touch the glass, and as often as 
it tinkles against the glass so many years will 
you have to wait ere you wed. 

By a slice of wedding cake it is said one may 
readily learn the future, since if a piece of it be 
passed nine times through a wedding ring and 
then laid under the pillow without the owner 
speaking or eating, the magic of the ring, com- 
bined with the cake, will cause the future spouse 
to appear in a vision tr> the sleeper. 



bq Spo-ft* 



SIGNS TO LOOK 
FOR AT TEA TIME 

To leave a teapot lid 
. . open undesignedly is an 

indication that a stranger is coming. 

A tea leaf floating in a cup is a sure .ign of a 
visitor. If two or more leaves float there will 
be two Or more visitors. If the leaf is hard the 
visitor will be a gentleman ; if soft, a lady. 

The leaf, on being taken from the cup, should 
be placed on the back of the left hand and struck 
with the side of the right fist, the striker repeating 
at each stroke the words — Monday, Tuesday, etc. 
The day the name of which is repeated when first 
the leaf adheres to the right hand is that on which 
the visitor may be expected. 

If you are not prepared to receive visitors, take 
the stick to the door and throw it from you, 
saying : 

"Pass the door, 

You've come before 
You're wanted." 

Two spoons in one saucer -foretell a wedding, 
and to tell the number of months that will elapse 
before it happens, balance one of the spoons on 
the edge of the cup, making sure it is perfectly 
dry. Then fill the ether spoon with tea, and let 
the tea drop gently into the balanced spoon. 
Every drop counts tor a s month and the number 
of months that are to pass before the wedding 
comes round is indicated when the spoon sinks. 

The bubbles that rise up in the teacup, if they 
come from sugar in the tea, are kisses ; but if the 
tea has no sugar in it, money ; to secure either you 
must skim them off and sip them up from the spoon. 



tS tis IS CJ 



Anita Stewart, Musician 

ANITA STEWART once gave music les- 
sons! It was when she was a little girl 
of twelve, tool Just when most girls 
are either playing with dolls or beginning to 
scorn them. 

It all came out this way. I was visiting Miss 
Stewart one day at her home in Hollywood, 
and her mother was lunching with us. After 
lunch, noting the piano in the corner, I asked 
Miss Stewart if she played. I found that she 
did, and very nicely. 

Then her mother told me of Miss Stewart's 
beginnings in music. 

It seems the family were not wealthy, as 
has been so often said. Miss Stewart's father 
was in the insurance and stock broking busi- 








ness, but was a merely fairly successful busi- 
ness man. Anita wanted to study the piano, 
but the family finances did not warrant her 
studying with the best teachers. 

'One day," related her mother, "Anita came 
home all elated. She had been visiting a neigh- 
bor. 'Mamma!' she exclaimed, 'What do you 
think? I've got some music pupils!' 

"She was just twelve years old then, but had 
made fair progress in her studies. So she 
faithfully stayed at home on Saturdays, when 
other little girls were playing or attending the 
matinee, and gave music lessons to stupid 
children. She earned enough to study with 
an excellent teacher. She's a wonderfully good 
girl, Anita." 



MOVIE WEEKLY 



HHlMffl ll' Hin ' H ' 




Page Fifteen 



Rambling Through the Studios oftheEasf^m 



iC \<X$ With Dorothea B. Herzog .<% 

Tola ^gri Says Charlie Chaplin cc Is Charming 



' AW:l':':!:. ' . ' .'.'.il 



jaai^Ti : i'iMh^i i'ii i 'iti 







John Barrymore Taken tq Task 

THERE is now playing on Broadway an ar- 
tistic novelty originally from Moscow, 
known as Baileff's "Chauve-Souriz." Ye 
Rambler successfully purchased seats for 
an evening's performance and anticipated a jolly 
time. 
John Barrymore and 



t^cru 




George Arliss 



loquacious friend sat 
directly behind us, 
and if Barrymore 
wasn't talking, the 
other man was, thus 
keeping up a steady 
murmur of annoy- 
ing masculine com- 
ments. 

The girl sitting 
next to us turned 
around to glare at 
Mr. Barrymore, and, 
seeing our sympa- 
thetic smile, sarcas- 
tically confided : "I 
wonder how he 
would feel if some 
one talked dur- 
ing one of his- per- 
formances ! These 
artists — pah !" 

We recalled a 



time when he did have occasion to feel in a 
similar situation. It was while he and his brother 
Lionel were co-starring on Broadway in "The 
Jest." Someone in the audience inadvertently 
whispered to a friend, whereupon John inter- 
rupted the action to step forward and sternly 
state that the play would not continue until the 
audience was quiet ! 

The girl next to us, however, not -being in a 
star position of advantage, did the next best 
thing. She turned around : 

"Would you mind keeping quiet for at le*t a 
few minutes?" acidly. Barrymore appeared sur- 
prised, which, may explain why he complied for 
"at least a few minutes." 



Another Company Gone 

The East is beginning to resemble the biblical 
desert of yore after the vociferous Children of 
Israel successfully made their long pilgrimage out 
out it. Motion picture company after company 
are pulling up stakes and embarking for the 
Coast. 

Selznick is the latest, and with Selznick goes 
Owen Moore, Elaine Hammerstein, 'Gene O'Brien 
and a batch of directors, et cetera. 

Ye Rambler conversed with several minor pic- 
ture players only the other day, and they were 
ready to weep tears at the departure of a com- 
pany hitherfore considered a sure standby. 



George Arliss to Sail 

George Arliss plans to return in June to jolly 
old London, the scene of his early histrionic 
struggles, there to play in his latest stage triumph, 
"The Green Goddess." This play has run in New 
York for the past year to capacity houses. 

Mr. Arliss plans to sail sometime in May, per- 
haps, making one more picture before that time, 
one that will be a worthy successor to "Disraeli" 
and "The Ruling Passion." 

It will be a shame to have one of our foremost 
artists leave us for any length of time, and this 
is what Mr. Arliss may have to do, if "The 
Green Goddess" scores a London success on a par 
with its New York one. Meaning, he may be 
gone for an entire year. It is- up to the folks in 
London. 



Emlee Haddon Engaged 

Word reaches us that Emlee Haddon, winsome 
little dancer and comedienne of numerous Broad- 
way musical comedies and a newcomer to motion 
pictures, has been engaged by Larry Trimble, that 
extraordinary director of Strongheart, the Ger- 
man police dog of "Silent Call" fame, as leading 
lady in his next production. Mr. Trimble, accord- 
ing to this report, thinks highly of Miss Haddon : 

"One ii almost tempted to descend to the com- 
monplace in describing her," he is said to have 
remarked, "and use the words of a one-time 
popular song, to say that everything about Miss 
Haddon causes her to stand out as a feature in 
any scene with which she is connected." 

Coming from Larry Trimble this means a great 
deal. More power to Miss Haddon in her climb 
to success. 

***** 

"Foolish Wives" in New York 

Don't be misled by the scarehead. An Egyptian 
Prince recently arrived in these parts, but no 



rtsren 




l J ota Neyri 

foolish wives. "Foolish Wives" refers only to 
Von Stroheim's million dolar production of that 
name. And those in the cast now here in New 
York number : Miss DuPont, whose name in the 
picture is Margaret Armstrong; Maude George, 
one of the cousin-heavies of the "no-count" Monte 
Carlo vagabond, and Mae Busch. 

Folks have asked us why Miss DuPont ever 
adopted this name. Well, we don't know. It 
seems no one else does, either — at least those up 
at Universal, whom you would suspect .would 
know, are guilelessly innocent of an answer. 



Constance Goes Shopping 

Constance Talmadge is buying out the baby 
departments in New York. "It's expected in 
May," she thrilled in explanation. "IP' may be 
the successor to Buster Keaton or to Constance 
or Norma, for "it" will be no other than Natalie 
Talmadge Keaton's precious baby. 

Constance hopes for a girl. So does Norma. 
"We all do," reiterated Constance, emphatically. 



"And you .--hould see what thing-- that baBy will 
have !" She shook her head dolorously. 

"Such a foolish thing to do. The baby will 
outgrow practically everything in no time." 

But. in the meantime, she and Norma are having 
a wonderful time busying themselves with ador- 
able purchases for the newcomer. 
■ * * * * * 

From Charlie's Book 

CHARLIE CHAPLIN has written a "sce- 
nario" of his trip to Europe, and it is pub- 
lished in book form under the title. "My 
Trip Abroad." In reading through this 
Lsweeping narrative, we were especially interested 
in Charlie's account of his first meeting with 
Pola Negri upon his arrival in Germany : 

"At the Heinroth (the most expensive place in 
Berlin and the high spot of night life), every- 
body was in evening' dress. We weren't. My 
appearance did not cause any excitement. 
(Charlie is not very well-known in Germany). 
We check our hats and coats and ask for a. table. 
The manager shrugs his shoulders. There is one 
in the back, a most obscure part of the room. 
This brings home forcibly- the absence of my - 
reputation. It nettled me. Well, I wanted rest. 
This was it. 

"We were about to accept humbly the isolated 
table, when I hear a shriek and I am slapped on 
the back and there's a yell : 
" 'Charlie !' 

"It is Al Kaufman of the Lasky Corporation 
and manager of the Famous Players studio in 
Berlin. 

" 'Come on over to our table. Pola Negri 
wants to meet you.' 

***** 
Charlie Meets Pola Negri 

". . . Pola Negri is really beautiful," continues 
Charlie. "She is Polish and really true to 'the 
type. Beautiful jet-black hair, white, even teeth 
and wonderful coloring. I think it such . a pity 
and wonderful coloring. 

"She is the center of attraction here. I am 
introduced. What a voice she has! Her mouth 
speaks so prettily the German language. Her 
voice has a soft, mellow quality, with charming 
inflections. 



***** 
Making a Hit 

"Language again 
stumps me," be- 
moans Charlie. 
"What pity ! But 
with the aid of a 
third party we get 
along famously. 
Kaufman whispers : 
'Charlie, you've 
made a hit. She 
just told me that 
you are charming." 

" 'You tell her 
that she's the loveli- 
est thing I've seen in 
Europe. These com- 
pliments keep up for 
some time, and then 




Charlie Chaplin 



I ask Kaufman how to say, 'I think you are 
divine' in German. He tells me something in 
German and I repeat it to 'her. 

"She's startled and looks up and slaps .my 
hand. 'Naughty boy,' she says. 

"The table roars. I sense that I have been 
double-crossed by Kaufman. What have I said? 
But Pola joins in the joke, and there is no cas- 
ualty. I learn later that I have said, T think 
you are terrible.' I decided to go home and learn 
German." 



MGVIE WEEKLY ART SERIES 








COR1NNE GRIFFITH 



a age ktghteen 



MOVIE tVEFKlY 




Bucking into 
the Movies 




Hollywood, 1922. 

Mr. H. O. Potts, 
Hog Run, Ky. 

Oear Mama and Folks : 

Yours of the 6th imminent received, and was sorry 
hear that the Official Board of Movie Censors of 
log Run had been exactly doubled in number of 
nembers and capacity for evil by the adiition of 
iphraim Sowerly to the municipal payroll. Gamaliel 
iVhitley was bad enough as a paid guardian for Hog 
tun's few remaining morals, but adding Ephraim S. 
the cheerful little film wrecking crew is heaping 
nsult on injury, or "Papier mache, Dardanella," as 
"onfucius sadly remarked to the Medes and Persians 
hat fatal evening on the bridge at Waterloo. Be- 
cause honest, Maw, beside of Ephraim's general in- 
telligence, that of a fish would seem like Buddha. 

I am enclosing you under separate covers a late 
picture of me' which I wish you would try to persuade 




'"1 In: fiifltrc in the centn , holding the sacn, 
■is me." 



he Editor of the "Hog Run Clarion" to run on the 
heatrical. Housekeeping and Truck Farming Page 
netime in the near future. It is a sort of an alle- 
orical picture supposed to represent "Helen of Troy 
the Sack of Carthage," and the figure in the 
center, holding the sack, is me. Be sure and get it 
ut in the "Clarion" somewhere, even if you have to 
ay advertising rates to do it, because publicity with 
ur dear public is as necessary to us actresses as a 
listike for chewing gum is for an individual with a 
full set of false teeth. 

And speaking of us actresses, Maw, if you ever 
happen to run into some otherwise intelligent little 
girl who is possessed of a craving to g"t into the 
novies, advise her to enter the ranks of the Russian 
capitalists, or some other such peaceful like occupa- 
tion instead. Because this morning I had a job 
vhich would of made the career of a temperance lec- 
urer in Havana, Cuba, look like a positive sinecure 
comparison. During a time lapse of a little over 
hre'e hours, I lost all my love for natural history, 
about one square yard of epidermis, and all desire 
to be a comedy actress. The result is that my temper 
and general disposition are in such a state to-night 
hat, if Solomon was right when he made that bril- 
liant remark about like attracting like, then me and a 
dyspeptic grizzly bear should exercise a vary strong 
case of mutual attraction just at present. 

It was all my fault, though. I should hive known 
better in the first place than to destitute my art by 
ppearing in a one-reel comedy, and in the second 
dace, I should have remembered the hor-ible ex- 
amples of Cleopatra and other great emotional ac- 
resses and shunned animal stuff like a Greenwich 
Villager does manual labor. But I didn't, and when 
he Casting Director called me up and told me to 
report for work in Culver City this morning, I went. 
The place of action was the Hal Roach Studio, the 
principal characters was me and Snub Pollard, and 
he disturbing element which eventually ruined an 
herwise fairly perfect day was a large he-ostrich. 
The plot of the story was a trifle ancient, to say the 
least, and concerned Caveman days. 

This was that benighted period. Maw. when meta 
didn't wear Kollege Kut Klothes and tweed golf suits 
like they do now. but went out when they needed a 
new suit of clothes and proceeded to engage some 
shaggy-furred animal in mortal combat. Whoever 
won the argument got to wear the animal's furs from 
that time on. The consequence was that most of the 



male members of the cast was attired something like 
a cross between a vaudeville strong man and the 
Hermit of Lone Pine Lake. As for me, mv costume 
consisted of bearskin and bare skin in about equal 
proportions. 

The morning started fairly auspicious with me 
acting as the feminine element in some love scenes 
with Snub Pollard. As near as I could gather from 
the action, the Caveman method of courtship con- 
sisted of about equal parts of assault and battery and 
attempted murder, the chief weapon d'amour, as the 
Portuguese would say, being a large spiked club, and 
the mode of procedure' combining all the finer ele- 
ments of a prize-fight and an Irish picnic. Honest, 
Maw, I had my skull caressed with that darned club 
so many times that I began to feel like I was 
co-starring with a locoed pile-driver or something ! 
But still it was sorta romantic like, even at worst, 
so I managed to endure it for a while. 

Then I had the ostrich wished on me. It seems 
that Cave Girls had pets like modern flappers have, 
only instead of a Pomeranian on a leash, they had a 
pterodactyl on a logging chain. A pterodactyl, folks, 
was a prehistoric animal which was half snake and 
half bird, and looked like a Haiti voodoo worshipper's 
idea of the Old Nick. But, not having an pterodactyl 
handy at the time, we had to use an ostrich instead, 
and it didn't make a bad substitute, it being about 
half snake 1 , anyway — from the shoulders up. In fact, 
an ostrich looks like somebody had tofJk a sizable 
boa constrictor in the first place and mounted it on 
a pair of stilts, and then had carelessly thr~wn in an 
odd-sized body on the assemblage just as a kind of an 
afterthought. 

The catastrophe happened in the very first scene 
in which I tried to act with the brute. According to 
the script, I was. scheduled to herd the ostrich in 
front of me just across the scenery in fro-t of the 
camera. But the' feathered reptile refused to herd, 
and stopping just in front of the camera, which was 
clicking away by then, proceeded to give an excellent 
impersonation of the Rock of Gibraltar. 

Being in a hurrv and trying to save the scene, I 
, grabbed the beast by the first thing handy which, it 
being two-thirds neck, happened to be in the vicinity 
of that snot concealed by a collar-button on a human 
being. Then it happened ! That olumed monstrosity 
did the last thing on earth I would ever of expe'ctel 
a bird to do — and kicked me ! 

And take it from me, Maw, beside the kick of an 
adult ostrich, the famous functioning of a Missouri 
mule's rear section w : ould seem like a mere' caress 
with a feather in comparison. I've alwavs wondered 
what the feelings experienced by Job Digger's goat 
were that time when he tried to dispute the right of 
way with the Dixie Limited, but now I know. And, 




"The last thing 1 ever expected a bird to do — 
kicked me I" 



believe me, henceforth I'm through with one-reel 
comedies in general and ostriches in particular. Be- 
cause I ain't no hog for punishment — I know whe'n 
I've got enough. 

Which I guess will be all for this time, only if I 
was Luther Burbank, I think I would try to cross an 
ostrich with a fish or some other non-kicking animal 
like that. 

Your loving daughter, resp'y yours, 

SOPHIE POTTS, 

Via Hal Wells. 



MOVIE WEEKIY 
^.Screen.' 1 




"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. 

D 

Dissolve — A fade directly from one scene 
into another. 

Double exposure — The photographing of 

two scenes on the same film. 
Doubling — The use of a substitute stunt 
. actor for a player who is unwilling to or 

cannot play a difficult scene. 
Drop — Plain background to a scene. 

E 

Exhibitor — Universally used instead of the- 
atre owner or theatre manager. 

Emulsion— Preparation used to coat positive 
film. 

Exchange — Branch selling office of a re- 
leasing company. 

Exterior — Any scene on location. 



Fade-out — To cause a scene to vanish by 
, decreasing the amount of light, either by 

chemicals applied to film or camera device. 
Flood lighting — Use of all lights on a set. 
Fade-in — To cause a scene to photograph by 

increasing the amount of light. 
Floor — Stage of set, on which scene is being 

taken. 

Full shot — The full scene. 

Flash — A few feet of film. 

Flash-back — Insertion of a few feet of a 
previous scene. 

Flop — To fail. 

G 

Grips — A man who moves sets. A s'age 
hand. 

Gyp — To deceive. 

Gagging — Forcing a laugh by slapstick 
comedy or humorous titles. 

Gag man — One who spends his time devel- 
oping comedy scenes or comic situations. 

H 

Hazard man — Stunt actor, used to double 
for players in especially dangerous roles. 

Hokum — Un-original situations, used be- 
cause of their effectiveness. 



Interior — Any scene taken in the studio. 
Iris — To increase or decrease the size of the 

picture by opening or closing the shutter 

of the camera. 

Insert — Scene inserted between two others. 
(Continued next week) 






MOVIE WEEKLY 



Page Nineteen 



ShrfrUnder the Qange Pekpelree 

ou Irma, the Ingenue v 



MY dear, aren't you tired of the thirstless 
palms ! How glad I'll be when the cherry 
blossoms are out! And that's just what 
I was telling Herbert Rawlinson, yester- 
day, when we were talking about loving Califor- 
nia, and all that, but saying that sometimes the 
weather was rotten, just the same as anywhere 
else, in spite of the funny little green and yellow 
and pink and blue Chamber of Commerce folders, 
saying— But, oh, yes, about Herbert Rawlinson : 
It just is too sad about his divorce, isn't it?" 

Irma, the Ingenue rustled into a seat in the 
tea garden, drew her fox fur a little closer around 
her shoulders to keep off the March wind, and 
ordered : 

"Thin wafers — and weak hot water !" 

"What is this sort of order all about?" I asked. 

"Dieting," she explained briefly. "But I don't 
want to talk about such a painful subject," she 
went on. "Where was I ? Oh, yes, about Herbert 
Rawlinson. You know they've been married for 
years and years, he and that stunning looking 
Roberta Arnold. They got married eight years 
ago, and she gave up the stage. She had only 
played in one thing, 'Peg o' My Heart.' with 
Laurette Taylor — she was the catty girl — but she 
made a big hit. But she married, and gave up 
her chance to go to New York because Herbert 
wanted her to quit the stage. I remember Herbert 
talking to me awfully seriously about it then. 

"I remember how Herb felt when Roberta got 
that chance to go back to the stage with the 
Morosco company in 'Upstairs and Down.' She 
made an awfully big hit in it, and he was very 
proud of her. But he said to me. one day, 'I'd 
so much rather she would stay home.' He built 
her a lovely little home. Then she went away 
on the stage with 'Upstairs and Down.' And she 
stayed in New York, and went into Frank 
Craven's 'First Year,' and other plays. Herb went 
back to New York, and played in pictures there 
in inferior productions, just to be near her. 

"Can't imagine what the trouble was. except the 
absence, which is said to make the heart grow 
fonder — of the other fellow. I know Herb never 
went around much with any particular girl. Of 
course he wasn't exactly a hermit — used to step 
out occasionally with some girl to dance or 
supper or something like that — but he always 
adored his wife. 

"Well, at any rate, the divorces are all balanced 
up nicely with marriages in this' picture business, 
that's one thing you can say for it. Now it's 
John Davidson who is engaged 1 

"His fiancee? Oh, of course. I always do 
forget the most important part of my story; just 
like De Maupassant — I never really finish 'em up. 
She is Helen Dryden, the artist who makes those 
fascinating, weird covers for Vogue. They've 
been engaged for years. It's just like a book. Hi 
met her first when he was just going on the 
stage and had no money to support her. Then 
he made more money, but she was always just 



a bit ahead of him in the artistic world and finan- 
cially, and he just wouldn't marry her, he's so 
proud, until he makes a great success. I think 
he's on the way to it now, as tu>.y say Cecil de 
Mille is going to make a director of him. He 
played his role so well in 'Fool's Paradise,' that 
Mr. de Mille drew him aside one day and whis- 
pered in his ear that he would make a good 
director. John jumped a foot — but didn't deny 
the soft impeachment. And now John is fairly 
sitting on De Mi lie's doorstep, waiting for him 
to get well and anne back to the studio to direct 
'Manslaughter.' 

"Well, you certainly can hear anything in Hol- 
lywood! They had it around that Mabel was 
so ill that she rouldn't go on and finish 'Suzanne,' 
but that a double who looks almost more like 
Mabel than Mabel looks like herself, was going 
to do the part, finishing up the picture. But 
Mabel denies it, 

"There have been so many reports that Charlie 
Chaplin was going to make a serious play, that I 
asked him point blank the last time I saw him. 
'Charlie,' I said, are you really going to make a 
serious play?' 'Not intentionally!' answered 
Charlie.'' 

Irma, the Ingenue, paused for breath, and sipped 
another sip of hot water. "If it only had a little 




"You know Herb Rawlinson and that stun- 
ning looking Roberta Arnold got married 
eight years ago. It is just sad about his- di- 
vorce, isn't it? . . . I know Herb never went 
around much with any particular girt," 



taste of almost anything !" she wailed, but kept 
bravely on. 

"The most exciting little thing happened the 
other night at the Ambassador Cocoanut Grove ! 
Coleen Moore and John McCormick were there, 
and who should trip in with a man from the 
business world but Virginia Fox. Virginia and 
John used to be engaged, you know, but somehow 
it was broken off. Maybe Colleen tunnelled under 
Virginia, I don't know. Anyhow, as luck would 
have it, the place being crowded, the four were 
seated together at the same table before they 
knew it, because Colleen and John were dancing 
whn Virginia and her escort came in. Everybody 
got red in the face, and nobody knew whether 
to speak or not. Finally Colleen piped up — I don't 
think Colleen's wits would desert her if the 
heavens fell and she met St. Peter — 'Why, John,' 
she said, 'here's Miss Fox and Mr. Blank! Isn't 
that, nice? I'm sure they won't mind keeping the 
table for us while we go over and visit with Bill 
Russell and Helen Ferguson a few minutes !' 'Of 
course not/ said Virginia. And as the music 
chimed up just then, and the dances are so long, 
they didn't come back for quite some time, and 
when they did everybody was prepared to keep 
the parlor face and be perfectly pleasant. 

"Isn't that Helen Ferguson the cutest girl ! I'd 
like to follow her around with a phonograph and 
then write her sayings. Bet I could get rich. 
The other day, talking about the scarcity of work 
in Hollywood studios, she exclaimed : 

" 'Tell you what I'm going to do ! I'm going to 
take all my cuttings out of the pictures I've 
played in. stick 'em together, and make a starring 
vehicle for myself!' 

"Oh, did I tell you about the letter I had from 
Viola Dana? Something very funny happened to 
that little pocket Venus. 

"Viola was invited to address the students of 
Utah University — can't you imagine Vi up there 
trying to make a speech?— and one of the boys, 
the freshman, stepped up to act as her escort. 
Viola naturally thought that he had been detailed 
to be her escort. But it seems not. In fact, he 
violated a tradition of the college in taking her 
up the steps of the Park Building, which build- 
ing is denied the freshmen. The upper classmen 
?ot jealous, regarded the boy's self-appointed i 
gallantry as presumptious, and proceeded to pun- 
sh him. They seized him, tore his shirt and coat 
from him, and though the weather was freezing 
cold, they ducked him into a tub of cold water, 
then lustily _ spanked him and took him over to 
the college infirmary, 

"But at that, Vi's freshman had the best of it. 
For Vi went over that afternoon, cooled his 
fevered brow with her fair hands, and brought 
him a big bunch of hot house violets !" 



"Oh, did 1 tell you the letter I had 
from Viola Dana? Something very 
funny happened to that little pocket 
Venus at the University of Utah . . ." 




Page Twenty 



MOVIE WEEKLY 



Questions Answered 



My job on "Movie Weekly" is answering questions. Wouldn't you 
like to know whether your favorite star is 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 studi. 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. 



MMb 



"Where can I get back issues of 
'Movie Weekly' ?" people write me', 
or sometimes they ask me to send 
them copies. You know, of course, 
that when it comes to mailing out 
magazines, that is a little out of mv 
line. You see I have my hands full 
just with my little job, and I don't 
print the magazine or pick out the 
pictures we use or mail out copies 
or sweep the floor or — well, anyway, 
there are lots of things around here 
that I don't do. Back numbers of the 
magazine can always be obtained 
. from "Movie Weekly's" Circulation 
Department. 

GEORGIE — You bring back my 
childhood and the old nursery rhyme 
about the boy who kissed all the 
girls and made them cry. Was thit 
you? Agnes is 23, Gloria, 27, May 
McAvoy, 21 and Wallie, 29. Wanda 
Hawley and Will Rogers do not give' 
their ages. I have no room here for 
long casts, but the principal roles 
in "Through the Back Door," were 
played by Mary Pickford as Jeanette 
Reeves. Gertrude Astor as her 
mother, Wilfred Lucas as her step- 
father and Helen Raymond as the 
nurse-maid. 

JACK HOXIE'S FAN— I didn't 
know Jack Hoxie used a fan. But 
then I suppose he gets hot in the' 
summer time. No good picture of 
your favorite has wandered into the 
office and until it does we can't very 
well publish his photograph. Richard 
Tucker played the part of the oldest 
son in "The Old Nest." I don't 
know whether he played in "Part- 
ners" or not. Who produced that 
film? 



HONEY— My favorite star, Hon- 
ey, since you ask, is the one just 
at the end of the dipper. Yes, it 
is fun to ride horseback, but I'm so 
busy pretending that I'm the en- 
cyclopedia that I don't have time to 
canter along nice country roads. 
Shirley Mason's address is 1770 
Grand Concourse, New York. No, 
Mary Miles Minter is not married. 
Her next picture will be "The Heart 
Specialist." and Richard Barthelmess' 
next will be "Sonny." 



MISS MIGNON LA VERE— 
Your hope came true. Miss La Vere. 
When the postman dropped your let- 
ter, he dropped it right at my door. 
He's a smart postman ; he knows 
just where to drop things. Mack 
Sennett's address is 1712 Allesandro 
St., Los Angeles. 



MICHAEL CARROP— Hoot Gib- 
son was born in Nebraska in 1892. 
Is it hard for a man to become a 
movie star ? You said it, Michael — 
it's almost impossible. There are' 
only about ten million people in the 
U, S. who have that ambition, so, 
of course, directors can't take any 
of them seriously. The nearest stu- 
dio to Pittsburg is in New York. 



JACK DENMARK— I hope, Jack, 
you didn't look for your reply in the 
next number of "Movie' Weekly." 
Do you know what happens to a 
reader who looks for his answer in 
the next issue? He doesn't find it. 
No, Bebe has never been married, 
and as for her engagement — well, you 
know you mustn't take engagements 
too seriously these days. We pub- 
lished a double-page picture of Bebe 
in last week's issue. 



LOSSIE — What a flossie name 
you have'. Eddie Polo's daughter whc 
plays on the screen is named Mal- 
veen ; she is fourteen. Charles Chap- 
lin is engaged to a new girl every 
week according to the gossips. There 
have' been several rumored engag:- 
ments since Claire Windsor was sup- 
posed to be the lucky lady. Harold 
Lloyd is twenty-nine ; he keeps lots 
of fond mammas in suspense by re- 
fusing to get married. Agnes Ayr s 
is divorced from rank Schusker. She 
is about 23. Neither Mary nor 
Norma has any children. Carol 
Dempster is not married. Come 
again, Flossie, I welcome work. 



K. FLANAGAN— I think you're 
just trying to make me look igno- 
rant by asTing me such hard ques- 
tions. I can't answer them. I never 
heard of Margaret Gibson or Seeia 
Oliver. If you mean Seena Owen, 
her latest picture was "Back Pay." 
Yes, Ann Pennington was in movies 
for awhile ; she made four or five 
pictures, the first of which was 
"Susie Snowflake." 



SMILING BROWN EYES— You 
bet I like my job; if you don't be- 
lieve it, just watch somebody try 
to take it away from me ! That was 
a clever suggestion of yours that 
someone might take the quarter out 
of the envelope when you were send- 
ing it to a movie star. You think 
a great deal ; I can see that Try 
stamps or money order for sending 
your money. William Farnum's ad- 
dress is Fox Studio, 55th St. and 
10th Ave., New York. He is mar- 
ried to Olive White. Jack Pickford 
has not married Marilynn Miller, un- 
less they were mean enough to do it 
after this magazine went to press. 
Marie Pre'vost lives at 451 S. Hamp- 
shire. Los Angeles. Betty Compson 
and May McAvoy both get their mail 
at the Lasky Studio, 1520 Vine St., 
Hollywood. 



ANOTHER CARMEL MEYERS 
— Are you any relation to your fav- 
orite? Yes, Carmel is still in 
movies ; she 1 and Wallace MacDoh- 
ald were busy most of the rast y»ar 
making a serial, "Breaking Through." 
She is twenty-one and married to 
Isadore Kornblum. She lives at 
5721 Carlton Way. Hollywood. We 
published a story about her in "Movie 
Weekly^_jn the! April 9th issue of 
last year, and another in the issue for 
November 26th. 



SYLVIA— Yes, indeed, I read 
"your silly nonsense" — since you call 
it that. No, I'm sorry I don't know 
your answer man friend. Is he 
nice ? Sorry. Sylvia, but the only 
way I can think of to get in the 
movies now is to win a beauty con- 
test or something. Lots of studios 
are closed now and some of the regu- 
lar actors are doing whatever they 
can so they can eat. So you see 
what a slight chance a newcomer has 
of getting in before conditions im- 
prove. 



HONEST SCRAP— Why did you 
change your name ? I like 'Red 'Ed 
better. No. I don't mind answering 
questions about players I don't like ; 
it's all in a day's work with me, only 
I get tired of writing his admirers 
"all that I know . about Rodolph." 
Yes, Doug played "Officer 666" on 
the stage. Ruth Renick was born in 
Galveston, Texas, though she grew 
up in Arizona. "Snub" Pollard is 
now reported engaged to Marie Mos- 
quini : yes, he is Margarita Fischer's 
ex-husband. Rex Ingram and Alice 
Terry were married late in 1921. 
I never heard of Elaine and Ivan 
St. Johns or Barbara Beall. Yes, 
Dore Davidson played in Hope 
Hampton's new picture, "The Light 
in the Dark." 



ALLISON SPRAGUE— Is there 
anyone left in the world who doesn't 
know Rodolph's age and height by 
now? He is 26, five feet 'eleven 
inches tall and has black hair and 
dark brown eyes. His next picture 
is "Beyond the Rocks." - Lowell 
Sherman is in his late thirties. His 
newest picture is "Grand Larceny." 



ANOTHER JANE— Too bad ! Ed- 
mund Lowe is your "favorite favor- 
ite," and I know almost nothing 
about him. He plays on the stage 
more than in movies. He is not a 
star. His latest picture is "Living 
Lies." 



SARAH — You surely are not 
anxious any longer to know Rodolph's 
address. In case you are, here it is : 
7139 Hollywood Blvd., Los Angeles. 



BABY DIMPLES— For one who is 
just learning to speak English, you 
certainly do well with it. The little 
girl who traveled with Mary and 
Doug is Lottie Pickford's daughter, 
Mary Rupp. Bebe' Daniels does nt 
give her home address ; she can be 
reached at the Paramount Studio, 
1520 Vine St., Hollywood. 



SHREVEPORT— I like your nice 
modest way of asking questions. 
Theda Bara has not been on the 
screen for several years, but an 
announcement was made recently 
that she is to return to the movies 
with her own company. Wallie Reid 
is twenty-nine. The movie girls 
keep their good complexions by con- 
stant care and expert attention. 



NESTROLA— You threatened to 
get writer's cramp, with the ques- 
tions you had to ask, and then you 
didn't ask any. Just wrote me a nice 
letter instead. Do write and tell me 
what you thought of Hope Hampton 
when you .'■aw her in person. Bert 
Lytell's wife, Evelyn Vaughn, d.es 
not act on the screen ; perhaps that 
is why we have had no picture of 
her. She may not care for publicity. 



ARMISTA— Is that feminine for 
Armistice? You must be a peaceful 
person to have around. Eugene 
O'Brien was born in Colorado. His 
hobbies are riding and swimming. 
For a photograph, write him at the 
Players" Club. 16 Gramercy Park. 
New York City. Rodolph's hobbies 
are riding and dancing, and his ad- 
dress is 7139 Hollywood Blvd., Los 
Angeles. 



A. C. M. — Surely, A. C. M., you 
have seen all that information ab;ut 
Rodolph since you wrote me? As I 
have almost turned over my page to 
him for weeks. 1 can't allow him 
any more spnce for his history. If 
you haven't learned all about him by 
now, send me your address and I 
will be glad to write you personally. 

A SAINTLY FUN FAN— And yet 
you are a school girl ! I neve'r heard 
of a saintly school girl. I'm sorry 
I don't know much about Jack 
O'Brien, but, as you say, he is not 
very well-known. I don't know what 
he has played in since "Love's Pen- 
alty." Leonard C. Shumway was 
born in 1884, Herbert Rawlinson a 
year later. Of course I want to 
hear from you again ; I like espe- 
cially to get letters from school girls. 



STELLA STETSON— Are you 
any relation to the well-known hats ? 
Wanda Hawley is Mrs. Burton Haw- 
ley. She is a blonde with gray eyes ; 
she does not give her age. Antonio 
Moreno is thirty-four, Pearl White 
thirty-two and Ruth Roland twenty- 
nine. Frank Mayo is married to 
Dagmar Godowsky; he is thirty-six. 
Kingsley Benedict must be on the 
stage rather than the screen ; I never 
heard of him. 



PEGGY— Bebe Daniels has black 
hair and eyes and uloria also has 
black hair — though there is some dis- 
pute as to that. Gloria is 5 feet 3 
and about 27 years old. The leading 
man for Bebe in "The Speed Girl" 
was Theodor Von Eltz. 



DOROTHY AND ONEDA— Yes, 
Rodolph has gotten his divorce. Ses- 
sue Hayakawa is thirty-three. Ray- 
mond McKee and Frances White will 
be married whenever they get ready 
— that's all I know about it. Connie 
has not yet sued for a divorce. Jackie 
Saunders went on the stage and that 
is why you have not been seeing her 
in recent movies. Yes, Lila Lee has 
black eyes — the real snappy kind. 



MOVIE WEEKLY 



1'oye Twtn'yirt* 




Clothes to Nature 

YOU didn't hear so much boasting as usual in 
California this last winter. For the much 
vaunted sunny climate put one oyer on the 
natives, and now they know what it feels like 
to live in a measly state like New York where the 
Palm Beach suit is laid away for the winter. 

And the worst of it is, according to Harry Myers, 
the movie makers re'fused to acknowledge that the 
weather was cold. And Harry found it rather hard 
to pretend he was Robinson Crusoe in an Esquimo 
environment. 

During one particularly cold spell, Harry was 
called out every day at the crack of dawn for ex- 
teriors and he 1 had to appear in skins. 

"Not my skin," he explained hastily as the feminine 
interviewer blushed, "but it was almost as cold." 

Thus clad, the star was exposed to long shots and 
short shots — in fact, he was almost shot to pieces. 
About the time Director Hill would call for a close'up 
of the beloved DeFoe character, Myers' teeth would 
be chattering so he'd look like a victim of St. Vilus 
dance. 

Now that the sun is shining and the studio is all 
warmed up, Crusoe;, summoned before the camera for 
interiors, is swallowed up in heavy fur garments. 
When he is asked to pose and is supposed to be half 
frozen, he has to take time off to mop the perspira- 
tion from his brow. 

If Harry werenit such an amiable person, he'd go 
find the weather man responsible for all this and beat 
him up. 



They Haven't Punished Him Yet 

Bill Farnum is a deep student and lecture hound, 
so no one was surprised when he announced one 
evening that he had just attended a lecture. 

"It was given by a chap named — McCollum," said 
Bill scratching his head thoughtfully. 

His companions registered interest. "What was his 
first name?" they inquired. 

"Whatcha !" grinned Bill, as he ran for safety. 



A Bird of a Present 

Charlie Chaplin arrived at Max Linder's dinner 
party with a beautiful bird as a present. The bird 
sang and danced and preened himself and the guests 
were all delighted. 

"Maybe he's hungry," remarked Max, starting to 
feed and water it. 

Charlie grinned as the bird refused to eat — it *as 
only a mechanical toy. 



Where Was Her Sense Humor?- 

The woman came out of a theatre where' "A 
Connecticut Yankee in King Arthur's Court" had been 
showing. Evidently Mark Twain's humorous satire 
had been completely lost on her. 

"The very idea of some of these movies," she 
exclaimed indignantly. "Why, they showed several 
knights riding on motorcycles The . ery idea!" 



ttlm0kmi 



Hi« Shaving Grace 

Jack Holt and William Walling, out on location 
for "Val of Paradise," wielded their razors in front 
of the same segment of broken mirror. 

Suddenly a stiff wind swung the mirror from side 
to side. 

"Hey," yelled William Walling in the midst of the 
operation, grabbing his chin where a gash suddenly 
appeared, "whose face do you think you're shaving?" 



"Flu" — and the Flesh Flew 

It's bad enough to have the "flu," as portly Sylvia 
Ashton can testify, but when the "flu makes its 
victim lose weight, and the victim's future depends 
upon her not losing wc^rr, well — it's all very com- 



c-CYTrtrtVw 





ii anda acts real bossy toward Bcbe. Can this 
be reel? 

plicated, but the gist of this tale of woe is that poor 
"Mother" Ashton lost 26 pounds. 

"If I get sick again," mourns the character actress. 
"I'm likely to lose my job. Another 26 pounds lost, 
and I'll be thin !" 



A Dashing Deed 

Wanda Hawley's revolver has a pearl handle and 
looks as if it were strictly ornamental . But the 
burglar whom she' discovered in her house when she 
came home one evening didn't feel that way about it. 
Wanda dashed up the stairs and the burglar dashed 
out the window — just in time to save himself a dash 
to the hospita!. 



A Thoughtful Mule! 

Recently they were' using a mule in a Larry Setnon 
comedy that was "owned and operated" by a colored 
man. 

"Doesn't that animal ever kick you?" asked the 
comedian one morning, as Sam was trying to saddle 
the beast. 

"No, sah, Boss," he replied with a broad grin, "he 
nevah done kick me, but he mighty frequent kicks 
where ah's just bin." 



Another One on Married Life 

"Now, Tom," said Director Alfred E. Green to 
Thomas Meighan, "these folks are celebrating their 
celluloid wedding — congratulate them." 

The Paramount star registered surprise. 

"Celebrating their what?" he asked in amazement. 

"The anniversary of their marriage," Director 
Green explained patiently, "their celluloid wedding." 

"Well, sure," said Tom, "I've heard of wooden and 
golden weddings, but a celluloid one is a new one." 

"You see," the director chuckled, "celluloid is to 
celebrate 75 years of married bliss." 

Still Tom couldn't see. "I thought the diamond — 
60 years — was the highest these anniversaries go — 
why do they call it celluloid ?" 

At last Director Green could explain his little joke. 
"My dear Tom," said he, "you see this is in the 
movies, the only place where they could live together 
for 75 years and still be happy." 

"Click!" said the camera. 



She Hasn't Learned to Ride Horseback Yet 

Tom Mix is one of the most original men we know. 
He even sent out unusual cards for the arrival of his 
baby daughter, Thomasina — and of course she's a 
most unusual baby. No one would be more willing to 
tell you that than Tom himself. 

And just to show the way he felt about it. he sent 
cards to ail his friends expressing his sentiments on 
the subject. 

"Helluva Fine Cowgirl Arrived," says the card. 
"At Home On Rainy Days." 



What the Director Says 

Did you ever wonder what the director says to a 
star in her great dramatic moment in a picture? It 
may be most anything of course, but when Claire 
Windsor was emoting all over the place in "Grand 
Larceny," Director Wallace Worsley megaphoned : 

"Hit her with the ash-can! Give her the Winfield 
baby." 

His remark was not so vicious as it sounds, how- 
ever, for the "ash can" is what they call a speciallv 
built lamp in the Goldwyn studio, and "Winfield baby" 
means small Winfield lights. 

Claire Windsor fortunately knew what these words 
meant, for it wouldn't do for her to stop and register 
surprise. She went right on emoting and weeping 
glycerine tears. 

A. M. T. 



TH6 INS AND OUTS 
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Pag* Twenty-two 



MO FIE WEEKLY 




b to Scenario Writ6S 



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



. "SITUATIONS OF CONVENIENCE" 

ONE plot "recipe" is, "Get your characters 
into difficulties, and then get them out." 
It is comparatively easy to devise a situa- 
tion which contains the elements of danger 
or unliappiness for your characters, but to get 
them out in a plausible and logical manner is what 
differentiates the craftsmanship of the profes- 
sional from that of the amateur writer. It is 
the "mechanics" of a story which makes it your 
own. For example, how many love stories have 
this plot? John and Mary love each other; some- 
thing separates them ; they overcome this, or the 
difficulty is removed ; John and Mary are again 
united. Given this much data, twenty people 
would turn out twenty different stories. The most 
novel means of getting over the difficulty would, 
of course, make the most interesting story. 

The inexperienced writer who has failed to 
study the peculiar technique of the screen story 
is prone to think of the very obvious, the situa- 
tions most used in overcoming the difficulty, or 
else he goes to the other extreme and uses some- 
thing which, while possible, is not probable. I 
have heard the following recounted as being actu- 
ally true : A young man had quarreled with his 
father and left his home. The father died and 
willed the young man his estate. One morning, 
vexed at his alarm clock- the young fellow hurled 
it through his window. It landed on the head of 
a man walking in the street below. This' man 
nroved to be his father's lawyer, who was looking 
for him in order that the estate might be turned 
over to him. Imagine using this in a piiotop'av! 
The audience would protest against the situation 
as being too oalpably "arranged." Tt would be 
too much a "situation of convenience." 

Tragedians of the old school satisfied the blood- 
thirsty inclinations of the audience by killing off 
most of the persons in the play. Thev also 
solved their dramatic difficulties in this manner, 
for having maneuvered the characters into a 
tight place, thev got them out by removing them 
from this world. 

This is a poor practice to follow, a'thouph it 
is still done. I but recentlv read a story by a 
well-known novelist who had worked up a sus- 
penseful story by having the hero tightlv engag"^ 
to one girl and madly in love with another. At 
the proper time the unloved one was removed 
through "heart failure." although the readers up 
until that time had not been advised that the 
ladv's heart was weak. 

The main reason for avoiding such a means of 
getting your characters out of the troub'es wlv'-h 
beset them is that it leaves the avd'^nce d'ssat : s- 
fied. They go awav feeling cheated. .Thev sav, 
"It wouldn't have hanoened that way in real lif»; 
it's only a story." If you wish to write worth- 
while photonl-vs. do not have situations whi"h 
strike vour audience as "made." Solve your prob- 
lems in a logical manner, one that is olausible 
and probable : and if your audience has been 
really gripped by the struggle in vour story, thev 
will feel satisfied when vour ending or denoue- 
ment is logical and therefore convincing. 

THEME 

It is often puzzling to students of photoplav 
technique to know just what is meant by "theme." 

"Theme" may be defined as the abstract idea 
of which the story is a concrete presentation or 
example. "Humoresque" for instance, had the 
theme "mother-love." The story itself was an 
example of mother-love. The theme, or basic 
idea, of "The Miracle Man" was "faith." An- 



other play based on this wa~. "The Faith Healer." 
Both plays had the s ime theme, and yet were 
distinctly different in development. Both were 
examples of stories based on the idea of faith. 

A writer has in mind a basic principle such as 
mother-love, father-!ove, sacrifice, jealousy, miser- 
liness, and so on. From such an abstraction comes 
perhaps a character or a situation which he devel- 
ops into a plot. The plot becomes the concrete 
statement of this abstraction. 

The theme is the underlying thought through- 
out a play. It is the cord upon which the situa- 
tions of your plot are strung. 

The great benefit derived from basing a story 
upon a theme is that it aids in developing unity 
in the story ; it creates one impression, thereby 
making a more definite and more lasting appeal 
to the audience. 

"COLOR" IN YOUR PHOTOPLAY 

Writers of dramatic technique employ the 
terms "color" and "local color." While these two 
are similar in meaning, there is, nevertheless, a 
distinction between the two. 

"Color." in a photoplay, is sometimes called 
"atmosphere." It means the vividness with which 
the characters and environment of a story are 
brought out by means of touches of really human 
portrayal. It means writing into your script the 
small bits of action which, taken as a whole, give 
to the audience a real human being, instead of 
the stereotj'ped hero, heroine, or villain. 

The term "local color" applies to the deve'op- 
ment in your story of the "atmosphere" of some 
particular locale. While this is done by a faith- 
ful portrayal of the people in that section, much 
emphasis is usually laid on the settings or back- 
ground against which the action takes p'ace. A 
very fine example of "local co'or," in which both 
the peoDle and the country are faithfully por- 
trayed, is to be found in "Hail the Woman," the 
story being laid in northern New England. This 
play also is a good example of "color," since the 
action of the story developed really human char- 
acters. 

One fault of inexperienced writers is that they 
are prone to be carried away with the picturesque- 
ness of some loca'e, and use much valuable space 
in describing it. While this is all right in a novel 
or short story, in a photoplay, if the studio reader 
has to spend too much time reading about Panama 
hats. Palm Beach suits, and palm trees, he loses 
track of the story. It is well to suggest the locale 
by a few well chosen phrases and leave the rest 
to the studio art director who will build the 
scenes. In other words, the photoplaywright 
should devote his energies toward developing 
"color," instead of "local color," in his stories. 

Sbiestions and Answers 



(Q.) I hear that producers pay enormous prices to 
well-known authors for stories. If it was pcssible for 
me to write a story just as good as one by a famous 
author and if it was received at the same time, and if 
the subjects were similar, would the produ:er prefer 
to pay the famous one his big price or would he 
economize by buying my story ? — D. F. 

(A.) It is more than probable that the producer 
would decide to pay the' famous author his price. A 
nationally, or better, internationally known name has 
great advertising value. Then, there is another poiit : 
an author who has attained a big reputation has years 
of work back of him that unconsciously produces 
results in novel treatment and skill in stnry crafts- 
manship that a new writer will rarely have. The 
stories on the surface will seem practically of the 
same merit, but analysis will reveal the differences in 
favor of the seasoned writer. 

(Q.) Why don't the studios put out better comedies ? 
Is it true that they are nearly all made un in the 1 
studios? If so, why don't they get some from the 
outside and get something really worth laughing at? 

— G. W. 




(A.) (1) There are various reasons — shortage of 
good comedy material, sometimes poor direction, and 
often poor comedians. (2) Yes; the greater part of 
the comedies put out by the companies that specialiie 
in comedy are written in the studios to suit the 
personalities and abilities of the comedians under 
contract. (3) Comedy material is the most difficult 
to obtain. There are very few people who can write 
real, irresistibly humorous comedy, although the ma- 
jority of amateur writers seem to think themselves 
humorists. The standard situations and gags have 
been worn threadbare from hard use. It is only the 
trained writer who can give them new and funny 
twists, and he finds it by no means an easy task. 

(Q.) Is it better to have the end of your story come 
as a surprise or to have it foreseen? — L. K. 

(A.) That depends upon the type of story. If it is 
a mystery or detective story, it is best to keep the end 
problematical. In other stories, the end may be fore- 
seen, but not the manner in which it is to be brought 
about. You must not reveal too much ; suspense must 
be maintained. Knowing what the end will be does 
not rob a story of its interest if we do not know the 
steps to that end. Even when viewing a mystery play, 
if we are "in the know" we watch absorbedly to see 
the characters fe'rreting out the plot, and sometimes 
are more interested and apprehensive as we see them 
making what we know to be false moves. 

(Q.) Should a photoplay be written just to etit:r- 
tain and nothing more? — S. I. 

(A.) Primarily that is its object. But every worth 
while play has a theme, and this theme contains a 
lesson or drives home a truth of life or morals ; so 
that it unobtrusively instructs as well as entertains. 

(Q.) What type of story stands the' best chance ot 
acceptance? — B. H. 

(A.)Styles and standards change; but it is safe to 
say that at any time the story that will get considera- 
tion is the one with the strong human plot, deep heart 
interest, with loyalty, honor, courage and justice fea- 
tured, and a romantic love theme running throughout 
the story. 

(Q.) My story has been rejected because its "dra- 
matic objective" is weak. What does that mean? 

— L. W. 

(A.) The dramatic objective is the purpose of the 
story, the goal to be attained, and over which con- 
flict is waged. You probably had a trivial cbject for 
your leading character to work for. It must be of 
such a nature as to arouse the desires and passions 
of your antagonistic characters. 

(Q.) Is the writer expected to estimate the number 
of reels the scenario will take? — L. J. 

(A.) It is best for the writer to learn to iudge how 
many reels his story will cover. With a little prac- 
tice it becomes an easy matter to see whether cne 
has sufficient action for a full five reel ph^tonlay, by 
analyzing the "spots" of the story and counting the 
situations. Fifty make about a five reel picture. 

(Q.) I fear that I am too old to become a success- 
ful photoplaywright. I am over forty-five. Have 
I any chance? — A. C. 

(A.) Do not worry about your age. Your life has 
given you a background and much experience which 
is valuable when writing screen stories. A num'-er 
of writers never succeeded until they were oast middle- 
age and their best work has often been done at that 
time of life. 

(Q.I Why is it that all my friends tell me they 
would love to see my story on the screen and all pro- 
ducers have consistently rejected it? It is different 
and does not follow the beaten path. — E. N. S. 

(A.) Producers are guided in the selection of their 
stories by reports from exhibitors as to the type of 
production that brings in the biggest returns and the 
most favorable comments. Friends, who do not know 
the problems of producers, the limitations of the 
camera or censorship requirements, are apt to think a 
story is wonderful whereas it would be a big failure 
if produced. Furthermore, there are styles in pic- 
tures. A story might be rejected now and accepted 
in a few years when conditions have changed in the 
industry. 

(Q-) By characterization do you mean the descrip- 
tion of a character's thoughts or his physical appear- 
ance?— H. W. L. 

(A.) Both. When you create a character, you 
must describe him as you see him ; you must try to 
make the reader of your story visualize him as you 
do, mentally, morally and physically. 



MOVIE WEEKLY 



Page Twenty-three 



A Philanthropic BankBurglar 



DETECTIVE MORRISEY!" gasped jack 
as be fell into a chair beside the phone. 
"Detective Mcrrisey," he repeated, "want; 
to see me. Hum," he grunted, "I wondei 
what's up?" 

Jimmy sat in another' chair, speechless, like a 
person in a trance; finally he got up and began 
to pace the floor. 

It was perfectly obvious that Blackey was very 
much concerned as he sat in the chair with his 
eyes closed and his hands behind his head. The 
unexpected entrance of Morrisey on the scene 
jarred both of them from the tops of their heads 
to the bottom of their feet and the more they 
racked their minds for a possible solution of the 
matter, the more 'impossible it became ; they were 
in the dark, baffled, stunned. 

"What do you think of it, Jimmy?" s*d 
Blackey, "do you think he has caught on *to 
anything?" 

• "Wat do I think of it?" replied Jimmy in a 
rather unsteady tone. "Wat do I think of ltr 
he repeated. "I think we had better beat it out 
of town right now, quick." 

"Beat it out of town?" snapped Jack. 

"Dat's wat I said." 

"That would be the worst thing we could do 
and it would confirm his suspicions if he has 
any." ( 

"Well, you don't mean to tell me dat you re 
going to meet him, do y'?" 

"Of course, why not?" declared Blackey. 

"Say," said Timmy, moving over to Blackey and 
looking him "in the eye, "are you going bugs 
altogether? On de level, are you going down to 
meet this wise dick?" 

"Right now," snapped Jack as he jumped out 
of the chair and went to the wardrobe for his 
tuxedo. He hummed an aria from Madame But- 
terfly as he dressed. 

Jimmy was a study in deep thought as he 
moved over to the. corner of the room and threw 
himself on the peach colored plush divan. He 
was trying to think, but he couldn't get his mind 
off Morrisey sufficiently long enough to organize 
his thoughts. Blackey had regained his com- 
posure and as he slipped into his vest he started 
to whistle the Toreador song from Carmen. T..is 
irritated Jimmy. 

"How can y' whistle and sing with de boob 
staring v' in de kisser? I guess if y* was on yer 
way to de chair y' would be telling funny stories." 

"I'm a long ways from the boob and the cha r, 
Jimmy; forget about those things. You've got 
the imagination of a Dante." 

"Dante I" exclaimed Jimmy. "What's a Dante?" 

"Not 'what,' but who. Dante was the great 
Italian poet who wrote Purgatorio. Paradisio and 
Inferno. The story of Purgatory, Heaven and 
Hell." 

"It's hell for us from now on, I'm thinking." 

"Now, now, now," said Blackey cheerfully. 
"Cheer up. We're not licked yet. This fellow 
Morrisey may not have a thing on us." 

Jimmy grabbed his coat and hat and started 
for the door. 

"Where y' going?" shouted Blackey. 

"Take a walk," replied Jimmy, "see y' later." 

Outside he hailed a passing taxi. "To the 
Knickerbocker/' he ordered the driver. As the 
cab rumbled down Broadway, ab'aze with a 
myriad of electrical illuminations that threw a 
kaleidoscopic glitter across the street and up into 
the sky, he sat back in the corner and thought. 
He remembered gratefully how Blackey had res- 
cued him but a few weeks ago from the big cop 
in the park, and he was, determined to liquidate 
that debt tonight if he got the opportunity to 
do so. He adored Blackey and revered him as 
one would revere a saint, and away back in the 
depths of his slum-dwarfed soul the fires of 
gratitude and loyalty were smoldering. 

"Blackey saved me once," he murm.ured to him- 
self, "and" I'm going to save him tonight. I'll 
croak dat copper Morrisey if he tries to nail him. 
If I don't I've got a streak o' yellow in me a 
yard wide." "..,-._ 

The old saying: "There is honor among' 



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SYNOPSIS 



Jack Kennard. a great athlete and a graduate 
of the Yale school of Chemistry, utilizes his 
knowledge 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-patholo- 
gist, who is interested in reclaiming criminals 
by scientific methods. He rescues a crook from a 
policeman in Central Park and makes a pal 
of the crook, "Jimmy" O'Connor. Together they 
plan the robbery of the Arlington National Bank 
in Philadelphia. Kennard, in the uniform of a 
Captain of Police, visits the president of the bank 
and makes arrangements with him to be ad- 
mitted to the bank that night with his pal, 
Jimmy, so that they can make the capture of tn« 
supposed burglars. They succeed in getting into 
the bank and tie and gag the watchman. Blackey 
then prepares to" blow the safe open while Jimmy 
makes the rounds of the bank and punches the 
alarm clocks. The phone rings and B.ackey 
answers it. It is Mr. Barker, the President of 
the bank. Blackey tells him that he has cap- 
tured the burglars and that if he will come to 
headquarters in the morning he may see them. 
They have secured the money and are preparing 
to go when they hear voices outside the door. 

They hide just as two policemen step into the 
bank. Blackey covers them, and Jimmy ties them 
up and places them with the watchman. 

They make their getaway, and driving the car 
into the woods, Blackey blows it up. When they 
have hidden the money, they go to New York, and 
arriving at their apartment, go to sleep. 

In the evening papers they read that Mike Mor- 
risey, the celebrated detective, has taken the case. 
While they are discussing this, Blackey's friend, 
George Biddle calls up and says that Morrisey, 
the detective, a friend of his, would like to 
meet Blackey. 



Iilii!li!ii!l!iilllllill<!lil!lll!!!!lli!!!i; 



:!l!!llil!ll!llii!llllil!llillllil!illiil!lil!lil!!l!!li!!i!!!!!llllllll!!!!lillilili!!!l 



thieves," is almost as old as the world itse'f. 
There is truth in it, for there is honor among 
certain types of thieves, always has been and 
always will be. There is just as much of the 
Damon and Pythias to be found in the under- 
world, among the prowlers in the dark, as you 
will find among their more fortunate brothers 
who tread the beaten trail of respectability, per- 
haps more. Jimmy was of this type. He had 
never known anything save the club of the 
cop and the fists and the "billys" of the detec- 
tives when they sent him through the tlrrd degr;e. 
He hated them with all the fervor of his beiner. 
"Rattlesnakes" and "skunks" were the terms that 
he applied to them and the thought of his ido', 
"Blackey," being "nailed" by Morrisey fiUed him 
with rage and desperation. There was murder 
in his heart when he got out of the taxi at the 
Knickerbocker. 

He took a seat in the corner of the din'ng 
room, at a table behind a cluster of palms, where 
he could observe all that entered without being 
seen. In a few moments he saw Morrisey enter 
with two other gentlemen. 

Blackey followed a few minutes after, stood at 
the door for a moment, took in the diners at a 
glance, spied his two friends, Biddle and Haberly, 
then made his way to the' table. 

"He'lo, old boy," Biddle greeted^ him, then 
turning to Morrisey, "shake hands with M<\ 
Kennard, Mr. Morrisey." 

"Glad to know you, Mr. Morrisey," saM 
Blackey. 

"Delighted to meet you, Mr. Kennard." 

Henry and Blackey greeted each other and then 
all hands sat down. Morrisey's eyes, deep set, 
small and penetrating, never left Blackev for a 
moment, and Blackey, incidentally, was conscious 
of the observation. It irritated him a little, but 
he gave no outward indication of his perturba- 
tion. He was relieved beyond any possibility of 




expression in words when the orchestra drifted 
into the divine and soul-stirring melody of 
Brahm's C Minor Symphony, Be felt an uplift 
a feeling of ease and was strangely fascinated 
by its superb sonority. It gladdened him. brought 
tears to his eye:;, made him sad, as though with 
the rendering of each note of the melody of gold, 
a human heart was broken ! Music always stirred 
him to the . depths of his soul. 

He noticed that Morrisey, too, was over- 
whelmed, and that just as soon as the music begah 
he ceased to scrutinize him. He hummed the 
melody and moved his head to and fro in rhythm 
with the orchestra. He applauded, vociferously 
when the orchestra finished. 

"Wonderful, - ' he remarked as he directed his 
attention to Blackey. 

"Gorgeous." replied Blackey. "I see you like 
good music." 

"I love it." said Morrisey with a ring of sin- 
cerity in his voice. "It stimulates me intellectu- 
ally, emotionally and every other way. I have 
solved some of my greatest cases under its absorb- 
ing influence." 

"Really?" asked Blackey curiously. 

"Yes," he continued, "when I get up against a 
knotty orob'em it helps me tremendously, espe- 
cially Wagner and Brahm." 

"Come, come " laughed Biddle. "Let's get down 
to business. Forget about Wagner, Brahm and 
all the rest of the masters of music. I'm more 
concerned about bank burglars at this moment." 

"And I," said Blackey, "am more concerned 
about how Mr. Morrisey ever came to know that 
such a person as poor me lived. Are you on 
my trail. Mr. Morrisey?" he laughingly inquired. 

"I'm responsible for his knowing you," inter- 
rupted Biddle, "and if you will forget about 
music for a moment I will tell you the story." 

"Proceed, George," exclaimed Blackey, "I'm all 
attention." 

"Since you. Henry and myself had dinner 'a 
month or more ago, I have had new honors con- 
ferred upon me." 

"Ha, ha," said Henry with a smile. 

"Honors that mean nothing in my young life," 
continued Biddle. 

"What are the honors?" quizzed Blackey. 

"Chairman of the Protective Department of the 
American Bankers Association. In other words, 
I'm the fe'low who sees that the crooks who 
plunder our banks are persistently hunted and 
properly prosecuted." 

"Good for you !" said Henry and Blackey 
simultaneously. 

"But if my memory serves me correctly," re- 
marked Henry, "the last time we dined together 
you told us that bank burglaries were to be a 
thing of the past, since the safe makers of the 
country had succeeded in making an absolutely 
burglar-proof safe." 

"That's what I thought," answered B'ddle. 

"That's what you thought?" inquired Henry. 
"Ha, ha," he laughed, and continued, "and were 
you wrong?" 

"From what Mr. Morrisey has told me today, 
I oresume that I was very much wrong." 



Vage Twenty-four 



OVIE WEEKLY 



"It's a mystery," grunted Morrisey, "I can't make 
it out." 

This expression filled Blackey with unlimited confi- 
dence and yet he was still a trifle concerned about how 
Morrisey came to know him. 

"What's the mystery, Mr. Morrisey?" he asked him. 
And then, turning to Biddle, "Where do I fit in this 
mystery? 

Maybe they think you robbed the bank," roared 
Henry. 

This remark brought a laugh from everybody, particu- 
larly from Blackey. 

"Mr. Morrisey," said Biddle, "has just come in from 
Philadelphia where he investigated the robbery last 
night of the Arlington National Bank, one of the biggest 
and cleverest burglaries in the history of American 
crime. He is satisfied that a new explosive has been 
discovered and he intimated that he wanted to talk 
with some first class chemist. 

"I'm at your service, Mr. Morrisey. What can I do 
for you," said Blackey, "and why do you think a new 
explosive has been discovered? I haven't heard of such 
a discovery in the realm of chemistry." 

"I have made a specialty of bank burglars," declared 
Morrisey. "I have known all of them from the days of 
Langdon W. Moore to the famous Jimmy Hope. I know 
their methods. I know that this new safe, the Harlan 
Automatic Time Locker, cannot be drilled. I know that 
bank burglars haven't used any explosive other than 
powder for the past twenty-five years, and I also know 
that this new safe cannot be blown open with powder." 

"You're surely up against a problem," Blackey replied. 

"Yes, a tough one, but I shall work it out. I've had 
more difficult ones than this case." 

"Really," said Biddle, "this is a tremendously im- 
portant matter to the American Bankers Association, 
We must get this new master mind of the underworld 
before he goes any further. I'm going to advise offering 
a $50,0G0 reward at our meeting tomorrow.. We must set 
him before we have an epidemic of bank burglaries." 

"And that's what you're going to have," interrupted 
Morrisey, "if we don't get this fellow quick." 

"Personally," said Henry, "I have a certain amount 
of admiration for this fellow, this master cracksman, as 
you call him. He must be a fellow of some merit even 
though he is a cracksman. He must be a man of ideas 
and imagination if he can defeat the safe-making brains 
of the country with his liquid explosive and I'm thinking 
what a constructive force he would be in society if 
his energies were directed along other lines. I should 
love to meet him. More power to him." 

It was perfectly obvious that this displeased Morrisey 
and Biddle', but Henry paid no attention to them and 
continued with his declaration: 

"And if we don't get away from the preposterous idea 
that prisons will reform criminals we're going to be 
confronted with more serious things than bank robbing 
epidemics. If we don't get away from the creed of 
selfishness, personal greed and the survival of the fit- 
test, and devote more serious thought to the matter of 
how criminals come to be and why our big cities all 
over the country are filled with unfortunate women, we 
will be looking into the staring, white, stony eyeballs 
of race decadence which will ultimately spell social 
dissolution, and that is tremendously more tragic than 
a million epidemics of bank burglaries." 

"Moralizing again," laughed Biddle. 

"Has it ever occurred to you why men plunder your 
banks? Have you ever asked yourself, where do these 
men come from and where do these unfortunate women 
come from and wherein they differ from you and your 
wives? Why all this outlawry, banditry and murder, 
and social malajustment of every sort? Have you ever 
thought of these things and then sought an answer?" 

"Booze and drugs create most of our criminals," re- 
plied the detective. 

"Not at all, not at all," continued Henry more pas- 
sionately than ever. 

Neither booze nor drugs in themselves were ever the 
sole, fundamental causes of any man committing a crime, 
or any girl drifting into a life of shame. They have 
been merely incidents in their downfall, not causes. If 
a man commits a crime while under the influence of 
a drug you immediately attribute the commission of 
the crime to the drug. That's the intolerable sophistry 
of society! " 

"Henry, Henry," said Biddle rather indignantly, 
"surely you don't mean what you say. Your idealism 
has got the better of you." 

"I mean every damn word of it!" snapped Henry. 
"The truth hurts you fellows who are always thinking 
in a groove, you fellows who have everything in life 
that you want and who don't care a rap about those in 
the depths." 

"Henry's correct,'** said Blackey. "There isn't any 
such thing in this country as equality of opportunity, the 
golden rule and the brotherhood of man. It's a case of 
dog eat dog,- the survival of the fittest, while the weak 
perish. If education and physical culture were com 
pulsory up to a certain age, say twenty-one, there would 
be less crime and a higher type of man and woman." 

"Prisons are a necessity." said Morrisey, "Criminals 
never reform." 

"Of course they don't reform," replied Henry, "because 
we don't encourage reformation, because we view their 
protestations of reformation with suspicion. We hound 
them from pillar to post, dog them from city to city. 
These social parasites must be protected, therefore they 
advocate prisons, detectives and electric ckairs. Get more 
schools, more gymnasiums, make mental and physical 
training a compulsory thing and you can convert all 
your prisons into hospitals." '. 

Henry's denunciation thrilled Blackey and it gave 
him renewed energy and confidence.- I'm not doing 
wrong when I plunder their banks," he thought to him- 
self, "no — I'm not doing wrong, I'm right." 

Back and forth they debated the subject until nearly 
midnight, and when Biddle had paid the check and 
thev all prepared to leave, Morrisey turned to Blackey 
and said: 

"Can you come to my room tomorrow evening about . 
seven, I should liketo have a chat with you alone." 

"Yes, indeed, I will/' replied Blackey. 

IMMY was stretched out on the divan when Blackey 

returned to the apartment. 
"Ha, Jimmy, old boy/' he shouted, "how goes it? 

And where did you spend the evening?" 
At de Knickerbocker." 



J 



"At the Knickerbocker!" exclaimed Blackey. 

"Yep." 

Blackey's face lighted up with a smile of understand- 
ing. He moved over to Jimmy, placed his hand on his 
shoulder, patted him affectionately, and said: "So you 
followed me to the Knickerbocker?" 

"No," replied Jimmy, "I didn't follow y\ I was dere 
when y' got dere, all set for a gun play if dat mug 
Morrisey tried to nail y'." ' 

"Ready to go the limit for me, were you?" 

"Y* went it for me in de park dat night, didn't y'?" 

"You're a game little fellow," said Blackey with a 
quiver of emotion . in his voice, "and I'll never forget 
that little thing you did tonight." 

"What did he say? Is he on to anything?" 

"Not a thing," said Blackey. 

"How did he get wise to your name?" 

"From my friend, Biddle, who is chairman of the 
American Bankers Association Protective Department." 

Blackey had never told Jimmy anything about his 
life's activities, but he now felt that Jimmy was per- 
fectly trustworthy and loyal, so he rehearsed in detail 
what he had been and how he had come to be a bank 
robber. 

Throughout the recital Jimmy sat spellbound, his eyes 
glittered with admiration, ana* when Blackey had fin- 
ished, he said: "I thought y* were a high class guy. 
I always knew dat dere was some.th.itig funny about 
y\ but I couldn't dope- out what it was. Count me in 
fifty-fifty on dat hospital fund for your friend, the 
Professor." 

"You feel that you want to help out on that, do you?" 

"Hook, line and sinker," replied Jimmy. 

"That's fine," said Blackey, "and don't ever breathe a 
word to anybody about what I have just told you." 

"Dey could put me in the chair," declared Jimmy, "and 
I'd croak before I'd squawk on y\ Blackey. You can 
gamble your life that dere's no yellow in me." 

"I know that Jimmy," said Blackey, "I was only 
cautioning vou." 

Blackey pulled out his watch. "Eleven-thirty." he 
said. "If we hustle we can make the twelve-fifteen 
train for Trenton, get the money that we planted and 
be back in New York before three. Get those guns out 
of the wardrobe, fill and oil them, while I slip out of 
this tuxedo and dress." ■ 

They arrived at the station just in time to catch the 
train. 

"Say," remarked Jimmy, "we are coming back on a 
passenger, ain't we?" 

"Of course," replied Blackey, "why not?" 

"I'm glad of that." 

"What are you talking about, anyway?" Blackey 
inquired. "What do you mean by saying you're glad 
of that?" 

"Dere's a bunch of nigger bandits running up and 
down this road sticking up poor hoboes and throwing 
them off de trains and I didn't want to run into dem with 
all that dough on us." 

"Nigger bandits?" repeated Blackey. 

"Three of 'em," continued Jimmy. "Boston Shine, 
Memphis Yellow and Scarf ace Joe. They prowl the 
train while it's running, with a rope ladder, which they 
fasten on the running board to climb in and out of 
the box cars." 

"We're not going to ride any freight trains, Jimmy, 
so we won't meet them." 

Upon their arrival in Trenton they walked out to 
the woods where the money was planted. As they 
passed the watering tank, around which were a number 
of "weary willies," Jimmy pointed outthe Boston Shine 
and his two pals to Blackey. 

They had some trouble locating the plant, and before 
they got back to the station, the last passenger to New 
York breezed by them like a streak of greased lightning. 
While they stood in the middle of the track bemoaning 
their misfortune and debating the advisability of goin^ 
to a Trenton Hotel for the night, a New York bound 
freight pulled int-> the yards. 

"Let's* ride this to Jersey Citv," said Blackey, "then 
De can get the ferry or the Hudson Tube to New York. 
What do you say?" 

"And take a chance of being stuck up bv the Boston 
Shine?" 

"Oh, Jo hell with the Boston Shine/' snapped Blackey, 
"come on!" 

They got aboard the freight and were oil their way to 
Jersey City within a few minutes. As the "rattler" 
rambled through Jersey City at a forty-mile-an-hour 
gait, enveloped in a whirlpool of dust as it "rat-tated, 
rat-tated" over the crossings, they heard a groan. They 
looked out the door, but saw nothing. Suddenly the 
fireman started to feed coal to the speed demon of the 
rails, and as he opened up the firt* box. it il'uminated 
the sky so that when Blackey looked out of the car up 
towards the engine, he saw three or four men jump from 
the train one after the other. And as they passed him 
he heard groans. He continued to look. He then saw 
three forms climb up the rope ladder to the top of the 
train. Within a few seconds he saw them come down 
the ladder and enter another box car. Again he saw 
three or four forms jump from the train and as the 
train rambled by them, he heard more groans. When 
the train nulled into a cut, he saw another form leap 
in the dark, and bound back under the train. Within 
a few seconds they heard the wheels pass over the 
body, grinding it up. 

"Christ!" exclaimed Jimmy. 

"We'll be next!" snapped Blackey. 

They backed up in the corner of the car and awaited 
developments, knowing that it was only a matter of a 
few seconds before the Boston Shine and his murdering 
pal* would be after them. 

".Get ready, Jimmy," warned Blackey. 

He had hardly uttered the words when the rope ladder 
came swinging into the car, and the Boston Shine, hat 
pulled over his eyes, and, gun in hand, came clambering 
down the ladder. His two pals followed him immedi- 
ately. They closed both door , lighted a candle and 
then shouted, "Hands up, by God, and get 'em up 
quick as hell!" 

Blackey and Jimmy blazed away at them with their 
forty-fours and in the gunning match the candle was 
blown out. They continued to fire at each other as the 
train pounded the rails and surged from side to side. 
Suddenly the door was pushed open and two of the 
coons jumped in the dark as the train dangled along. 
Jimmy had fallen to the floor with a bullet in his 



shoulder. Blackey moved over to the door where the 
Boston Shine lay a corpse, with eyes wide open and 
his gun clenched tightly in his hand. 

"It was his life or ours," said Blackey, as he stood 
looking at the dead bandit, stretched out stiff on the 
floor. 

Jimmy's wound was a minor one, the bullet having 
just grazed his shoulder. He was more upset than hurt. 
Blackey tore up the tail of his shirt and bandaged the 
shoulder. 

It was close to three-thirty when they pulled into 
Jersey City and wended their way to the Hudson Tubes 
for a train to New York. They alighted at Eighth 
Street and went direct to Blackey's laboratory, 

"I think we had better destroy these bonds," said 
Blackey. "Morrisey may get a line on us if we try 
to dicker them." 

"Sure," replied Jimmy, as Blackey tossed them into a 
huge crucible and applied a match. 

,! We have *^5.00o/' said Blackey when he had finished 
counting thr money. "$235,000," he repeated, "$175,000 of 
which goes fcr the hospital. Are you satisfied with 
$30,000 Foi your share, Jimmy?" 

"Bet your life," snapped Jimmy, "tickled to death. 
Y' can give the professor more if y' want to." 

"All right, that s fine," declared Blackey as he opened 
up his safe and put the money into it. 

"Say, say/' said Jimmy, rather alarmed, "you're 
not going to leave alt dat coin in dat phoney little pete, 
are y'? Why dat thing can be opened with a can 
opener!!* 

Blackey smiled and replied, "That little safe is a 
damn sight more burglar-proof than that big automatic 
time locker that we blasted open in the Arlington 
National Bank. Put your hand on the combination." 

Jimmy grabbed the "com" and as he did so he let out 
a yell and went stumbling across the room. He scram- 
bled to his feet, shouting: "What that hell ya got in 
that pete, anyway?" 

Blackey roared with laughter. "Well," he said, "do 
you still think my little pete can be opened with a can 
opener?" 

"The dough is safe in dere," answered Jimmy, "dead 
safe." 

After this demonstration they closed up the laboratory, 
got a taxi and proceeded to the apartment. 

"I have an engagement with Morrisey at seven in his 
rooms at the Knickerbocker," remarked Blackey as he 
undressed and prepared for bed. 

"What's he want to see y' for now?" 

"I don't know/' replied Blackey. 

"Say," said Jimmy rather seriously, "are y' sure he 
isn't on to anything? Are y* sure, dead sure?" 

"I hardly think so," answered Blackey deliberately. 
"I hardly think so," he repeated, "and yet there is a 
bare possibility that he may have something up hi* 
sleeve. It is possible, of course. However, it's his 
brains against mine and may the cleverest man win." 

"Be careful, be careful," exclaimed Jimmy. 

"I will," said Blackey as he turned over and closed 
his eyes. 

It was noon when Blackey awoke. The golden beams 
of the warm, mid-day sun were streaming through the 
curtains of the room. In the smooth, soft green of the 
park below, some children were romping, while a hurdy 
gurdy jangled forth the strains of the "Sidewalks of 
New York. ' A bird twittered in a tree just outside the 
window, as though it were trying to harmonize with 
the music and the voices of the children as they sang 
the chorus: "East side, West side, all around the 
town, etc." RIackey stood by the window, looked and 
smiled and drank in the rich, winey air as though it 
contained some healthful anodyne. Never had life 
seemed more beautiful to him! 

He closed the window and picked up the morning 
papers on the front page of which he read: 

"Detective Morrisey says he has a clue to the Arling- 
ton Bank burglars. He would not divulge the nature 
of the clue or the source of his information, but it is 
known that the Arlington Bank officials had him on the 
phone at midnight. He predicts an early capture of the 
burglars." 

"Huh," he grunted, "perhaps he has an ace up his 
sleeve." 

"Talking to yourself," laughed Jimmy from the bed. 

"Read this," replied Blackey as he got up, and handed 
him the paper. 

"Holy !" exclaimed Jimmy "What y' think 

of it?" 

"I don't know what to think or what to do." 

"I tell y', Blackey, dat guy is a wizard and I think 
we better beat it while the going is good." 

Blackey sat and soliloquized. In his imagination he 
went over every detail of the job from the time that 
he arrived in Philadelphia until he left the bank. He 
recalled what Barker, the bank president, and Morrisey 
had said about the gold tooth and the lisp in the voice, 
the artifices that he had resorted to for the purpose of 
concealing his identity. He was quite sure that he had 
covered up his tracks. He ridiculed the possibility of 
any definite clue and yet he realized that it was not 
absolutely improbable. 

"Possible," he said to himself, "but damn improbable." 

He and Jimmy dressed and went out to get breakfast, 
after which they arranged to deliver the money to 
Haberly at the Post Graduate Hospital by a special 
messenger. 

They returned to the apartment about six, whereupon 
Blackey immediately prepared to keep his appointment 
with Morrisey at the Knickerbocker. Jimmy was de- 
cidedly nervous, but Blackey was as calm and as self- 
contained as could be. 

"Don't nothin' ever worry y'/' he asked Blackey. 

"No," laughed Blackey, "nothing." 

"Watch your step tonight, old pal/* he remarked to 
Blackey as he left the apartment lor the Knickerbocker. 

"I'm all set, Jimmy," replied Blackey, smiling as he 
closed the door. 

When Blackey arrived in front of Morrisey's room on 
the eighth floor he heard him talking on the phone. He 
grabbed the door knob, then hesitated and listened: 

"Looks good/' he heard him say, "I think Pm on the 
right trail/' 

He opened the door. There in the room sat Barker, 
the president of the Arlington National Bank, the man 
to whom he talked as "Captain Worthington" when he 
planned the robbery. 

{Continued next week) 






MOVIF. WEEKLY 



Fegt Twenty-five 



A Fiery Romance of Love 



INTO the moment of tense silence the woman's 
voice broke, cool and sane, bringing immeasur- 
able relief to nerves that were perilously near 
the breaking point. 
"Of course we can keep her," she said. "Why 
not? There's the top room vacant — for tonight, 
at least. It's not the young lady's fault the mis- 
take was made. The least we can do is to make 
things comfortable for her." 

"But tomorrow," demurred the man. "Suppose 
they bring the right one tomorrow — or suppose 
they don't? What's to be done with this one?" 

"Let tomorrow take care of itself," advised the 
woman. "It's not our mistake, and we don't have 
to patch it up. Talk to The Chief tonight. He'll 
tell you what to do next. In the meantime," she 
turned to Doris with the friendliest, most reas- 
suring of smiles, "Miss Dalrymple must be both 
tired and hungry. Suppose we eat." 

"But I think I have a right to know something 
about this extraordinary proceeding," Doris said 
boldly. 

Again the couple exchanged questioning glances 
and again it was the woman who spoke. 

''We were asked to take a young lady to board 
for a short time. Miles, my husband, was to 
meet them with the boat and bring her over. 
There were reasons why it wasn't best for her 
to know where ->he was going. Well, they brought 
you, and that's all we know about it. Evidently 
a mistake was made." 

"Then why not take me to shore, right now?" 
Doris demanded. "I have a picture to work on 
tomorrow, you know." 

"Tomorrow's a whole night away," the man 
said brusquely. "Better eat your supper and make 
yourself easy, as the Missus says." 

"Eat, drink and be merry, for tomorrow I die ?" 
Doris tried to laugh it off, lightly, but there was 
that in the man's grim look which chilled her 
blood again. The woman, however, gave her 
pleasant, throaty laugh and laid a gentle hand on 
the girl's arm. 

"Come on inside." she urged. "You must be 
tired. The kettle's boiling and everything's on. 
A bit of food and some hot tea will do you a 
world of good." 

In spite of her nervousness and anxiety, Doris 
gave a little cry of pleasure as they stepped from 
the balcony into the circular room whose western 
window overlooked a sea that was all aglow now 
with the reflected colors of the sunset. Every- 
thing was spotlessly clean, the white woodwork 
shining, the blue painted furniture cushioned in 
gay chintz. A round table was laid beside the 
open window. There was a fine white cloth, blue 
and white china, a quaint brass kettle boiling over 
an alcohol flame. Hot rolls, a cool sa'ad and a 
thick and tender mutton chop, were followed by 
fresh berries in a smother of cream, and delicious 
tea. Doris, being young and healthy, responded 
to the stimulus of attractive surroundings and 
perfect food. It was with her second cup of tea 
that she broke her silence to ask abruptly : 

"You're English, aren't you? Only the English 
can brew such tea or cook such mutton chops." . 

The woman flushed a little and glanced quickly 
through the open door. Assured that the man 
was not within hearing, she answered : 

"I came from England only a year ago. And 
I came straight to this island. I've never been 
on mainland since. You see, when he goes, I 
have to stay. We can't leave the place alone." 

"You must get fearfully lonely, even in all this 
beauty! But of course many people land here, 
in the fine weather." 

"No landing. The government put a ban on 
visitors in wartime and it isn't lifted yet. Every 
now and then an inspector, that's all." 

"But what do you do all the time?" Doris was 
plainly aghast at thought of such a life. The 
woman smiled. 

"Come up and see the light. You'll see the 
amount of cleaning there is to do. We never 
know when the inspector's coming, and there 
mustn't be a spot anywhere I He was here yes- 
terday." 

Doris' heart sank a trifle. Her mind had leaned 
to the possibility of help from the inspector. She 
followed the woman up the winding stairs, pass- 
ing three bedrooms, each smaller than its pre- 



}y Ofankanye'BeTiy 



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SYNOPSIS 

Doris Dalrymple, beautiful screen star, out 
with her company on location, wanders away 
during a lull in the work and meets a young man, 
Jerry Griswold, former soldier, who is now out of 
work. He tells her of his ambitions and she sym- 
pathizes with him. 

She then starts back to where the company are 
staging the next scene, and Jerry, following her 
with his eyes, sees her picked up by a man in a 
yellow racer and thinks she is kidnapped. In 
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, Jimpsey, the villain of the company, goes 
into a store, while Jerrv following on his ma- 
chine, perceives his advantage, and swooping 
down on the motionless car, snatches Doris and 
dashes away just as Jimpsey comes out 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 im- 
mediately dashes off, with Jerry in grim pursuit. 

Jimpsey, still searching, comes into the city 
and sees Jerry. He also follows, but his car turns 
turtle and they get away from him. 

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 
recognizes her as a motion picture star, and sees 
that they have kidnapped the wrong girl. 



illilii 



Mill 



decessor, all beautifully clean, and adequately fur- 
nished. Then she stood with the woman beside 
the big light, with gray waters far below, gray 
sky overhead, the glory of the sunset gone, twi- 
light closing in relentlessly. A sense of utter 
helplessness swept over her, as if her own world 
were thousands of leagues away. The woman 
seemed to read her thought, and smiled. 

"It's lonely, but safe here," she said. "I often 
tell myself that when I'm here alone. Now I'll 
show you how the light works. It's just time for 
it to go on. See? Step back here." 

She drew Doris back a few paces, pulled a 
handle, and a shaft of white light sprang out, 
sending a gleaming trail far across the darken- 
ing waters. Steadily the mechanism worked, 
without further touch from the woman, turning 
the great lantern steadily, cutting the light off, 
on, off, on, with automatic precision. 

"It's fascinating," breathed Doris. "I've seen 
lighthouses .winking at me. from the sea, but I 
never thought how it was done. I believe I had 
an idea that someone had to stand up here and 
wave a lantern, or at least keep turning it." 

''Not in these days," laughed the woman. "One 
of us sleeps up here, of course, and wakes up 
every hour to keep an eye out. That gets to ba 
habit. You wake up, give a look at the light and 
the sea, and go to sleep again, without hard'y 
knowing it. This is my night up here. Your 
room is the one right underneath. Miles has the 
one below that. So you see, you'll be well 
guarded." 

There was the slightest shade of emphasis on 
the last sentence. Was she assuring her of safety, 
or warning her against an attempt to escape, 
Doris wondered. She had a sudden desire to be 
alone, to think over the amazing events of her 
hectic day. 

"May I stay in my room now, then?" she 
asked. "I'm really very tired, and — and I want 
to think things over," she finished frankly. 

"I don't wonder. I'll bring you hot water in 
a few minutes." She led the way into the room 
and left Doris there. Presently her voice came 
up from below, mingled with the man's rough 




tones. He penned to be excited, or angry, for 
his voice rose higher and higher. 

"I tell you, we've got to do something about it," 
he barked distinctly. "If she leaves here, she's 
bound to tell — and the jig's up for us. She can't 
leave here a " 

Silence, as if the woman's hand had crushed 
the word on his lips. A silence that lasted. Up- 
stairs, Doris waited, shivering, her mind running 
on and on, but coming back always to that last 
unfinished sentence. It was all too impossible, 
too fantastic ! Such things didn't happen, in real 
life — only in the movies. And suddenly her lips 
twitched as her old, irresistible sense of humor 
bubbled up. 

"And they think we put over a lot of impossible 
situations," she breathed. "Think what this day 
of mine would be on the screen !" 

The woman, returning with hot water, nodded 
approvingly as she caught the smile. 

"That's the idea ! You've got real pluck ! You'll 
find a few things in the closet there you can 
wear, and the toilet articles are all fresh and 
new. Extra blankets on this shelf, and — if here 
isn't our old friend Wee-jee 1 Ever play with 
one?" 

She emerged from the closet with a Ouija board 
in her hands, holding it up laughingly. 

"There was a time when I believed all it said," 
she declared. "I got over that, but it's an amus- 
ing thing. If you feel restless, trv it. You know 
how?" 

"I've seen it done," Doris said, "but it never 
interested me. Just now I'd rather think out my 
own problems." And suddenly the girl's eyes 
darkened with a new, impulsive feeling. She 
came closee to the woman, putting both her slim 
hands on the strong arm in its gingham sleeve, 
lifting a face that was very lovely and appealing. 

"I don't know what it's all about," she breathed. 
"I'm afraid. You're kind — but the man — and I'm 
all alone — there's nothing anywhere. Oh, won't 
you help me?" 

"Now listen, child," the woman's voice dropped 
very low now. "Nothing's going to happen ! 
Miles is mad and disappointed tonight. But I'll 
manage things. I'm going to lock you in, but 
the key will be in my pocket ! He daresn't go too 
far with me." 

They heard the man's step below. "I'm com- 
ing," called the woman, and with a reassuring pat 
for Doris' arm she was gone. Doris, standing 
quite still in the center of the room, fought for 
self-control as she heard the key turn in the lock. 
Slowly her gaze traveled over the little room with 
its shining circular walls, its clean little bed of 
iron, painted white, its white chairs and dressing 
table. She opened a closet. A white gown of 
fine cotton hung there, a kimono, slippers, a warm 
robe. On the shelf, more blankets, and — yes, a 
thick coil of heavy rope. For a moment her eyes 
lighted. Then she shook her head. Even if she 
made the escape from the window, what then? 
Could she swim out into the sea and hope to be 
picked up by a passing boat? 

Seated on the floor, chin in cupped palms, el- 
bows resting on the low window sill, she stared 
out. It was very dark, with occasional thick 









Page Twenty-six 

clouds scudding across a sky that was but thinly star- 
sprinkled. The water lapped at the rocks— the only 
sound in a vast chasm of silence. Doris tried to keep a 
grip on her power of clear thinking. 

••Someone had planned to kidnap a girl, for some 
reason," she pondered. "They were waiting, and they 
mistook me for the right girl. Oh. if I'd let my motor- 
cycle hero take me home! If I hadn't been so silly! 
Why did I care whether he found out I am an actress? 
Why did I let him hide me away from poor old Jimpsey ? 
Where's Jimpsey now? Where's my motorcycle hero? 
If he'd been properly interested he would have watched 
from afar, and ridden to my rescue, like the knights of 

° ld! " . „ c . , ■ • 

That last thought persisted for a moment, bringing a 

little resentful hurt. Why hadn't he watched? Why 
hadn't he saved her? He had seemed so resourcetul, so 
devoted, so— so different! . 

"But now, here I am, and nobody knows! And this 
awful beast downstairs knows if 1 get away he isn t 
safe! Can I bribe him. promise not to get him in 
trouble? lie wouldn't believe me . . ." 

On and on and on raced the mind of Dons, growing 
more doubtful, more, terrified, more desperate, as time 
slipped by and the silence continued. At hist she 
heard the woman go upstairs, to her couch in the little 
room back of the light. She pictured her there, asleep, 
waking to look out and sleep again. She heard the man 
move about in the room below. Then, steps, soft and 
cautious, on the stairs. Steps that stopped, while Doris 
held her hands over her lips to keep back a scream. 
She saw the knob of her door turn, silently. Then, 
after an eternity, the steps, going back. Silence again, 
and terror! ,.,,,-,, 

"If he had been able to get in," she shivered. 'Will 
he find a way?" 

Presently she turned from the window, resolutely 
determined to compose herself. In soft slippers she 
went silently about, bathing her face, deciding not to 
undress, settling down beside the light to try to read. 
Abandoning that as hopeless, she picked up the Ouija 
board, and set it on the little table beside her. 

"Now's your chance, Wee-jee," she whispered. "What 
have you to suggest?" 

And suddenly under her tense fingers the pointer be- 
gan to move, to point. Amazedly she. watched, her eyes 
growing wide, a soft Same of excitement leaping to 
her cheeks as her lips whispered the letters. 

"R-o-p-e, rope!" she breathed, incredulously, "G-o, go 
a-t, at, t-w-e-1-v-e! H-e-l-p, -f-r-o-m, t-h-e, e-a-s-t, — '' 

Abruptly, it stopped. Doris was white to the lips 
now. Her fingers fell limply from the board. Over and 
ov.er her stiff lips whispered. 

"It said: 'Rope. Go at twelve. Help from the east.' 
Shall I? It must have been my imagination — my fingers 
must have done it unconsciously! If I left this room 
I might be killed. That man might be watching . . ." 
But in the end Doris did the thing that she had been 
taught to do in her last serial but one. She knotted 
the rope to her iron bed. She dropped it from the 
window. She wound her hands thickly with pieces of 
the cotton gown, and she went down, steadily and 
securely, to the rocks below. There she ran lightly to 
the eastern side of the island, made her way over high 
rocks and down to the water's edge. There was a t'ny 
strip of pebbled beach here, scarcely more than a yard 
long. She dropped on it, just as a moon came riding 
out of the clouds, throwing a light almost as bright as 
day down over the island, bringing everything into 
plain view. 

"The rocks hide me from the house," she thought. "If 
that man comes out T shall fling myself into the water 
and stay under until I drown." 

But no sound came from the house. For a half hour 
Doris strained her eyes toward the east. The light was 
fitful, the moon obscured now by the clouds, now break- 
ing out with a dazzling radiance. It was after an un- 
usually long bit of darkness that Doris saw the boat! 
It was coming straight toward her, out of the open sea. 
It was quite near at hand she thought at first but it 
seemed a long time before it came close enough for 
her to see that it was a small boat with high sides, 
and it was being rowed by someone in a dark suit. 
Someone who rowed slowly, as if very tired and uncer- 
tain. 

"Is it my hero-man?" she asked herself excitedly. "Is 
it? Is it?" 

Under the clouds went the tantalizing moon again. 
In the darkness the boat grated on the pebbles "Be 
careful," Doris whispered hoarsely. "Oh, be careful. 
Don't let anyone hear!" , 

The moon popped out. There was the boat— a motor 
boat with its engine stalled. And on the seat, oars in 
drooping hands, face white 'and drawn with fatigue, sat 
a girl— a very pretty girl in knickers and :> dark, 
closely fitting coat. A girl with a halo of fluffy gold 
hair, and wide, startled blue eyes. 



PROFESSIONALLY, Tames Barrington Gillette, com- 
monly known as Jimpsey, was a "heavy man." 
Personally, he was active of mind and agile of 
body, possessing that rather indefinable quality 
that is known as being quick on the trigger. The pile 
of soft dirt which received him from the arms of the 
yellow roadster held his manly form for exactly thirty 
seconds. Then he struggled to his feet, gasping for the 
breath that was coming back to him with slow painful- 
n-ess, gave the punctured tires one sweeping look and 
one eloquent remark, and turned his attention to his 
surroundings. 

Already the tyue limousine and the motorcycle had 
disappeared. A crowd was gathering around Jimpsey— 
the sort of crowd that springs up in a Aew York street 
by magic, with nothing whatever to do but stand and 
look at an accident, or a moving safe, or a human fly, 
Jimpsey ran his eye over them impatiently, then dashed 
across to the opposite curb where a man had brought a 
battered little ord to a stop and stepped out to be 
numbered among those present at the gathering. 

"Say, brother," Jimpsey proposed genially. "I'll trade 
you that Stutz, .a mouth old, perfectly sound but for 
two wrecked tirfcs, for your little Lizzie here. Is it 






a go.'" 

"But— but," stammered the stranger, "yours is 
worth " 

"It's worth nothing to me lying there. And my time 



just now is worth a million dollars a minute. Your car 
will go. What say ? You on ? " 

"Y-y-yes. S-s-s-sure! She's a s-s-s-self-st-t-t-tarter," 
stuttered the man, dazed by the rapidity of the trans- 
action. 

"Right-o. Much obliged, friend.'' And Jimpsey was 
off, his new conveyance carrying him briskly ahead with 
the dogged reliability for which its whole family is 
justly noted. 

"It's a cinch they were making for the Queensboro 
Bridge," he decided, guiding the snubby nose of "Lizzie" 
toward the Plaza. "Now, old girl," he cautioned, half 
aloud, "mind your step. No getting into trouble with 
the cops, you know. This is no time for a hold-up." 

So, edging decorously along, he came to a point where 

he could see, only a few yards ahead of him, the blue 

car, waiting for the whistle that would allow it to move 

out on the bridge. 

"Good luck is ours, Lizzie-girl. We can keep her in 

sight," he chuckled, "but where " 

Almost, his muttered question ended in a whoop of 
sheer joy. For there, standing dismally beside a tall 
traffic officer, his face a study of despair, was the man 
with the motorcycle. Tt was plain that he had been held 
up, and that he would not be allowed to proceed at once. 
Chuckling with unholy glee, Jimpsey watched until the 
shrill whistle rang out. Then, moving forward with tnc 
orderly mass of vehicles of every description, he Hung 
one soul- satisfying taunt at the helpless prisoner. 
"S'long, brother. We mourn your loss!" he yelled. 
The look ot- utter despair and fury on the victim's 
face was wp/th lingering to watch, had Jimpsey had 
leisure for/.-iugering. As it was, he grinned but once, 
and settled down to the business of keeping his eye 
on the blue car. 

Once across the bridge, luck was with him and he 
was enabled to push up to the place he wanted. For a 
half hour they followed the smooth, hard boulevard, 
with its endless pnicession of motors whirring in bcth 
directions. Doggedly, Jimpsey maintained his position, 
for the driver of the blue car, evidently meaning to 
attract no attention, kept well within the speed limits. 
"If he ever decides to let 'er out on this road, we're 
lost, Little Lizzie," fretted Jimpsey. 

But he didn't. Instead, he swerved suddenly off on 
a southeasterly road, and followed it steadily with a 
speed that gradually increased as travel lessened and 
the villages became farther and farther apart. There 
was no question now that Jimpsey would presently be 
left far behind! And then, suddenly, the blue car 
swerved and-struck off into a narrow dirt road. 

Jimpsey, as has been noted before, was quick on the 
trigger. He knew better than to seem to be following, 
so he drove straight past the little road, peering down to 
see that it was green and crooked and ran away into 
a tangle of low-hanging trees. When he turned and 
drove back, the blue car was out of sight and he slowed 
down and looked at the marks of its tires in the soft 
dirt. 

"Good luck again, -Lizzie," he declared. "If they keen 
to dirt roads we can't miss that tire tread. Not while 
it's daylight!" 

He glanced at the sun, and drove on, every sen:e 
alert, keeping his eyes on the tell-tale trail. 

On and on and on! Abruptly, the little road took the 
bit in its teeth and plunged out of its obscurity into 
flat, open country. There was a strong tang of salt in 
the air now. Swamp grass began to wave from sandy 
stretches. Here and there a clump of scrub-oaks stretched 
out gnarled arms. The little road was running away to 
sea! But all along its sandy length still lay the pe- 
culiar stamp of the blue car's tires., and Lizzie put her 
stubby nose to the ground and followed them faithfully. 
Followed them, until, without noise or turbulence or 
warning, she suddenly stopped in her tracks, like a 
faithful horse protesting at last against pitiless over- 
work. Gradually the awful truth dawned on Jimpsey. 
What he said need not be recorded. Over there, where 
the sand met the sky, there might be a village, there 
might be a garage where one could buy gas. Again, 
there might not! Grimly, he pushed the dejected little 
car out of the road, over beside a bunch of scrub pines. 
Grimly, he took up the trail again, on foot. 

A mile of trudging brought him out on sandy dunes 
that ran down to meet the sea. Jimpsey stopped, star- 
ing. It seemed incredible that so desolate and lonelv 
a spot could exist within two hours of the city. Sand 
dunes stretched away on either hand; gray waves ran 
up to thunder at barren rocks; and nowhere was there 
sight or sound of human visitants. 

'But the trail's here," breathed Jimpsey, and followed 
it. There, a few feet back from the rocks, the trail 
swerved, followed the curve of the w'ater's edge, struck 
back again in a southwesterly direction across the 
dunes. 

"They're going to hit another road over there, and 
circle back," mused Jimpsey. "But what— ah!" 

From the seaward side of the blue car's trail a line 
of footprints ran down to the rocks that edged the sea. 
Jimpsey followed them, anxious-eyed, deeply moved. 

"A man and a girl went down. A man came ba:k 
alone. Someone mot them here with a boat. She's out 
there somewhere! My God!"' 

Up to this time he had been anxious, but not stirred 
to the depths of his being, as he now was. He had been 
confident he could handle the situation, could somehow 
keep near and bring her out all right. But standing 
there alone in a waste of gray sand and gray sea, with 
the sun dropping swiftly down the west, with one gaunt 
bird winging a black trail across a desolate sky, Jimp- 
sey's nerve was badly shaken. 

"Little Doris!" he breathed heavily. "What's it all 
for? Where have they gone with her? That little, 
innocent thing! ,How . . ," 

Abruptly he began to run, with floundering steps, 
through the deep sand, along the trail the blue caf 
had made. 



IT seemed to Jerry that he- stood for an hour, at least, 
beside the inexorable officer, hemmed in by the 
vehicular mob that, the rush hours bring to the 
Queensborough Plaza. . In reality it was exactly 
twelve minutes before the keen eyes were turned on 
hinij taking in the straight, upstanding figure, the 
anxious face, the frank, imploring eyes, the tiny service 
pin on the left lapel of the well-cut but rather worn 
coat. 
"There, lad, be off with ye," he said, "but mind your 



MOVIE WEEKLY 

step. Keep your own place in the procession. Ye can't 
be doin' trick stunts in a jam like this." 

"Thanks, officer," Jerry said, "I'll remember. Steadily 
he moved forward, outwardly decorous, inwardly raging, 
as he kept his place in the procession over the bridge. 

"A snail could race this outfit and win, ' he grumbled. 
"But after all, why hurry? I've lost 'em! What can I 
do when I get across the bridge?" 

To the traffic officer at the bridge's end he put a 
faint-hearted question that was met by an unfeeling grin. 
"A blue limousine, me boy? Yes, I've likely seen a 
hundred of them in the last hour. They ain t so uncom- 
mon that I put 'em down in my diary, you know. 

"But this one had all the curtains drawn and there 
was a Ford trailing it," Jerry persisted. 

"Is that so? Now that would identify it. A rord 
behind it I" 

"Oh hell!" exploded Jerry and took the first road 
ahead. A few miles along it divided, and the branch 
that turned to the north looked as smooth, as well- 
travelled and as uncommunicative as the one that curved 
southward. 

"My luck's left me!" he gloomed. Disconsolately he 
rode up to the garage which had, with a keen eye for 
business, planted itself in the crotch of the two roads. 
"Fill 'er up," he directed, peeling a greenback off an 
exceedingly fragile roll. "I can't run a chance on being 
stuck for lack of gas." 

"Goin' far?" asked the man, pumping expertly. "Which 
road?" 

"I wish I knew I You see, I was trailing some— some 
friends, and I got held up at the other end of the 
bridge and lost them. Now I don't know what to do. 
I'll just have to hunt the Island over." 

"Some job, I'll say. Talk about a needle in a hay- 
stack " 

"Oh, I know," lerry broke in irritably. "But I've got 
to do something!' Of course you didn't see a big blue 
limousine with a Ford close behind— too common to 
notice." 

"A big blue— say, bo, the angel of good luck was 
hoverin' right close when you come into the world. The 
big blue one stopped here for a couple of minutes. 
Chauffeur in uniform drivin'. Curtains all tight in the 
back. That it?" 
"Yes, yes," yelled Jerry. "And the Ford?" 
"Just happened to notice it. One man in that. Stopped 
just down the road there and waited till the blue one 
went ahead, then followed along. Didn't think a thing 

of it then, but " 

"Hooray!" yelled Jerry. "Which way did they go? 
South? Thanks a million times." He glanced at the 
fragile roll, but the ma,n shook his head, grinning good- 
naturedly. 

"Keep it, son, keep it. My son seen service, too. On- 
your-way, now, as my boy says. Good luck.' 

With youth's amazing redundancy Jerry's spirits rock- 
eted skyward as he set off on the southerly road. My 
lucky dav!" he chuckled. "Everything works my way. 
Old lady 'Fate's on my side. I'll catch up with thein and 
keep them in sight, and trust to my guardian angel to 
send help when I need it." 

Mile after mile flashed by. Gradually, the stream of 
motors thinned until the road was sparsely dotted with 
them and he could look far ahead. A signboard announced 
a crossroad. Jerry slowed down, and as he came near he 
saw Old Ladv Fate, to whom he had just referred with 
such jovial affection, standing in the middle of the 
road, holding up a hand which unquestionably meant 
STOP! She had taken the form of a blue-uniformed 
Hercules, and Jerry's heart began to settle toward his 
shoes, even before the rich and half -jovial voice spoke: 
"lust a minute, my lad. Let's see the number of that 
little machine. I thought so. Sorry, my boy, and you 
an ex-service man. You should of had more sense. 
Don't ye know the telephone system works yet, even if 
it do be a bit slow at times? Why did ye have so 
little brains as to think ye could get away with it? 

And suddenly the full extent of his new dilemma 
crashed in on Jerry's bewildered mind. Under his healthy 
coat of tan his face went pale. 

"Look here, officer," he protested, "I wasn't stealing 
this Indian. It was an emergency! I HAD to take 't. 
I HAVE to go on, I tell you. I'll return it, |r all right. 

I never thought—you see, there was a girl " _ 

"Of course there" was a girl. There generallv is, I in 
noticin', but that's neither here nor there. The point 
is, ye took that Indian and it belongs to the Chief up 
in the Bronx." 

"But I tell you " 

"That'll be all, me lad! There's no argument. _ ^e can 
do your explainin' to the Jedge in the mornin'." 

There was" no relenting in voice, or eyes, or tightly 
closed jaw. Desperately, Jerry felt his hope, his optim- 
ism, his 'abounding confidence in a kindly fate supping 
from him. 

(Continued next meek) ., 



Roles They'll Never Play 

Could you imagine a lineup like this ? 

"Little Lord Fauntleroy" William S. Hart 

"Passion" Sylvia Ashton 

"Huckleberry Finn" Theodore Roberts 

'Too Much Sleep" Walter Hiers 

"Fair and Warmer" Elsie Ferguson 

"Lucretya Borgia" May McAvoy 

"Rags" Gloria Swanson 

"Uncle Tom's Cabin" produced by Cecil DeMille 

"Seventeen" Theodore Kosloff 

"Old Lady 3t" Lila. Lee 

"The Frisky Miss Flighty" Ethel Clayton 



■H^^B^HH 



MOVIE WEEKLY 



THE TBIUMPH OF LOVE 

"The Business of Life" 



(Continued from page 10) 



got a mild form of typod — he's that unwell the morn- 
ings when he's been out late in the city. Say what 
you're a mind to, typod is typod! And if you h'ain't 
got it you're likely to git, it most any minute; but he 
won't swalier the teas and broths and suffusions I bring 
him, and he'll be took like everybody else one of these 
days, dearie— which he wouldn't if he's listen to me " 

"Mrs. Quant," came Desboro's voice from the landing. 

"V — yes, sir," stammered that guilty and agitated 
Cassandra. 

Jacqueline set aside her teacup and came to the stairs; 
t'.eir glances met in the suppressed amusement or 
mutual comprehension, and he conducted her to the 
hallway below, where a big log fire was blazing. 

"What was it — death, destruction, and general woe, as 
usual?" he asked. 

'And typod," she whispered. "It appears that you 
have it!" 

Poor old soul! She means all right; but imagine me 
here with her all day, dodging infusions and broths 
and red flannel! Warm your hands at the blaze, Miss 
Nevers, and I'll find the armory keys. It will be a 
little colder in there." 

She spread her hands to the flames, conscious of his 
subtle change of manner toward her, now that she was 
*ctually under his roof— and liked him for it— not in 
the least surprised that she was comprehending st 11 
another phase of this young man's most interesting 
personality. 

For, without reasoning, her slight misgivings con- 
cerning him were vanishing; instinct told her she might 
even permit herself a friendlier manner, and she looked 
up smilingly when he came back swinging a bunch of 
keys, 

"These belong to the Quant," he explained, "—honest 
old soul! Every gem and ivory and lump of jade in the 
collection is at her mercy, for here are the keys to every 
case. Now, Miss Nevers, what do you require? Pencil 
and pad?" 

"I have my notebook, thanks— a new one in your 
honor." 

He said he was flattered and led the way through a 
wide > corridor to the eastern wing; unlocked a pair of 
massive doors, and swung them wide. And, beside him, 
she walked, into the amory of the famous Desboro 
collection. 

Straight ahead of her, paved with black marble, lay 
a lane through a double rank of armed and mounted 
men in complete armor; and she could scarcely suppress 
a little cry of surprise and admiration. 

"This is magnificent!" she exclaimed; and he saw her 
cheeks brighten, and her breath coming faster. 

"It is fine," he said soberly. 

"It is, indeed, Mr. Desboro! That is a noble array 
of armor^ I fee! like some legendary princess of long 
ago, passing her chivalry in review as I move between 
these double ranks. What a wonderful collection! All 
Spanish and Milanese mail, isn't it? Your grandfather 
specialized?" 

"I believe he did. I don't know very much about the 
collection, technically." 

"Don't you care for it?" 

"Why, yes — more, perhaps, than I realized — now that 
you are actually here to take it away." 

"But I'm not going to put it into a magic pocket and 
flee to New York with it!" 

She spoke gaily, and his face, which had become a 
little grave, relaxed into its habitual expression of care- 
less good humor. 

They had slowly traversed the long lane, and now, 
turning, came back through groups of men-at-arms, pike- 
men, billmen, arquebussiers, crossbowmen, archers, hal- 
bardiers, slingers— all the multitudinous arms of a poly- 
glot service, each apparently equipped with his proper 
weapon and properly accoutred for trouble. 

Once or twice she glanced at the trophies aloft on 
the walls, every group bunched behind its shield and 
radiating from it under the drooping remnants of ban- 
ners emblazoned with arms, crests, insignia, devices, 
and quarterings long since forgotten, except by such 
people as herself. 

She moved gracefully, leisurely, pausing now and 
then before some panoplied manikin, Desboro saunter- 
ing beside her. Now and then she stopped to inspect 
an ancient piece of ordnance, wonderfully wrought and 
chased, now and then halted on tip-toe to lift some 
slitted visor and peer into the dusky cavern of the 
helmet, where a painted face stared back at her out of 
painted eyes. 

"Who scours all this mail?" he asked. 

"Our old armorer. My grandfather trained him. But 
he's very old and rheumatic now, and I don't let him 
exert himself. T think he sleeps all winter, like a 
woodchuck, and fishes all summer." 

"You ought to have another armorer." 

"I can't turn Michael out to starve, can I?" 

She swung around swiftly: "I didn't mean that!" 
and saw he was laughing at her. 

"I know you didn't." he said. "But I can't afford 
two armorers. That's the reason I'm disposing of these 
tin-clothed tenants of mirrfe — to economise and cut 
expenses." 

She moved on, evidently desiring to obtain a general 
impression of the task before her, now and then ex- 
amining the glass-encased labels at the feet of the fig- 
ures, and occasionally shaking her head. Already the 
errant lock curled across her cheek. 

"What's the trouble?" he inquired. "Aren't these 
gentlemen correctly ticketed?" 

"Some are not, That suit of gilded mail is not 
Spanish; it's German. It is not very difficult to make 
surh a mistake sometimes." 

Steam heat had been put in, but the vas! hall was 
chilly except close^ to the long ranks of oxidized pipes 
lining the walls. They stood a moment, leaning against 
them and looking out across the place, all glittering 
with the mail-clad figures. 

"I've easily three weeks' work before me among these 
mounted figures alone, to say nothing of the men on 
foot and the trophies and artillery, she said, "Do 



he said, 



but remained 



you know it is going to be rather expensive for you, 
Mr, Desboro?" 

This did not appear to disturb him. 

"Because," she went on, " a great many mistakes 
have been made in labelling, and some mistakes in 
assembling the complete suits of mail and in assigning 
weapons. For example, that mounted man in front 
of you is wearing tilting armor and a helmet that 
doesn't belong to it. That's a childish mistake." 

"We'll put the proper lid on him," said Desboro. 
"Show it to me and I'll put it all over him njw." 

"It's up there aloft with the trophies, I think— the 
fifth group." 

"There's a ladder en wheels for a closer view of the 
weapons. Shall I trundle it in?" 

He went out into the hallway and presently came 
back pushing a clanking extension ladder with a railed 
top to it. Then he affixed the crank and began to 
grind until it rose to the desired height. 

"All I asr of you is not to tumble off it,'" he said. 
"Do you prtnise?" 

She promirvd with mock seriousness: "Because I 
need all my brains, you see." 

"You've a lot of 'em, haven't you, Miss Nevers?" 

"No, not many." 

He shrugged: " I wonder, then, what a quantitative 
analysis of mine might produce." 

She said: "You are as clever as you take the trouble 

to be " and stopped herself short, unwilling to drift 

into personalities^ 

"It's the interest that is lacking in me 
" — or perhaps the incentive." 

She made no comment. 

"Don't you think so?" 

"I don't know." 

" — And don't care," he added. 

She flushed, half turned in protest 
silent. 

"I beg your pardon," he said, "I didn't mean to 
force your interest in myself. Tell me, is there any- 
thing I can do for your comfort before I go? And shall 
I go and leave you to abstruse meditation, or do I 
disturb you by tagging about at your heels?" 

His easy, light tone relieved her. She looked around 
her at the armed figures: 

"You don't disturb me. I was trying to think where 
to begin. Tomorrow I'll bring up some reference 
books " 

"Perhaps you can find what you want in my grand- 
father's library. I'll show you where it is when you 
are ready." 

"I wonder if he has Grcnville's monograph on Spanish 
and Milanese mail?" 

"I'll see." 

He went away and remained for ten minutes. She 
was minutely examining the sword belonging to a 
rather battered suit of armor when he returned with 
the book. 

"You see" she said, "you are useful. I did well to 
suggest that you remain Ivere. Now, look, Mr. Des- 
boro. This is German armor, and here is a Spanish 
sword of a different century along with it! That's 
all wrong, you know. Antonius was the sword-maker; 
here is his name on the hexagonal, gilded iron hilt — 
'Antonius Me Fecit'." 

"You'll put that all right," he said confidently. "Won't 
you?" 

"That's why you asked me here, isn't it?" 

He may have been on the point of an indiscreet re- 
joinder, for he closed his lips suddenly and began to 
examine another sword. It belonged to the only female 
equestrian figure in the collection— a beautifully shaped 
suit of woman's armor, astride a painted war-horse, 
the cuirass of Milan plates. 

"The Countess of Ooroposa," he said. "It was her 
peculiar privilege, after the Count's death, to ride in 
full armor and carry a naked sword across her kne?s 
when the Spanish Court made a solemn entry into cities. 
Which will be about all from me," he added with a 
laugh. "Are you ready for luncheon?" 

"Quite, thank you. But you said that you didn't 
know much about this collection. Let me see that sword, 
please." 

He drew it from its scabbard and presented the hi't. 
She took it, studied it, then read aloud the device in 
verse: 

" 'Paz Comiga Nunca Veo Y Siempre Guera Dese.' " 
("There is never peace with me; my desire is always 
war!") 

Her clear young voice repeating the old sword's motto 
seemed to ring a little through the silence— as though 
it were the clean-cut voice of the blade itself. 

"What a fine motto," he said guilelessly. "And you 
interpret it as though it were your own." 

"I like the sound of it. There is no compromise 
in it." 

"Why not assume it for your own? 'There is never 
peace with me; my desire is always war!' Why not 
adopt it?" 

"Do you mean that such a militant motto suits me?" 
she asked, amused, and caught the half-laughing, half 
malicious glimmer in his eyes, and knew in an instant 
he had divined her attitude toward himself, and toward 
her own self, too— war on them both, lest they 
succumb to the friendship that threatened. Silent, pre- 
occupied, she went back with him through the armory, 
through the hallway, into a rather commonplace dining- 
room, where a table had already been laid for two. 

Desboro jingled a small silver bell, and presently 
luncheon was announced. She ate with the healthy 
appetite of the young, and he pretended to. Several cats 
and dogs of unaristocratic degree came purring and 
wacging about the table, and he indulged them with an 
impartiality that interested her, allotting to each its 
portion, and serenely chastising the greedy. 

"What wonderful impartiality!" she ventured, "I 
couldn't do it; I'd be sure to prefer one of them." 

"Why entertain preference for anything or anybody?" 

"That's nonsense." 

"No; it's sense. Because, if anything happens to 



°age Twenty-seven 

one. there are the others to console you. It's pleasan 
to like impartially." 

She vvas occupied with her fruit cup; presently sh 
glanced up at him: 

"Is that your policy?" 

"Isn't it a safe one?" 

"Yes. Is it yours?" 

"Wisdom suggests it to me — has always urged it. 
I'm not sure that it always works. For example, I 
prefer champagne to milk, but I try not to." 

"You always contrive to twist sense into nonsenese." 

"You don't mind, do you?" 

"No; but don't you ever take anything seriously?" 

"Myself." 

"I'm afraid you don't." 

"Indeed, I do! See how my financial mishaps sent me 
flying to you for help!" 

She said; "You don't even take seriously what you 
call your financial mishaps." 

"But I take the remedy for them most reverently and 
most thankfully." 

"The remedy ?" 

"You." 

A slight color stained her cheeks; for she did not sse 
just how to avoid the footing they had almost reached 
— the_ understanding which, somehow, had been impend- 
ing from the moment they met. Intuition had warned 
her against it. And now here it was. 

How could she have avoided it, when it was per- 
fectly evident from the first that he found her interest- 
ing — that his voice and intonation and bearing were 
always subtly offering friendship, no matter what he 
said to her, whether in jest or earnest, in light-hearted 
idleness or in all the decorum of the perfunctory and 
commonplace. 

To have made more out of it than was in it would 
have been no sillier than to priggish ly discountenance 
his harmless good humor. To be prim would have 
been ridiculous. Besides, everything innocent in her 
found an instinctive pleasure, even in her own misgiv- 
ings concerning this man and the unsettled problem of 
her personal relations with him— unsolved with her, at 
least; but he appeared to have settled it for himself. 

As they walked back to the armory together, she 
was trying to think it out; and she concluded that she 
might dare be toward him as unconcernedly friendly 
as he would ever think of being toward her. And it 
gave her a little thrill of pride to feel that she was 
equipped to carry through her part in a light, gav. 
ephemeral friendship with one belonging to a world 
about which she knew nothing at all. 

That ought to be her attitude—friendly, spirited, pre- 
tending to a "savoir faire" only surmised by her own 
good taste— lest he find her stupid and narrow, igno- 
rant and dull. And it occurred to her very forcibly 
that she would not like that. 

So — let htm admire her. 

His motives, perhaps, were as innocent as hers. Let 
him say the unexpected and disconcerting things it 
amused him to say. She knew well enough how to 
parry them, once her mind was made up not to entirely 
ignore them ; and that would be much better. That, 
no doubt, was the manner in which women of his own 
world met the easy badinage of men; and she determined 
to let him discover that she was interesting if she 
chose to be. 

She had produced her notebook and pencil when they 
entered the armory. He carried Grenville's celebrated 
monograph, and she consulted it from time to time, 
bending her dainty head beside his shoulder, and turn- 
ing the pages of the volume with a smooth and narrow 
hand that fascinated him. 

They stopped before a horseman, clad from head to 
spurs in superb mail. On a ground of blackened steel 
the pieces were embossed with gold grotesqueries; the 
cuirass was formed by overlapping horizontal plates, 
the three upper ones composing a gorget of solid (fold. 
Nymphs, satyrs, gods, goddesses and cupids in exquisite 
design and composition framed the "lorica"; cuisses 
and tassettes carried out the lorica pattern; coudes, 
arm-guards, and gencuilleres were dolphin masks, gilded. 

"Parade armor," she said under her breath, "not 
war armor, as it has been labelled. It is armor de 
luxe, and probably royal, too. Do you see the collar 
of the Golden Fleece on the gorget? And there hangs 
the fleece itself, borne by two cunids as a canopy for 
Venus rising from the sea. That is probably Sisman's 
XVI centurv work. Is it not royally magnificent!" 

"Lord! What a lot of lore you seem to have acquired!" 
he said. 

"But 'I was trained to this profession by the ablest 
teacher in America — " her voice fell, " — by my father. 
Do you wonder that I know a little about it?" 

They moved on in silence to where a man-at-arms 
stood leaning both clasped hands over the gilded pom- 
mel of a sword. 

She said quickly: "That sword belongs to parade 
armor! How stupid to give it to this pikeman! Don't 
you see? The blade is diamond sectioned; Horn of 
Solingen's mark is on the ricasse. And, oh, what a 
wonderful hilt! It is a miracle!" 

The hilt was really a miracle; carved in gold relief, 
Italian renaissance style, the guard gentre was deco- 
rated with black arabesques on a gold ground; quillons 
f-urved dewn, ending in cupid's heads of exquisite 
beauty. 

The guard was engraved with a cartouche enclosing 
the Three Graces; and from it sprang a beautiful counter- 
guard formed out of two lovelysCaryatids un'ted. The 
grip was made of heliotrope amethyst inset with gold; 
the pommel constructed, by two volutes which encom- 
passed a tiny naked nymph with emeralds for her eyes. 

"What a masterpiece!" she breathed. "It can be 
matched only in the Royal Armory of Madrid." 

"Have you been abroad. Miss Nevers?" 

"Yes, several times with my father. It was part of 
mv education in business." 

He said: "Yours is a French name?" 

"My father was French." 

"He must have been a very cultivated man." 

"Self-cultivated." 

"Perhaps," he said, "there was once a 'de* written 
before 'Nevers,' " 

She laughed: "No. Father's family were always bour- 
geois shopkeepers — as I am." 

He looked at the dainty girl beside him, with her 
features and slender limbs and bearing of an aristocrat. 

"Too bad," he said, pretending disillusion. "I ex- 
pected you'd tell how your ancestors died on the 



en 

ter 

she 



Page Twenty-eight 

scaffold, remarking in laudable chorus, 'Vive le Roi !' " 

She laughed and sparkled deliriously, "Alas, no, mon- 
sieur. But, nia foil Some among them may have worked 
the guillotine for Sanson or drummed for Santerre. 

"You seem to me to symbolize all the grace and 
charm that perished on the i^laee de Clreve." 

She laughed: "Look again, and see if it is not their 
Nemesis I more closely resemble." 

And as she said it so gaily, an odd idea struck him 
that she did embody something less obvious, something 
more vital, than the symbol of an aristocratic regime 
perishing en masse against the blood-red sky of Paris. 

He did not know what it was about her that seemed 
to symbolize all that is forever young and fresh and 
imperishable. Perhaps it was only the evolution of the 
real world he saw in her opening into blossom and dis- 
closing such as she to justify the darkness and woe of 
the long travail. 

She had left him standing alone with firenville's book 
open in his. hands, and was now examining a figure wear- 
ing a coat of fine steel mail, with a black corselet 
decorated with "horizontal" bands. 

"Do you notice the difference?" she asked. "In Ger- 
man armor the bands are vertical. This is Milanese, 
and I think the Negrolis made it. See how exquisitely 
the morion is decorated with these lions' heads in gold 
for cheek pieces, and these bands of gold damascene 
over the skull-piece, that meet to form Minerva's face 
above the brow! I'm sure it's the Nesrrolis work. Wait! 
Ah here is the inscription! 'P. Jacobi et Fratr Xegroh 
aciebant MDXXXIX.' Bring me Grenville's book, 
please." 

She took it, ran over the pages rapidly, found what 
she wanted, and then stepped forward and laid her 
white hand on another grim, mailed figure. 

"This is foot-armor," she said, "and does not belong 
with that morion. It's neither Milanese nor yet Autrs- 
burg make: it's Italian, but who made it I don't know. 
You see it's a superb combination of parade armor and 
war mail, with all the gorgeous design of the former 
and the smoothness and toughness of the latter. Really, 
Mr. Desboro, this investigation is becoming exciting. 
I never before saw such a suit of foot-armor.' 

"Perhaps it belonged to the catcher of some ancient 
baseball club," he suggested. 

She turned, laughing, but exasperated: "I'm not going 
to let you remain near me," she said. "You annihilate 
every atom of romance; you are an anachronism here, 
anyway." 

"I know it; but you fit in delightfully with tourna- 
ments and pageants and things 

"Go up on that ladder and sit!" resolutely pointing. 

He went. Perched aloft, he lighted a cigarette and 
surveyed the prospect. 

"Mark Twain killed all this sort cf thing for me, 
he observed. 

She said indignantly: "It's the only thing I never 
have forgiven him." 

"He told the truth." 

"I k'now. But, oh, how could he write what he did 
about King Arthur's Court! And what is the use of 
truth, anyway, unless it leaves us ennobling illusions?" 

Ennobling illusions! She did not know it; but except 
for them she never would have existed, nor others like 
her that are yet to come in myriads. 

Desboro waved his cigarette gracefully and declaimed: 

"The knights are dust, 
Their good swords bust; 
Their souls are up the spout we trust—" 

"Mr, Desboro!" 

"Mademoiselle?" 

"That silly parody on a noble verse is not humorous." 

"Truth seldom is. The men who wore those suits of 
mail were everything that nobody now admires— brutal, 
selfish, ruthless -" 

"Mr. Desboro!" 

"Mademoiselle?" 

"Are there not a number of such gentlemen still 
existing on earth?" 

"New York's full of them," he admitted cheerfully, 
"but they conceal what they really are on account of 
the police." 

"Is that all that five hundred years has taught men— 
concealment?" 

"Yes, and five thousand," he muttered; but said aloud: 
"It hasn't anything to do with admiring the iron hats 
and. clothes they wore. If you'll let me come down I'll 
admire 'em " 

"No." 

"I want to carry your book for you." 

"No." 

" — And listen to everything you say about the verti- 
cal stripes on their Dutch trousers— — " 

"Very well," she consented, laughing; " you mav 
descend and examine these gold inlaid and checkered 
trousers. They were probably made for a fashionable 
dandy by Alonso Garcia, five hundred years ago; and 
you will observe that they are still beautifully creased." 

Under the careless surface, she divined a sort of 
perverse intelligence; she was certain that what ap- 
pealed to her he, also, understood when he chose to; 
because he understood so much— much that she had not 
even imagined— much of life, and of the wor'd. and of 
the men and women in it. But, having lived a life so 
full, so different from her own, perhaps his interest 
was less easilv aroused: perhaps it might be even a 
little fatigued bv the endless pageant moving with him 
amid scenes of brightness and hapoiness whvh seemed 
to .her as far away from herself and as unreal as scenes 
in the painted arras hanging on the walls. . 

They had been sneaking, of operas in wtrh armour, 
incorrectly designed and worn, was tolerated bv public 
itmorance; and, thinking of the "horseshoe." where 
all that is wealthy, and intelligent, and wonderful, and 
aristocratic in New York is supposed to congregate, she 
had mentally placed him there among those elegant 
and distant young men who are to he seen sauntering 
from one gilded box to another, or, gracefully posed, 
decorating and further embellishing boxes rilreEfdy re- 
plete with ieweled and feminine beauty: or in the cur- 
tained depths, mysterious silhouettes motionless against 
the dull red glow. 

And, if those gold-encrusted boxes had been celestial 
balconies, full of blessed damosels leaning over heaven's 
edge, they would have seemed no farther away, no more 
accessible to her, than they seemed from where she 
sometimes sat or stood, all alone, to listen to Farrar and 
Caruso. 



MOVIE WEEKLY 



The light in the armory was growing a little dim. 
She bent more closely over her notebook, the printp<j 
pages of Mr. Grenvi!le, and the shimmering, inlaid, and 
embossed armor. 

"Shall, we have tea?" he suggested. 

"Tea? Oh, thank you, Mr. Desboro; but when the 
light fails, I'll have to go." 

It was failing fast. She used the delicate tips of 
her lingers more 1 often in examining engraved, inlaid, 
and embossed surfaces. 

"I never had electricity put into the armory," he 
said. "I'm sorry now — for your sake." 

"I'm sorry, too. I could have worked until six." 

"There!" he said, laughing. "You have admitted it! 
What are you going to do for nearly two hours if you 
don't take tea? Your train doesn't leave until six. 
Did you propose to go to the station and s.t there?" 

Her confused laughter was very sweet, and she ad- 
mitted that she had nothing to do after the light failed 
except to fold her hands and wait for the train. 

*'Tnen won't you have tea?" 

"I'd — rather not!" 

He said: "You could take it alone in your room if 
you liked — and rest a little. Mrs. Quant will call you." 

She looked up at him after a moment, and her cheeks 
were very pink and her eyes brilliant: 

"I'd rather take it with you, Mr, Desboro. Why 
shouldn't 1 say so?" 

No \vorMs came to him., and not much breath, so 
totally unexpected ,was her reply. 

Still looking at him, the faint smile fading into seri- 
ousness, she repeated: . 

"Why shouldn't I say so? Is there any reason? You 
know better than I what a girl alone may do. And I 
would like to have some tea— and have it with you." 

He didn't smile; he was too clever— ^perhaps too decent. 

"It's quite all right," he said. "We'll have it sewed 
in the library where, there's a fine tire." 

So they slowly crossed the armory and traversed the 
hallway, where she left^iim for a moment and ran up 
stairs to her room. When she rejoined him in the 
library, he noticed that the insurgent lock of hair had 
been deftly tucked in among its lustrous comrades; 
but the first shake of her head dislodged it again, and 
there it was, threatening him, as usual, from its soft, 
warm ambush against her cheek. 

"Can't you do anything with it?" he asked, sympa- 
thetically, as she seated herself and poured the tea. 

"Do anything with what?" 

"That lock of hair. It's loose again, and it will do 
murder some day." 

She laughed with scarcely a trace of confusion, and 
handed him his cup. 

"That's the first thing I noticed about you," he added. 

"That lock of hair? I can't do anything with it. Isn't 
it horribly messy?" 

"It's dangerous." 

"How absurd!" 

"Are you ever known as 'Stray Lock' among your 
intimates?" 

"I should think not," she said scornfully. "It sounds 
like a children's picture-book story." 

"But you look like one." 

"Mr. Desboro!" she protested. "Haven't you any 
common sense?" 

"You look," he said reflectively, "as though you came 
from the same bookshelf as 'Gold Locks,' 'The Robber 
Kitten,' and 'A Princess Far Away,' and all those im- 
mortal volumes of the Mays that are no more.' Would 
you mind if I label you 'Stray Lock,' and put you on 
the shelf among the other immortals?" 

Her frank laughter rang out sweetly: 

"I very much object to being labeled and shelved — 
particularly shelved." 

"I'll promise to read yovi every day — — " 

"No, thank you!" 

"I'll promise to take you everywhere with me " 

"In your pocket? No, thank you. 1 object to being 
either shelved or pocketed— to be consulted at pleasure 
— or when you're bored." 

They both had been laughing a good deal, and were 
slightly excited by their game of harmless double en- 
tendre. But now, perhaps it was becoming a trifle too 
obvious, and Jacqueline checked herself to glance back 
mentally and see how far she had gone along the path 
of friendship. 

She could not determine; for the path has many twists 
and turnings, and she had sped forward lightly and 
swiftly, and was still conscious of the exhilaration of 
the pace in his gay and irresponsible company. 

Her smile changed and died out; she leaned back in 
her leather chair, gazing absently at the fiery reflections 
crimsoning the andirons on the hearth, and hearing 
afar, the steady downpour of the winter rain. 

Subtly the quiet and warmth of the room invaded her 
with a sense of content, not due, perhaps, to them 
alone. And dreamily conscious that this might -be so, 
she lifted her eyes and looked across the t.ah'e at him. 

"I wonder," she said, "if this is all right?" 

"What?;' 

"Our— situation— here." 

"Situations are what we make them." 

"But," she asked candidly, "could you call this a 
business situation?" 

He laughed unrestrainedly, and finally she ventured 
to smile,' secretly reassured. 

"Are business and friendship incompatible?" he in- 
quired. 

"I don't know. Are they? I have to be careful in 
the shop, with younger customers and clerks. To treat 
them with more than pleasant civility would sooil them 
for business. My father taught me that. He served 
in the French Army." 

"Do you think," he said gravely, "that you are 
spoiling me for business purposes?" 

She smiled: "I was thinking — wondering whether you 
did not more accurately represent the corps of officers 
and I the line. I am only a temporary employee of 
yours. Mr. Desboro, and some day you may be angry at 
what I do and you may say, *Tonnerre de Dietll' to me — 
I which I wouldn't like if we wero friends, but which I'd 
otherwise endure." 

, "We're friends already; what are you going to do 
about jt?" 

She knew it was so now,, for better or worse, and she 
looked at him shyly, a little troubled by what the end 
of this day had brought her. 

{Continued nesi week) 




The Sign ol the Rose, George Urban /'rod. 

This dramatic story of an Italian laborer has 
for years served Behan on the speaking stage, 
where, he is recognized master of his character. 
It goes very h}g indeed on the scren. Emotion 
runs highest in the scenes showing the Italian 
falsely accused of kidnapping a millionaire's 
child, while his own baby girl (killed by the 
same millionaire's motor car), is not yet even 
buried. The utter pathos of the story is re- 
lieved by quiet comedy touches. Beban has 
surrounded himself with a strong support. A 
fairly happy ending. 

Mistress of the World, V. F. A. Prod., Chapter 1. 
Hamilton Theatrical Corp. 

Melodrama no more exciting than the average 
serial* instalment shown at picture houses 
nightly, but offered in four nve-reelery. Mia 
May plays an Englishwoman captured by Ori- 
entals, and later saved by an Anglo-educated 
Chinaman. This is about the substance ol 
"The Dragon's Claw." Broadzcay was plainly 
bored. 

The Sheik's Wife, Vitagraph 

Not even a cousin to "The Sheik" oi Para- 
mount is this tale of a woman who marries an 
Arab, and makes a stab at adopting the cus- 
toms of his tribe. Marcel Vibert does good 
repressed work as the Sheik., This .picture is 
not so attractive to the eye as it might be, 
although it is a French production. 

Determination, State Rights 

London slum atmosphere carefully preserved 
is the salient thing iri this picture some 10,000 
feet long, based on the likenes of twin brothers. 
People who like slum settings, even if a little 
tired of the mistaken identity situation, will 
get their money's worth here. 

The Ragged Heiress, Fox 

Shirley Mason takes her usual screen walk 
from rags to riches. Here the riches are a 
little shady, it being first registered that the 
heroine's father goes to prison for bank rob- 
bery, and next that he thoughtfully left behind 
in trust for her 10,000 dollars a year. Any- 
way, Lucia (Shirley Mason) does not see the 
money, because her uncle sees it first. Mat- 
ters improve when her father is released. 
Johnnie Harron- plays a nice young man in the 
picture. Edwin Stevens and Claire MacDowell 
are others in the cast. 

Polly of the Follies, Asso. First National Pictures 

When so much goes under the name of comedy 
that is not comedy at all, it is refreshing to 
see pretty, witty Constance Talmadge out to 
amuse in earnest. No one who needs a laugh 
can afford to miss the movie show staged. by 
Pollv in her small, but severe, home town; or 
the burlesque on Caesar and Cleopatra with 
Polly as the Queen. 

Beyond the Rainbow, R-C Pictures 

William Christy Cabanne directed this ingeni- 
ous story by Solita Solano, with a really- 
powerful cast, including such names as Helen 
Ware, George Fawcett, Edmund Breese, Rose 
Coghlan, Marguerite Courtot. A mysterious 
shooting lends a detective flavor to this picture. 
The interest centers about a stenographer, 
played by Lillian (Billy) Dove. 

The Prodigal Judge, Vitagraph 

From the novel of Vaughan Kester. Maclyn 
Arbuckle is first rate as the dissipated, genial 
Judge with one foot outside the social pale ; 
as is Ernest Tcrrence, who plays Mahaffy, 
the Judge's dry, sardonic, but unswerving 
friend. Jean Paige, the featured player, does 
well within the narrow limits of her role. A 
good story and fine team work. 



MOVIE WEEKLY 

Morals In Hollywood 

(Continued from page 4) 

These extras come from every stratum of society. 
Here is ah old man who was once an English actor 
of Shakespeare roles. Beside him stands an ancient 
of days who lived on a Kansas farm until his am- 
bitious son moved to Lws Angeles — and the father's 
luxuriant whiskers got him into the movies ! Here 
is a man who . was assistant to a famous revivalist, 
and at that table 1 is a former gunman from Alaska. 
An animal trainer who learned his trade with Hagen- 
back, a boy "bnrned and raised in a saddle in Arizona" 
and an ex-Baptist minister are employed on the 
same set. 

The handsome young woman in evening clothes was 
prominent in Minneapolis society. She is talking to 
a Russian countess who fled when Kerensky fell. 
Three "chickens" — -with the brains of leghorns — are 
flirting with an ex-saloonkeeper from the Bowery. On 
one stage is a mob of bathing be'auties, whose "aft" 
consists of running through a comedy in pajamas or 
lacey night robes ; these are the girls that supply the 
magazines with photographs of "famous film stars" 
clad in next-to-nothingnesses. 

The group that I have, classified as "prominent" 
men and women supply almost none' of the notoriety 
that flashes in great headlines in the daily prints. 
I have liberally estimated this class as numbering 
three thousand to five thousand. I am safe in saying 
that the several "fast, sets" in this entire group do 
not total more than two hundred or three hundred 
individuals. Certainly this is a smnll minority !. Most 
of these few hundred are not vicious — they are vain, 
foolish, "swell-headed" to a degree of earless as- 
ininity, but they are not dopesters nor degenerates nor 
murderers. 

Only a small part of the reputation of the Los 
Angeles film colony is made by obstinate disregard 
of public opinion by these "fast sets." The news- 
paper stories come from the thousands of "extras" 
and other employees of the studios. An analysis of 
the case's during two years proves the truth of these 
statements, - 

There' are two reasons for the existence of this 
condition : First, the California laws dealing with 
vagrancy ; and second, the eagerness with which the 
public buys newspapers containing stories of scandal 
in the film world. 

Whenever a Los Angeles woman of doubtful morals 
runs afoul of the police, she must declare' that she 
has an occupation or risk a prison sentence on the 
charge of vagrancy. It is easy for her to say that 
she is a screen "actress" and to mention a few studios 
at which she has worked. This is recorded on the 
police books, and a few hours later the press an- 
nounces that a "Beautiful Picture Star" has been 
caught in raid of the vice squad. 

A "famous film star commits suicide in love 
mystery" furnished headlines three inches high — but 
in four lines of small type in the same article on the 
same page of the same newspaper was a statement 
that a search of the studios showed that the' girl had 
never been employed in pictures ! 

A young woman came to I/a Angeles with letters 
of introduction from the president of- a great eastern 
university. A picture company employed her as 
stenographer. A few months later she and a news- 
paper reporter dined at a restaurant near a studio 
and drank a bottle of soft stuff, sold at the soda 
fountain. On their return to the studio office the 
girl became sick and fell in a faint. The reporter 
called a studio policeman to assist him in caring for 
her. The officer reported the incident to police 
headquarters. Next day's headlines : "One of the' 
well known stars of Hollywood quarrels with her 
lover, a famous young actor, and takes over-dose of 
dope." No names mentioned. Of course neither had 
ever appeared before the camera. 

The' newspapers are not unfriendly to the picture 
people. The newspapers have no time for detailed 
investigations ; they must print the news, or that 
which appears to be news, while it is not ; of the 
public will transfer its pennies to rival publications. 
Experienced newspaper men agree that no subject 
has interest for so many readers as motion picture 
customs and habits. A rumor of a movie marriage 
is worth "playijig_ i j»p"_jujd a divorce case; in which 
e^ven a fourth-rate\ star is named is desirable news. 
A cowboy, employed in pictures because of his 
ability to perform daring stunts, drives a motor car 
into a pedestrian. In the car with the cowboy is 
a society man of wealth and prominence. The news- 
papers devote a column to the escapade of a "drunken 
star" and in two lines mention the presence of a 
society man. A young mart employed as a porter in 
a studio was wounded, apparently by his mother-in- 
law. This youth was a $25-a-week laborer, but his 
story was featured in big headlines for more Shan a 
week. At the same time in a downtown hotel a 
gambler was murdered, and his case' received only a 
tiny percentage of the space given that of the studio 
laborer. A prominent lawyer killed his wife, his 
mother-in-law and himself. He got brief, quick treat- 
me'nt in Los Angeles. Nationally he was ignored, 



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Page Twenty-nine 




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but at the same time the wedding of an actress re- 
ceived several columns of text and illustrations in 
the daily press of the country. 

****** 

The producers are working earnestly, intelligently 
and constantly to weed out the undesirables. During 
the past year, every "mob scene" in the better studios 
has had in its numbers several careful detectives. 
These "inspectors." as they are officially termed, watch 
for gamblers, bootleggers, crooks, prostitutes, dopesters 
and other degenerates, and report on them daily. The 
man at the head of this work is a fine, clean, noble, 
kindly, inspiring gentleman. He' is very careful. He 
moves slowly and surely. When he has evidence 
enough to convince him of ' the guilt of an extra he 
notifies the studio authorities, and that man or woman 
is no longer employed. 

The great public that enjoys motion pictures and 
gives its enthusiastic admiration to the players, can be 
assured that their good will is not misplaced. Your 
favorite screen heroes, heroines, villains and come- 
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Doris Kenyon says:- 



Page Mr. Aesop 

Ever wont to follow angles of popular ap- 
peal, the humorists and column conductors 
are penning witticisms and comments from a 
new slant. The showing of "Aesop's Film 
Fables" on the motion picture screen has 
wits to paragraph their wordings along this 
line: 



Conceited Donkey- 
Fable: Once upon a time there was a citizen 
of a republic who didn't think he could handle 
matters better than the elected officials. — Bal- 
timore (Md.) Sun. 

Wayward Dog 

Fable: There was once a man who made an 
announcement that he intended to become a 
canditate for office who didn't claim he had 
been urged to run by his friends. — Portland 
(Me.) Express. 



"Take Your work, not 
Yourself, seriously" . 

(Continued from page 9) 

for, as you know, besides contributing to such 
publications as Good Housekeping, Munsey's 
Magazine, and others, Doris is co-author with 
her father of a book of poems, entitled, "Spring 
Flowers and Rowen." 

You see at once that Doris, a regular Ameri- 
can girl, who comes from a regular American 
family, such as you do, had no "pull" to elevate 
her to her present position. Admitted, she pos- 
sessed beauty and personal charm. Such as 
many of you do, too. But we rather suspect it 
is her philosophy: "Take your work seriously; 
not yourself," that answers the question of her 
rise on stage and screen. 

And as you leave the cheery home that so 
delightfully whispers of Doris Kenyon's own 
radiant personality, you are a little sad at your 
inability to write the story you would like, 
about her, and in the minor plaint of her own 
poem, "The Sole Remembrance," you comfort 
yourself with. 

"And when fond Memory strives to paint 
Upon the shadows your dear face, 

She trips and falters and grows faint, 
Seeking each lineament to re-trace." 



Fagt Thirty 



MOVIE WEEKLY 




HIGH SCHOOL 

COURSE IN 
TW O TEARS 



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this you must be able to do before you 
will earn promotion. 

Many business houses hire no men whose 
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i 






DAVID WARK GRIFFITH 

Producer of Wonderful Motion Pictures 

HAVE YOU THE HEALTH TO BE A MOVIE STAR ? 

The first requirement for a successful career in the movies is 100% health. Without that 
no matter what other qualifications a man or woman may have no, lasting success can be 
attained. Behind the glamor and interest that hangs over the motion picture profession stands 
a high, thick wall of the hardest kind of work, long hours, repetition, yes, and sometimes 
tears. Through it all, day in, day out. these men and women, stars of the profession, must 
retain the superb vitality from which grows that charm and strength of personality which 
projects itself across the screen into the hearts and minds of the audience, making the story 
real and the characters live and breathe. 

Let that vitality flag for but a single instant and the picture loses its power, and charm. 

Yes, in the life of a star there is much of triumph and glory, but it is only the triumph 
and glory that everyone feels in the knowledge of hard work well done. 

Because the motion picture profession realizes so well the need of perfect health in order 
to achieve succss, its members are strong for 

NATIONAL 
PHYSICAL CULTURE WEEK 

May 1st to 8th, 1922 
"To 'Build a Stronger JVation" 

which will be observed from end to end of the United States. 

What brings them success will bring success to you. Building health is a pleasant task — 
begin your structure of health to-day. 

Perhaps you will co-operate with us in promoting NATIONAL PHYSICAL CULTURE 
WEEK by doing all you can in your locality. If interested, let us know and we will tell 
you how you can be of greatest help. 

Write for Physical Culture Program — exercises — special menu. 

DAVID WARK GRIFFITH 

Member of 

NATIONAL PHYSICAL CULTURE WEEK COMMITTEE 

119 West 40th Street, New York City 



MR. EDWIN E. ZOTY, Executive Chairman, 

National Physical Culture Week Committee 
119 W. 40th Street, New York City. 

I am enthusiastic about Physical Culture Week. Write me what I can do to help 
in' my community. 

Name 

Occupation 

Street and Number , , 

City 



Sutc. 



MO! IF WEEKLY 

The Brain Wave 

a m © 

(Explanation : The idea is to make snappy sen- 
tences from a list of motion picture titles, using 
them to get the idea across. The following are 
ike ■winners of the first batch that has come in to 
us. No prise is offered for the best sentence. 
Just credit given to the author.) 



Page Thirty-one 



"A Woman's Place" is at home, "Wives and 
Other Wives" would say, but "The Girl Who 
Stayed at Home" did not believe it to be true. 
She longed for "Romance," for "Adventure." 
And this is "Why Girls Leave Home." 

"Jackie" and "Queenie" were such tomboys that 
they were ready to fight "The Kid," but "Little 
Lord Fauntleroy" came along and he was pro- 
claimed "The Champion." 

BLANCHE KATZ, 
2183 Washington Ave le, 
Bronx, New York. 

'Polly of the Follies," who is "Dangerous to 
Men," was "Pinched" on "Saturday Night" in 
"Peacock Alley" for putting on "Too iMuch 
Speed," while on her "Way Down East" to 
play "Checkers" with the "Four Horse of the 
Apocalypse," who were waiting "Beyond the 
Rocks" by "The Great Divide." "She Was in 
For Thirty Days." 

EDGARW.BOREY.TR., 
300 Marine Bank Building, 
New Orleans, La. 

"Out of the Dust" rode "The Mysterious 
Rider,'' "Fightin' Mad" because he and "Moran 
of the Lady Letty." being "Partners of the 
Tide," had felt the "Sting of the Lash" when 
"The Conquering Power" took possession of 
the "Prairie Trails^' 

But the "Conflict" within him subsided when 
he came upon "The Green Temptation" in 



"Peacock Alley." 



H. M. CAREY. 

2919 Madison Street, 
Omaha. Neb. 



"One Glorious Day" "The Champion" had 
"Two Minutes to Go." Then he collected his 
"Back Pay" and joined "The Idle Class" until 
"The Little Minister" saw him standing with 
"His Back Against the Wall" and said "My 
Boy'' "Stick Around" for you can make good 
in "A Nine O'clock Town." 

HARRY KLINGF.XSMITH. 
723 Second Avenue, 
Tarentum, Pa. 

It was "Saturday Night." "Camille." "A 
Homespun Vamp." had reached "The Foolish 
Age." Being a "Game Chicken" and tired of 
hanging on to "Apron Strings," she changed 
her name to "Nancy From Nowhere" and iust 
at the "Gleam o' Dawn" left "The Old Nest" 
and "The Call of Home" behind and ran "Over 
the Hill" "Down the Iron Trail" "Beyond" 
where the same "Smilin' Through" the crowd 
"Just Arottnd the Corner." "Through a Glass 
Window" she saw a sign "The Broadway Pea- 
cock." "The Wonderful Thing" called "The 
Invisible Power" drew her up "At the Stage 
Door" where she met "Boomerang Bill" her 
"Fourteenth Lover." "Tired of His Kisses" 
and desiring to earn "Her Own Money" by 
working "From the Ground Up" the little 
"Wildfire" rushed to "The Woman's Side." 
Donning "Blue Jeans," she was given the part 
of "Molly-O" along with "The Man From 
Lost River." At last she had attained "The 
Golden Gift" behind the "Footlights" also 
meeting the "Girl From Porcupine" who looked 
like "The Five Dollar Baby." Starting out 
for a walk down "The Lane That Had No 
Turning" she met "Chivalrous Charley." He 
collected his "Back Pay" and they were mar- 
ried by "The Little Minister." Now, "If You 
Believe It, It's So!" 

LOUISE QUINTAL, 
619 North East Street, 
Jacksonville, 111. 



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The Colorful Story of 

Wm. D. Taylor's Life 

(Continued from page S) 

cea»ingly for three months, he had worked only 
for .■■ 'hs. and his earnings were insuffi- 

ciently great to enable him more than to make a 
start at getting his bonanza started. 

He San Francisco, again casting about 

for lucrative emplov merit — again beginning to 
yesro for the ice-fields — and again setting out to 
conquer new worlds. In New York he had been 
■. ith the family of an actress, and Fate 
would have it that that same family should then 
have been in San Francis 

And Taylor — the dapper, polished man who once 
had been one of the leading members of the 
fashionable Larchrmmt Yacht Club, who had been 
known in Gotham's art circles as a scholarly 
beau brommel. who had won and lost a small 
ine. .and who wns finally more or less a bit 
ttd on the California Coast — set about 
making the details of his misfortunes wholly 
unkr. 

He gave gay parties for his N'ew York friends. 
It was a bit of his did self that came to light 
again. Apparently he had forgotten the tragedy 
that seared his heart — the one thing that had in- 
duced his previous disappearance from New 
York's society and had kept him again from try- 
ing to resume his old-time social intercourse in 
his former haunts. 

He was living like a gentleman, at a fashionable 
hotel, although he realized that his savings were 
dwindling and that each dollar spent kept him 
farther from his mining claim. 

And it began to look as if he would have to 
start all over again — as if he were hot, after all, 
to be able to reap the benefits of his mining dis- 
covery in the Klondike. His bank-book told him 
he could not be lying — yet there it \ was before 
him. its columnar pages proclaiming tihe fact that 
he had only a few dollars standing between him 
and utter starvation. 

And. as he looked and pondered — and won- 
dered, perhaps, how the hand of Fate would again 
strike him — he found himself seized once more 
with that same melancholy that, before, had 
nearly broken his life. 

For he was practically a papuper — and he could 
not summon courage to apprise his friends of the 
situation. Yet he could not possibly continue his 
gentlemanly existence among them. 

What would he do? 

(In the final instalment will be told how the 
slain director, in almost a breath, became inde- 
pendently wealthy — and how he entered, and made 
his success, in the movies.) 




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LUCILLE YOUNG, 

Room 214 Lucille Young Blag., Chicago 
Without obligating me in any way, please 
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Name 

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Drums and Traps 

Banjo 

Tenor Banjo 

Mandolin 

Clarinet 

Flute 

•Cello 

Guitar 



Ukulele 

Hawaiian Steel Guitar 

Harp 

Cornet 

Piccolo 

Trombone 

Saxophone 

Harmony and 

Composition 
Voice and Speech 

Culture 



Sight Singing 

Automatic Finger Control 



WHAT OTHERS HAVE DONE 
I regret that I did not know of you 10 years 
ago. I learned more in 15 minutes one night 
than I learned in the past year studying books on 
Harmony. 

FRED A. HEICHTEL. 
Box S3, Rosiclare 111. 
Three months ago I didn't know one note from 
another. Now I can play almost anything. 
H. E. DANTZ, 
304 Glenside Ave., 
W. S. Pittsburgh, Pa. 



concentrate on anything hard) are soon enabled to 
play music at sight. 

And you read REAL music too. No numbers, or 
"trick" music or anything of that nature. You play 
from the same kind of notes that are used by Pader- 
ewski, Kubelik, Sousa, etc. You read the same kind 
of notes that are sung by Geraldine Farrar, Galli- 
Curci, Scotti, McCormack, etc. 

Automatic Finger Control 

One of the remarkable features about this new 
method is the "Automatic Finger Control," an exclu- 
sive invention, that develops the proper muscles used 
in playing any instrument to exactly the right degree, 
gives the fingers perfect control and enables you to 



Send for this Book 

If you like music — instrumental or vocal — do 
yourself justice by getting this free Book at 
once. 

Just mail the coupon. The book will be sent 
to you immediately. Getting it does not put 
you under any obligation whatever. It is 
absolutely FREE. 



quickly procure a skill impossible tu tin. if n t privi- 
leged to know this remarkable method. "Automatic 
Finger Control" is the greatest musical triumph of the 
age and is offered only to the pupils of the if. S. 
School of Music. 

No Cost— No Obligation 

Be sure today to send for this valuable book which 
reveals your own hidden ability and also tells the 
secret of learning to play any musical instrument. 
This remarkable offer is absolutely FREE. It costs 
you nothing, it places you under no obligation. 

In the last 24 years, over a QUARTER-OF-A- 
MILLION pe'ople have learned to play their own 
favorite instruments by this method. Many of them 
did not dream they possessed the slightest musical 
ability until it was revealed to them. Many of them 
use their music for the sole pleasure it gives them and 
their friends. Others are earning big incomes as 
music teachers, band or orchestra LEADERS, church 
organists, vaudeville artists, etc. 

Mail the Coupon Now 

All you have to do to obtain this remarkable Book 
is to mail the' coupon below. But you must do this at 
once, as this unusual offer may be withdrawn at any 
.time without notice. So many thousands of requests 
will pour in to us that we canot promise to hold our 
offer open indefinitely. It costs you nothing to accept 
it, and it may open the way to you to endless pleasure 
and profit in your new-found ability to play the musi- 
cal instrument you like best. Mail the coupon now, 
while it is before you — or send a letter if you prefer. 

PLEASE WRITE PLAINLY YOUR NAME AND 
ADDRESS VERY PLAINLY, so that there will be 
no difficulty in Booklet 'reaching you, 

U. S. SCHOOL OF MUSIC 
3064 Brunswick Bldg. New York 

The Largest School of Music in the World 



TJ. S. SCHOOL OF MUSIC, 

3064 Brunswick Bldg., New York. 

Please send me absolutely FREE, and without obliga- 
tion, your wonderful Book, "Music Lessons in Your 
Own Home," which shows how to test my own natural 
musical ability. I name below the instrument I am 
particularly interested in. 

Name 

(Please Write Plainly) 

Address 

City State 

Instrument 



I