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.

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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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City State

// you are apt to be out when the postman calls,
send remittance with coupon.

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-
dians are', as a class clean, sensible, lovable human
beings, whom you would enjoy in person as you now
enjoy them in the film.

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424 S. Broadway L»« Angalvs, Cal.

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

You Want to Earn
Big Money!

And you will not be satisfied unless
you earn steady promotion. But are

you prepared for the job ahead of you?
Do you measure up to the standard that
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position a fairly good education is ne-
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letter, to prepare estimates, to figure cost
and to compute interest, you must have
a certain amount of preparation. All
this you must be able to do before you
will earn promotion.

Many business houses hire no men whose
general knowledge is not equal to a high
school course. Why? Because big business
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barred from promotion by the lack of elemen-
tary education.

Can You Qualify for
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We have a plan whereby you can. We
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money. YOU CAN DO IT.

Let us show you how to get on the road

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AMERICAN SCHOOL

Dcpt. H-4156, Dtexel Ave. 6V. 58th St., Chicago

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Dcpt. H-415S, Drexel Ave

. and 58th St., Chicago

Explain how 1 can

qualify for position

checked.

. . .Architect

. . . .Lawyer

. . . Building Contractor

. . . .Machine Shop Practice

. Automobile Engineer

. . . .Photoplay Writer

. . Automobile Repairman

. . . .Mechanical Engineer

. .Civil Emrineer

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.Structural Engineer

. . . .Employment Manager

.^.Business Manager

. . . .Steam Engineer

. . .Cert. Public Accountant

.... Foremanshln

. . .Accountant and Auditor

, . . .Sanitary Engineer

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. . . .Survevor <«fc Mapping)

Draftsman and Designer

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Electrical Engineer

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. Electric Lltjht & Power

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Fire Insurance Expert

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.)

SECRETS
CENTURIES
OW^ EXPOSED//

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Room 214 Lucille Young Blag., Chicago
Without obligating me in any way, please
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Name

Address...

32/

fi>

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FRED A. HEICHTEL.
Box S3, Rosiclare 111.
Three months ago I didn't know one note from
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H. E. DANTZ,
304 Glenside Ave.,
W. S. Pittsburgh, Pa.

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you under any obligation whatever. It is
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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