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FeLruary JfA£ TiftGen Cetvts 

Ivivi m 

New Ideas By New Writers Wanted 

Previous Experience or Special Education Not Necessary 
YOUR chance to win a big cash payment is as 

good as anybody's. If you attend the "movies" you know the 
kind of ideas they want. One of your "happy thoughts" may bring you $10 
to $200 cash, and become one of the movie sensations of the year. Begin- 
ners are wanted and encouraged. 

This Book Is Free To You 

Simply mail me free coupon below, and you will get this most interesting 
book and full particulars of the big cash offers, free. Act at once, before time limit \ 

Learn At Home In Spare Time 

The winner of a recent §1000 prize contest was practically a beginner. 
Not necessarily any more talented than you. You have doubtless been to 
moving: picture shows and seen photoplays which you yourself could easily improve 
on. With 30.000 theatres changing program daily, and with the supply of photoplays 
from Europe cut off. the demand for new ideas has become tremendous. The American 
producers are making every effort to interest new writer* 
in this work by offering prizes. Read these paragraphs 
clipped from arecent number of the Saturday Evening Post: 

How To 




Elbert Moore 

former Scenario Editor of on* 
of World's largest companies. 


The Balboa Amuse* 
pnent Producing Company, of Los Angeles, began by 
offering a prize of two hundred and fifty dollars for 
the best picture story sent them. The Italian Society 
Ones, of Rome, offers five thousand dollars for the best 
moving-picture play submitted to it. The second-best 
-writer Is to receive one thousand dollars; the third- 
best, five hundred dollars ; the fourth-best, two hundred 
dollars; and there are five consolation prizes of ono 
hundred dollars each. 

Tnrough the New York Evening SunT the Vitagraph 
Company of America is conducting at this writing a 
prize photoplay contest. The first prize is one thousand 
dollars; the second, two hundred and fifty dollars; and 
there are consolation prizes of one hundred dollars each. 
These prize contests have greatly encouraged and stimu- 
lated the amateur photoplay writes throughout the coun- 



Box 722 FB, Chicago 

Send free booklet. "How to Write Photoplays" and all 
facts about guarantee and $500 cash offer. 

Name . 


Address •••• ( 



I Guarantee $ 1 for Your First Photoplay 

So great is the demand that I am able 
to guarantee you at least §10 for the first photoplay 
you write by my method. This means you. I 
believe that every person with sufficient imagination 
and intelligence to be interested in this advertise- 
ment should possess material for at least one 
successful photoplay. And in order to make it worth 
your while to write to me I make you this remark- 
able guarantee. Many persons should be able to 
write as much as one successful photoplay each 
week. Such a record is by no means uncommon, 

and those who are doing this can earn from $100 to $300 a 
month simply for spare time work done in their own home. 
Writing photoplays enables those who lack the experience 
necessary for writing novels and stage plays to express the 
strong and original ideas which many of them possess. 

Save $5 By Acting Now 

I show you how to turn your ideas into correct 
photoplay form by a simple, easy method which is 
endorsed by the Balboa Amusement Company, 
mentioned above, and by many others. As former Scenario 
Editor of one of the largest companies, I speak with author* 
ity. Use the coupon to obtain the free booklet and full par- 
ticulars. If you act at once you will obtain the benefit of a 
$5 reduction which X am now allowing for advertising pur- 
poses, to those who will start taking my lessons within 20 
days. This cuts the cost to very tow figures. Do not throw 
away $5 by delaying, when it costs nothing to investigate* 

Use free coupon at once, before you turn 
the page. 

ELBERT MOORE (scirSitor 

) 772 Is Chicago 



"The National Movie Publication" 

Copyright, 1914, by the Photoplay Publishing Company, Chicago 

VOL. VII No. 3 


Popular Photoplayers 

Mary Fuller, Tom Santschi, Helen Holmes, Hobart Bosworth, Helen Wolcott, Norma 
Talmadge', Constance Talmadge, Robert Broderick, Elsie Janis, Thomas Chatterton, 
• Vera Sisson, Matt Moore, Cleo Ridgeley, Ethel Grandin, Antonio Moreno 

The Speed King (from the Scenario by Philip Lonergan) 
Charlie Chaplin 

The comedian who, almost unknown a few months ago, is now said to be the 
highest salaried funny man in the film world. 

When Cleo Madison Was Afraid By Herself 

Movie Stars on the Move 

Training Recruits with Motion Pictures 

Sharp-shooters practice firing at moving figures and the result of each shot is 

The Girl on the Cover 

Talks about her "daddy" and incidentally about herself. 

The Three of Us 

Pauline Frederick 

Who's Married to Who in the Movies 

Married couples who have made their marks in the film world. 

The Treason of Anatole Vivian Barrington 

Illustration from the Imp Film 

Norma Talmadge, the Adorable Elsie Vance 

On Desert Sands Bruce Westfall 

A famous novelist asked an old pioneer to tell him a story — and this is the story 

the man told. 
Illustrations from the Big U Film 

The Original "Prince of Pilsen" Jane Bryce 

Arthur Donaldson, who created the role, makes his bow. 

$1,000 Reward! 

The Scorpion's Sting Richard Dale 

Illustrations from the Kalem Film 









l!inil!!l!:i!l!!lll!lllll!!U:!lll!![!liilllillll!!!»ll!lll!l!l!^ IIIIIIIIIIIIIBIIIIIIJIIII 

Yearly Subscription; $1.50 in United States, its dependencies, Mexico and Cuba; $2.00 to Canada; $2.50 
to foreign countries. Remittances should be made by check, or postal or express money order. 

Caution— Do not subscribe through persons unknown to you. We employ no subscription solicitors. 

Published monthly by the Photoplay Publishing Co., 8 S. Dearborn St., Chicago, 111. 

Edwin M. Colvin, President James R. Quirk, Vice President Robert M. Eastman, Secretary-Treas. 

Entered at the Postoffice at Chicago, 111., as Second-class mail matter 



Taking Tea with Alice Hollister Pearl Gaddis 87 

Genuine Antiques for Colonial Photoplays 90 

The Friendship of Lamond Helen Bagg 91 

You probably never came across a more Quixotically generous young knight than 
the Lamond of this story, who sacrifices the friendship of a lifetime — but 
with what a happy result 

Illustrations from the Lubin Film 

Segregated Audiences 
Ruth Stonehouse Entertains 
Whiskers and False Pride 
The Alarm of Angelone 


Katherine Synon 98 

C. W. Garrison 101 

Edith Huntington Mason 104 

He turned in a fire alarm thinking he was opening a mail box — and then his 

troubles really commenced. 
Illustrations from the American Film 

And Now Lillian Russell Becomes a Movie Actress 111 

The Great Adventure of Madame Kalich 

The Reel of Life 

Dressing for the Movies 

The Strange Case of Princess Khan 

When Philip Dawson, novelist, stepped from the Twentieth Century to the Tenth, 
from the Occident to the Orient, led by Sadi Kahn, the mysterious Hindu, he 
kept his Twentieth Century eyes and brain alert— and the result makes the 
story worth reading. 

Illustrations from the Selig Film 

On the Inside of Lubinville - 

"Those Thanhouser Kids" 

Three Rough-necks from " The Escape " 

Can She Bake a Cherry Pie, Billy Boy? 

Filming a Real Sea Story 

Growing Up with the Movies 

Final Installment 

The "Lens Squirrel" Charles Murray 147 

This is the name that I have acquired since I started being a good policeman and 
falling for everything for film comedy. 

Nathaniel Pfeffer 112 

Berton Braley 114 


Wallace Hill 119 

Esther Pennington 129 


Richard Willis 136 



Florence Lawrence 142 

New Faces for Photo-Fans 

Beauty to Burn 

The War Photographer's Job 

For the Photoplaywright 
Where to Send Your Script 

Vanderheyden Fyles 149 

George Orcutt 156 

Parke Farley 163 



Photoplay Magazine 


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your favorite Motion Picture Stars for 25 
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Photoplay Magazine 

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Pages 7-10 

Missing from 




went straight from the school room to the Vitagraph studio. It is reported that she 
has mastered the art of " make-up " to such an astonishing degree that she can now 
boast the achievement of assuming a disguise that completely deceived even her 
director, Mr. Van Dyke Brook. She appeared one day as a society belle of 1880 and 
no one about the studio recognized her. It was a real triumph. 

© Vitayraph Co. of America 


may well be proud of his initial work in pictures. He played the role of the Giant in 
"Jack the Giant Killer" with a skill acquired through many seasons on the legitimate 
stage with Francis Wilson, Virginia Harned, Joseph Jefferson, and other noted folk. 
His latest film appearances are in " One of Millions " and " In the Name of the Prince 
of Peace," two wonderful productions of the Dyreda Film Corporation. 

Photo by Apeda, N. Y. 


began his theatrical career at fourteen, in his home town of Geneva, New York. 
Thomas was scene painter, property man and stage director of his own company, 
which performed in the big Chatterton barn on rainy afternoons. With this as a 
start he was soon appearing with the Shubert stock company at Syracuse, New York, 
and after many years of road and stock experience became leading man of the Alcazar 
stock in San Francisco. In May, 1913, he joined the Kay Bee, Broncho, and Domino 
forces as leading man. Photo by LoriOard 


has long been identified with the Kalem Company, and her work in its productions 
has endeared her to photoplay fans from Maine to California and from the theatres 
of Minnesota to those of New Orleans. She is good looking and can assume roles of 
the most varied nature at almost a moment's notice. One of her very recent appear- 
ances was in the two reel Kalem drama " The Smugglers of Lone Isle," in which she 
plays " Jeanette." 

Photo by Witzel, Los Angeles 

Mme. Bertha Kalich, one of the greatest of the tragic actresses, appeared as Marta, and Wellington 
Playter as Manelich, the Shepherd, in the Famous Players' produc- 
tion of "Marta of the Lowlands. " 

Reg. U. S. Pat. Off. 



Just A Moment, Please 

BEFORE you pass on into the Magazine this month, the 
Editor wants to whisper a few confidences in your ear. 

We have some mighty interesting and entertaining 
features in store for readers of Photoplay Magazine. Some 
of them are so original and precedent-smashing that we 
hesitate to talk about them in advance, lest our statements 
savor of the usual first-of-the-year statements of plans for 
the coming twelve months. 

We would have our readers say, " See what Photoplay 
Magazine is doing," rather than, "See what Photoplay 
Magazine says it is going to do. " 

Photoplay is essentially a magazine for the home — for 
the millions of homes in which there is intense interest in 
the wonderful new art and its exponents. Permit us to 
assure you that this fact is always kept in mind in the 
editing of its pages — both editorial and advertising. 

The most vital part of any publication is its readers — 
not the paper on which it is printed, or the material that 
goes into its pages. 

The Editor invites readers to express their opinions on 
Photoplay Magazine — to make suggestions for the enlarge- 
ment of its scope of usefulness and the betterment of the 
art of motion pictures. 


On the next curve the car shot by the Har- 

The Speed Kin 

From the Scenario by Philip Loner^an 

ARTHUR ATHLEY sat at his 
desk in the offices of the Randall 
Motor Company, one cool morning 
in May, going through a pile of 
mail with swift fingers. His mouth was 
rather more serious than one expects to 
find in a man so obviously in perfect health 
and well under thirty. It was the mouth 
of a young man whom circumstances had 
sobered but not in the least conquered. 
And now, as the president of the Randall 
company entered, the lips parted in a smile 
of the frankest friendliness. 

"Hello, Mr. Randall, how are — why 
what's up?" For Arthur Athley saw at 
once that Mr. Randall was worried. 

"Arthur, we've lost the race without a 
run for our money. That Frenchman has 
just broken his arm in two places. He 
won't be able to drive again for a couple 
of months." 

"How on earth did he do it?" 

"He says he slipped and fell down; but 
I happen to know that he got thrown head 
first out of Conlin's restaurant last night ; 
and I imagine that if you went back far 


enough you'd find that he had been drink- 
ing more cognac, or absinthe, or whatever 
it is he drinks, than he needed. It doesn't 
make any difference. The important thing 
is that he broke his arm. I think we hat! 
better withdraw our entry at once. There's 
no use in trying to use Hallowell. He's a 
clever boy but he hasn't got either the 
judgment or the nerve. We might just as 
well give the race to the Gordon people." 

Arthur Athley looked out of the window. 
To give the race to the Gordon people was 
the one thing he could not bear to think of. 
He thought of George Ranston, salesman- 
ager of the Gordon company, and scowled. 

"Mr. Randall," he said suddenly, "I'll 
drive in the Brighton race. Put somebody 
in here to do my office work and I'll spend 
the two weeks till Decoration Day getting 
used to the car. I guess I learned some- 
thing about what a car can do in those 
days when I was whooping it up around 
town even if I didn't learn much else. And 
I've got the nerve." 

"I know you've got the nerve, Arthur, but 
I don't want you to do it. It's one thing to 

The Speed King 


man; on the straightaway it picked up the Belleville. 

hire a man who has made race driving his 
business to drive for you. You feel that if 
lie gets killed it's up to him. But I won't 
have you running the risk." 

"Nonsense. I am going to drive. I 
shouldn't be surprised if I win, too." 

Mr. Randall did not submit without 
further protest, but in the end Arthur Ath- 
ley silenced all his objections. 

"You know what I owe vou. Mr. Ran- 
dall," he said. "It's—" 

"Vou don't owe me anything." Mr. Ran- 
dall retorted. "You're the most valuable 
man in my organization. That means 1 
am in debt to you — " 

"No, Mr. Randall. You're the only man 
in this town who stood by me when I was 
down and out. When all my friends were 
saying to each other : 'There's Arthur 
Athley ; yon know they caught him cheating 
at cards and expelled him from the club.' 
and cutting me on the street you gave me 
a job and told me you believed in me and 
here I am — thanks to vou." 


"Just a minute. Mr. Randall. It isn't 
just because of what you did for me that 
I want to do what I can for you. I want 
to do anything I can to beat George Rans- 
ton. If it weren't for that man I'd be your 
son-in-law now. And because he's taken 
Lucy aw : ay from me I want to show him." 

Mr. Randall did not comment at once, 
but after a thoughtful pause he said : 

"All right, Arthur. You know your own 
mind. Go ahead and do what you think 
best to do. I've nothing more to say." And 
he walked out of the room just as the 
stenographer came in. 

But Arthur Athley sat for five minutes 
staring out of the window while the young 
woman waited with pencil poised for him 
to begin his dictation. He was not think- 
ing about the race, or the preparation he 
would have to make for it. He was think- 
ing about Lucy Randall. He had been in 
love with her in the days when he was an 
idle young man about town, living on an 
allowance from his father. He had trusted 
her. And when she had repudiated him 
because of the scandal that had enveloped 
his name over night, he could hardly realize 
that she did not trust him. He had gone to 
see her expecting to be assured that she 
knew he was innocent and that she would 
stand by him, whatever happened-. And 
instead of faith he had met with unfaith. 
She had sent word that she did not care 
to see Him. The next clay he had received 
his ring by mail with a formal note break- 
ing their engagement. The next week she 
had sailed for Europe and for nearly three 
years he had not seen her. He had often 
told himself in those three years that he 
did not love her, that he could not love her. 
But in his heart he was afraid that he did ; 
and the memory of her that came to his 
mind was of the first time he had kissed her. 


Photoplay Magazine 

And so it had been with a good deal of 
fear, as well as with a good deal of 
curiosity, that he had met her after her 
return from Europe. She iiad spoken to 
him with formal politeness. And he had 
realized instantly that he did not love her. 
She was beautiful, but she seemed to him 
cold, almost calculating. The three years, 
and the knowledge that she had not be- 
lieved in him, had done their work. He 
was no longer in love with Lucy Randall. 
Somehow he was a little sorry. He had 
lived with memories of her for so long 
that he hated to lose them; and he knew 
that he would lose them, now that the il- 
lusion on which they were based was gone. 
Muriel Randall, he reflected, had always 
been quite different from her older sister. 
He had not seen her since her return from 
Europe, but he remembered her as a girl 
with her hair down her back — thick, dark, 
curly hair — and eyes that looked straight 
into his. She was a girl who was just grow- 
ing out of the stage of being a tomboy. 
She had come up to Arthur Athley on the 
street just before she left and shaken hands 
and said: - 

"Never mind ; it'll all blow over ; and I 
for one know you didn't do it;" then — 
frightened, perhaps, by her own frankness 
she had walked off up the street holding 
her chin very high. It was a curious thing 
for a girl of eighteen to do, he reflected. 
But just then Arthur Athley's dreams were 
interrupted by a sharp tattoo on the slide 
of his desk. The stenographer had grown 
impatient to the point of exasperation and 
she had begun to tap with her pencil on 
the hard wood to arouse her employer. 

"I beg your pardon," Arthur Athley said. 
"I guess I was day dreaming." And he be- 
gan to dictate rapidly. He had a busy day 
ahead of him if he wished to spend the two 
weeks which remained before the Brighton 
race with the Randall racing car and two 
weeks was a brief enough period in which 
to prepare for that terrible three hundred 
miles in competition with the best machines 
and the most daring drivers the world could 

That night, as Arthur Athley was leaving 
the Randall factory he met Muriel Ran- 
dall. She was sitting in her father's tour- 
ing car waiting for him, and Arthur, his 
mind full of many things, would have 
passed her without seeing her if she had not 
called out: 

"Oh, Arthur!" 

Startled, he turned and walked toward 
the machine. He did not recognize her 
until he was within two yards of her. 

"Why Muriel," he said, "how you've 
changed. The last time I saw you you were 
a little girl with your hair down your back 
and now you are a woman." 

He looked at her a little wonderingly as 
he spoke. And Muriel Randall was a girl 
to look at wonderingly. She was still very 
young. But the angularity of girlhood was 
quite gone. The hair that had once hung 
in a great braid over her shoulder was now 
coiffed in the simple fashion of the day. 
It gave her rather a demure look, Arthur 
Athley thought as of a little girl who had 
"done up" her hair as an experiment. 

"I beg your pardon," he said. "I've 
been staring you out of countenance and I 
did not mean to do that." 

"You haven't been staring at me any 
harder than I have been staring at you, 
Arthur," Muriel responded with a smile. 
"You haven't changed much. You're a 
little more solemn than I remember you 

"You know why that is," he said. 

"I know — it's that old scandal you mean. 
But it's time you forgot it. Everybody else 
has and — " 

"My father hasn't. He hasn't spoken to 
me since that day." 

"He will forget. He wants to believe 
in you. And he must see what you've done 
in the last three years. Father has been 
telling me about the success you've made 
of it. He's as fond of you as. if you were 
his own son. But forget about it. For 
heaven's sake be yourself again. I want to 
hear' all the gossip of the town. What's 
become of Harold Hilton and Jack Reed 
and D wight Allen?" 

Arthur launched upon the answers to 
these questions, and they led to others, so 
that it was a most animated conversation 
that Mr. Randall interrupted when he came 
out of the building. 

"Come along home to dinner with us, 
Arthur," he said cordially. 

"I'll ride part way widi you if I may. 
but I can't come to dinner." 

Mr. Randall took the wheel and Arthur 
stepped into the tonneau. But the merry- 
conversation was not resumed. Some con- 
straint had come over the two. Muriel 
made several comments as the machine 

The Speed King 


rolled up the street but Arthur leaned 
back in his corner and looked at her, saying 
nothing. He had not remembered that she 
was so beautiful. She was rather dark. 
with a flush of color in her cheeks ; she had 
a low forehead and long eyelashes : she had 
a short upper lip. Arthur Athley enumer- 
ated these points as he looked at her and 
wondered just what it was that made her 
face so attractive to him. Just then she 
smiled and he realized what it was that 
made all the details of her beauty seem 
trivial — it was that frank, friendly smile of 
hers that so lit up her beautiful face! 

"Drive in the Brighton race?" Muriel 
cried out. "Why, father, he might get 
killed !" 

"I know it," her father said. "But I hope 
he won't." 

"Hope he won't! Why good heavens, he 
mustn't run the chance. I'm going to ask 
him not to." 

"1 wouldn't if I were you," Mr. Randall 
said. "He's bound to do it anyway and so 
you'll only give him one more annoyance 
by asking him not to at a time when he 
needs to be free from annoyance." 

Muriel said nothing more. But she 

Now the front axle of the blue car was even with the rim of the Francia's front wheel. 

"Goodnight, Arthur," she said, extend- 
ing her hand as the machine stopped in 
front of the house where he lived. "Good- 
night, Muriel," he returned, pressing her 
hand in his. 

"I am awfully glad to see you," she 
added, and he felt that there was far more 
in the words than mere politeness. 

"I am awfully glad to have seen you," he 
said, as he lifted his hat. Their eyes met. 
and they both felt that they had said more 
than their words had conveyed. 

As the car moved on, Mr. Randall spoke : 

"You know Arthur is going to drive our 
car in the Brighton race." 

realized that she cared a great deal about 
Arthur Athley. 

The two did not see each other for more 
than a passing moment during the two 
weeks that followed. Arthur was busy 
working with the car every day. The pit 
men had to be trained to their work, so that 
they could change the tires of the big car 
in seconds instead of minutes. Every part 
of the motor required testing and retesting. 
In addition, Arthur needed all the practice 
in driving at speed that he could get. A 
three hundred mile race requires more en- 
durance than a human being possesses un- 
less custom and habit have made the process 


Photoplay Magazine 

of driving nearly automatic, so that without 
thinking, almost without willing, he does 
all that is necessary. Arthur knew that long 
before that three hundred miles was over 
he would be like a man in a daze. He 
would not know consciously what he was 
doing. And his muscles would have to be 
so well-trained that they would continue to 
do their work almost without any assistance 
from his mind. 

Decoration day dawned like a morning in 
August, hot and breathless. Arthur and his 
helpers were out very early, but already the 
streets leading to the Brighton Motor Dome 
were filled with a solid mass of humanity 
slowly making its way to the big gates, 
whither it was drawn by the desire to see 
men risk their lives, and perhaps lose them, 
in the great brick-paved saucer which was 
to be the scene of this astounding modern 
sacrifice to the god of speed. 

Henri de Regnier, the famous French 
driver who had so incontinently broken his 
arm, sat in the Randall pit watching the 
tuning up spins of the rival drivers. 

"Borkman, in the Fancia," he said, as 
he pointed with his finger. "He is one 

The Frenchman watched broodingly over 
the scene, and occasionally turned to re- 
port some detail he had observed to Arthur. 
It was evident that he wished he could drive 
himself. At last he said: "There is no 
driving any more. It is all tires and the 

Arthur Athley smiled to himself. That 
was just the way he had figured out the 
race. It would be won by the man whose 
tires did not fail him and who had the 
daredevil sort of courage to drive the last 
twenty or thirty miles at the highest pos- 
sible speed regardless of what might hap- 
pen. If a tire failed then death would be 
swift and sudden. If all four tires held 
the race would be won. 

About noon, Arthur took a look at the 
grand stand through a field glass. The 
field was surrounded by a solid bank of 
humanity. But in the Randall box almost 
straight above him and not more than a 
hundred feet away he could see Lucy and 
Muriel, with a party of their friends. 
Muriel was engaged in an animated con- 
versation, apparently oblivious to the prep- 
arations in the pits and thoughtless of the 
game of life and death that was about to 
be played in the great saucer below her. 

That moment of thought was all that 
Arthur Athley gave her then; thereafter 
he was too busy with the work before him 
to think of anything else, even the girl be 
was in love with and who was not — he was 
sure in love with him. 

At last the time came. Arthur Athley 
put on the bright blue duster with the cap 
and goggles that fitted down over its head- 
piece and got into his seat in the Randall 
car. Young Johnny Korshak, his mechani- 
cian, took his place beside him. Arthur 
shifted a lever and the big car moved off 
in a staccato of explosions, faster and fast- 
er, like nothing so much as a Maxim gun. 

High up in the grand stand Muriel Ran- 
dall leaned over the edge of her box, her 
face pale, her lips drawn, her fingers white 
where they gripped the rail. 

Arthur took two turns around the track, 
the engine running like a great heart, and 
then drew up near the starting line. Bork- 
man, in the Fancia, drew up beside him. 
Then came the Belleville and the Harmon. 
There were other cars but Arthur had 
eyes only for these. The others were not 
dangerous. He felt strangely cool and 
calm now that the time to face death for 
hours on end had come. His pulse was 
beating no faster than normal. But he was 
planning to drive as he had never driven 
before, as no man on that course had ever 
driven before. 

The starter raised the flag as a signal for 
the cars to take their places across the start- 
ing line. Then the assistant starter read 
the rules and asked each man separately if 
he were ready. And then some disagree- 
ment among the officials wasted minutes. 
Arthur was a little nervous when finally he 
saw the flag raised again and the pistol in 
the starter's hand pointing skyward. The 
engine roared in his ears and he put his 
fingers on the spark. 

The flag fell, and with a leap and a roar 
the cars were off. The explosions came so 
rapidly that they were no longer separately 
distinguishable but broke into a solid roar. 
Round the turn and down the stretch and 
round the turn again they sped, the mechan- 
ics swinging far out as the cars rose against 
the steep curve of the turns. Through the 
grandstand a long sigh rose as the spec- 
tators settled back in their seats to watch, 
to watch, that is, for death. 

High up in the grandstand Muriel Ran- 
dall bit her lip and whispered a little 

The Speed King 


prayer; then smiled gaily in acknowledg- 
ment of a wave from a friend in the next 
box who had just caught her eye. 

Arthur Athley settled down into a per- 
fectly mechanical routine. As the car 
neared the curve he gave a slight twist of 
the wheel and lifted the weight of his foot 
a little from the pedal. As the car reached 
the end of the bank, he gave another little 
twist of the wheel to swing her into the 
straightaway and pressed clown with his 
foot. He knew from the speed indicator, 
hanging steadily at a little over a 100 in 
the straightaway, wavering back to 90 on 
the curves, that he was doing each lap in 
the same time as the preceding one. The 
fact that three of the cars were half a lap 
ahead of him did not bother him in the least. 
He knew how much tires could stand and 
lie knew they could not stay there if he kept 
to the pace he had determined upon. 

Even as this thought passed through 
his mind he saw the Fancia bumping 
rakishly across the track ahead as it came 
to a stop at the pit. As Arthur shot by in • 
the Randall he could see the pit men tug- 
ging at the Fancia's rear wheel. She had 
ruined a tire already. 

The spectators grew apathetic after the 
first half hour. No accident had happened. 
Down below in the brick saucer one car fol- 
lowed another round and round the track 
more rapidly than express trains. * Occa- 
sionally a car stopped at a pit. But for 
miles and miles there was no change in the 
positions of the cars except as a stop at the 
pits re-arranged them momentarily. The 
Fancia had gone ahead again and directly 
behind it roared the Harmon and the Belle- 
ville. Arthur Athley in the Randall kept to 
the fourth position, nearly a lap behind the 
Fancia. The other cars were strung out 
behind him. It was anybody's race. 

When Arthur swung into the Randall pit 
for his first change of tires Henri de Regnier 
smiled at him. 

"You know?" he shouted. 
Arthur nodded. For the race had not 
yet begun, whatever the people in the grand- 
stands thought. 

At one hundred miles one of the cars 
that was farthest behind threw a tire, 
whirled sideways across the track, and 
plunged over the rim of the track. In an 
instant the grandstands were in a tumult. 
The gasp of fright that went up was half 
a gasp of triumph. 

High up in her box, Muriel Randall 
shivered. It seemed to her that the crowd 
about her was like that in the Roman amphi- 
theater that cried always for blood and 
more blood, and horrified, yet fascinated, 
her eye followed the blue Randall car as 
it swung round the curve ahead. 

At two hundred miles it was evident even 
to the uninitiated that the race was be- 
tween the Fancia, the Belleville, and the 
Randall cars. Never more than half a lap 
separated these three. Borkman was still 
ahead, determined to keep the lead until the 
end. Fanzler in the Belleville seemed 
equally determined. Both these men had 
reputations for dare deviltry. The ques- 
tion in the minds of the experts was what 
Athley would do. None of them supposed 
he would be able to stick it out, but some 
of them were betting that he would last 
the first two hundred and seventy-five miles. 
It was generally agreed that he would be 
distanced in the final dash. 

Arthur was of a different opinion. He 
resolved to change his tires at the two hun- 
dred and fifty mile mark whether it seemed 
absolutely necessary or not and after that 
not to stop at the pit whatever happened, 
but driving with all the speed the big car 
could carry round the curves to make the 
finish the most terrific in the history of that 
track. He did not believe that Borkman 
and Fanzler would be able to stay with him 

High up in the grandstand Muriel looked 
down at the speeding blue car. Tears ran 
down her cheeks. It seemed to her of a 
sudden that the blue duster and the goggled 
helmet that Arthur wore was a mask of 

As Arthur Athley and the faithful 
Johnny Korshak left the pit for the last 
time there was a gleam in Henri de 
Regnier's eye. He knew Arthur's plan. 
The rest did not. When they saw the blue 
car come hurtling round the curve and into 
the stretch like a great screaming projectile 
they gasped. Mr. Randall did not need to 
look at his stop-watch to see that the car 
had greatly increased its speed. And 
the next time the car came round it was 
with the same terrific speed. On the 
next curve it shot by the Harmon ; on the 
straightaway it picked up the Belleville, 
held it for a moment, and went by. Now 
only the Fancia remained — and the twenty- 
four miles still to go. 


Photoplay Magazine 

Borkman was evidently in no mood to be 
passed. The two cars came hurtling past 
the Randall pit side by side. Side by side 
they raced for the curve. Together they 
struck the bank. And then the Randall car 
slipped back and into a position not a yard 
behind. At the straightaway the blue car 
came again alongside. At the curve it 
again dropped back. And on for mile after 
mile the struggle continued, the two cars 
nearly a lap ahead of their nearest com- 

With fifteen miles still to go, the Harmon 
stopped at the pit and lost a lap. With 
twelve miles to go the Belleville stopped 
and the Harmon again took its place. With 
ten miles to go the Fancia and the Ran- 
dall car were still neck and neck in the 
straightaway and still only a yard apart 
round the curve. But the Fancia led. 

Henri de Regnier stood up now at the 
edge of the pit, his cap in his hand. He 
knew that if Borkman kept his nerve and 
his tires for a few minutes more he would 

Again and again Arthur Athley tried to 
pass the man ahead and again and again 
he was compelled to fall back. There was 
not room on the straightaway — the distance 
was too short. At last he shut his teeth 
hard. He was going to win or die. Only 
three miles remained. This time he kept 
his foot hard down on the pedal as he ap- 
proached the curve neck and neck with 
the Fancia. Round the curve they shot, the 
Randall car taking the high bank and 
traveling faster in order to keep up and 
putting a strain on the tires such as they 
could- not stand many times — even if they 
stood them this once. 

The spectators were standing up now and 
shouting. The blue car crept on and on. 
Now its front axle was even with the rim 
of the Fancia's front wheel. As the two 
machines hit the straightaway, the Randall 
gained another yard. Mr. Randall's face 
was pale and his lip was bleeding where he 
had bitten it. He had not wanted this of 
Arthur ! It was only a question of whether 

a tire burst on this curve or on the next. 
Rubber could not stand the strain of such 
a speed round such a curve. But the blue 
car was going right on. It held its own on 
the curve. On the straightaway it gained 
two yards. On the next curve it held even 
what it had made. On the straightaway it 
gained another yard. On the next curve it 
held. Now it was almost clear of the roar- 
ing Fancia. And then Borkman gave up. 
There was no use. It was suicide to take 
the curves at this speed. And he for one 
was not going to commit suicide. 

With the last mile still to go he slipped 
back ten yards, then twenty. The blue 
Randall car roared on and on. The starter 
picked up his flag, the breathless spectators 
uttered not a sound, but each, with his eyes 
glued on the blue machine, watched for 
something to break. On and on swept the 
blue car. The pit men were dancing like 
dervishes now. Henri de Regnier threw 
his cap high in the air. Only half a lap 
more to go. And then the gun roared and 
the race was over and the Randall car had 

But even while the people turned to leave 
the grandstand there was a shout and a cry. 
The blue car had gone on to the next curve 
at full speed, and, as it struck the embank- 
ment it flew into the air as if propelled by 
dynamite. Turning turtle as it rose, it 
dropped Arthur and the mechanician on the 
track, and shot endways over the edge of 
the saucer track. 

High up in her box Muriel Randall 
sobbed out the name of her lover and then 
everything went black and she swayed and 
would have fallen if some one had not 
caught her. 

Three days later in the hospital Muriel 
Randall sat beside Arthur's bed. He was 
bandaged almost heyond recognition. His 
hand played idly with the coverlet. He 
did not yet know what had happened. 

Of a sudden one eye, the only eye she 
could see for the bandages, stared at her. 

"Muriel," he whispered. 

"Arthur! Oh. Arthur!" 

See the announcement on page JQ. It is of interest to you 
and to your friends. It tells you how you may win a 
prize by looking and listening when you are at the movies. 

Charlie Chaplin 


By E. V. Whitcomb 

SAY, Jennie, do I have to sit through this whole show 
just to see Charlie?" 
With the name of the lady changed to fit the one 
addressed in each case, this question or ones to the 
same effect have been asked thousands of times during the 

past few months. 

Going to see Charlie 

Chaplin has become 

a habit all over 

the countr v. 

With his doleful coun- 
tenance, his heavy feet, his 
characteristic French kick, his 
diminutive moustache, and his ridicu- 
lous actions, he has earned a place all of his own in the realm of 
motion pictures. And it is only a few months ago that he walked 
unannounced into the office of Mack Sennet, director of the Key- 
stone company, and asked for a tryout as a comedian. 

But the funniest thing about this extremely funny man is his 
violet-like reluctance to talk about Charlie Chaplin. 

"There's nothing worth while talking about," he says. "I am no 
one — just a plain fellow," he told me. "There is absolutely nothing 
interesting about me. I have no fads, no automobiles — I am just my- 
self. But, if you insist, I will be very glad to talk to you." 

A lad about twenty-five years of age, a very lovable lad, with a delicate 
sensitive face and with his hair painstakingly wetted and smoothed down, 
came into the reception room of the club where he lives, all apology 
for having kept me waiting. And he was as appealing as a little 
boy who runs up to you and says, "I am sorry : please forgive me." 


Photoplay Magazine 

We talked for nearly two hours and I have tried to 
put down here exactly what he said in the way he 
said it. 

"I have always worked hard ever since my father 
died, when I was seven years old. My mother was 
a wonderful woman, highly cultivated, yet life 
was very hard on her. We were so poor, she 
used to sew little blouses by hand, trying to 
earn enough to keep us. 
That was in England — m 
she died there. Poverty ™ 
is a cruel tiling, and I some- 
times think that if 1 had not 
worked so very hard as a child. 
I would be much stronger now 
than I am, because, you see. 1 
am not at all strong, physically. 

"I have never had a day's 
schooling in my life; my 
taught us 
what she 
could, but 
after she 
d i e d, I 
w a s a n 

might have helped 

me when I was 

young. Looking 

back upon it is no 

joke, and that 

is why it seems 

so out of 

place to 

apprentice to 

a company 
of traveling 
a n d show- 
people. That was 
in England too. 
and, oil, what hard 
work it was. 1 have 
never had a home 
worth the name. No 
associations that 

me when I 
mi made much 

of now. 

"I came to New 
York with my brother 
Sidney, while f was 
still a boy, he is four 
years older than I am, 
and is the only rela- 
ive I have in the 
world. You have no 
idea how terribly lone- 
ly we were when we 
arrived in this country. Sid 
was out hunting for work 
and 1 sat looking out of the 
window of the shabby little 
boarding house bedroom, 
le Times Tower loomed into the 
sky and I sat there with my head on the 
window sill and cried, I felt so lonely and 
forlorn. That was the loneliest I have ever 
been. The world has never seemed so big 
nor so lonely since then. 

"My brother Sid and I went on the road 
together doing one-night stands with a 

Charlie Chaplin 


traveling company called, 'The National 
Amusement Company.' I remember one 
night Harry Lauder came directly after us 
on the program. He refused to wait for us 
to pull off our stunt but insisted on going 
on first. I hated him for that — it was so 
cold to stand in the wings, lightly clad as 
we were, and wait. I watched him do his 
stunt and even while I hated him fiercely, 
I couldn't help applauding him as a great 
artist and laugh maker. It was after this 
that I went with the Keystone Company. 

"Last month I went to San Francisco to 
appear in person at a theatre. The people 
applauded me very much. And the more 
they applauded the more serious I became, 
and the funnier they thought me — so I 
gave it up. You see, I wasn't meaning to 
be funny then. I am not a bit funny, 
really. Of course, I have a sense of humor, 
but not as much as my brother has and he 
is much more of a business man. Sid is 
much more gifted than I am in every way, 
I think — and he is married. He hasn't 
had any professional pictures taken since 
he came to Keystone, but I know that my 

brother Sid is going to make a sensation. 

"When I am not working, I just sit 
around and dream mostly. I get a lot of 
ideas that way. And sometimes, when I 
haven't any special idea in mind, the 
camera man and a few of us with our make- 
up on, go out to a location. For instance, 
we go out to the races, take a few scenes 
(whatever happens to suggest itself), then 
other things suggest themselves, until the 
story is built. All the time this is going 
forward things pop into my head which 
help to make people laugh." 

Mr. Chaplin's account of producing a 
comedy sounds very simple and easy but 
is a little misleading. It is a well-known 
fact that the members of his company doing 
slapstick have to be able to stand more 
"punishment" than the members of any 
other company, when he himself is direct- 
ing. Already the Essanay players are shak- 
ing in their shoes, for Mr. Chaplin has 
just been signed up with Essanay as the 
highest priced comedian in the world. He 
is to direct a comedy company at their 
Chicago studios. 

Photoplay Information Department 

Is at your service 

IS THERE something you want to ask 
about the motion picture industry or 
people prominent in the pictures? 

Is there some idea about the movies that 
you have wanted to discuss? Some sugges- 
tion or comment you would like to make? 

We will do our best to answer all serious 
and worthy questions about the movies that 
you may ask us. The questions and answers 
will be printed in Photoplay Magazine. 

We will not answer questions such as 
"Does John Bunny dance the hesitation?" 
or "Does Lillian Walker chew gum, and if 
so, how many sticks a day?" 

If you have any suggestions or comment 

send it to us. There will be a place in 
Photoplay Magazine for just this sort of 
thing. These columns are yours if you have 
an idea. 

When writing, please observe these rules : 

Use one side of the paper only. In ask- 
ing about plays, if possible, give the name 
of the company. Always sign your own 
name and give your correct address. These, 
of course, will not be printed. 

If you wish an immediate reply, you 
must enclose a stamped, self-addressed en- 

Send your contributions to the "Give and 
Take Editor," Photoplay Magazine. 

When Cleo Madison 

Top— A "Trey of Hearts" episode. Cleo Madison and George Larkin in a two hundred foot plunge 
down a mountain side on a motorcycle. Insert— View of the mountain side with the camera man and director 
at the top where the plunge tvas taken. The white arrow Points to the spot ivhere the motorcycle turned turtle. 
Bottom— Ray Hanford and a companion, following close behind George Larkin and Cleo Madison, took the same 
plunge in an automobile. Both the motorcycle and the machine were completely wrecked but all four people 
escaped without injury. 


Was Afraid 

By Herself 

WH were taking some scenes for a three- 
reel feature called "The Madonna of 
the Moon." In one scene. I had to 
stand far out on a jutting ledge 
of rock and hold a tiny baby high above my 
head toward the moon. Joe King, my leading 
man, standing close beside me with his arm 
around me, supported me to some degree, but 
the place on which I had to stand was so un- 
even and so slippery and the strain of holding 
the baby up while they took a fade-in and a 
fade-out was so great that I was terribly afraid 
I might fall and hurt that precious baby. I 
stood in that position and waited and waited 
for what seemed an eternity. I never faint, but 
I had begun to waver back and forth and every- 
thing was going black before my eyes, when I 
heard a faint sound which I knew was Mr. 
Lucas, the director, saying, "Cut." And then 
I laid the baby in Mr. King's arms and col- 
lapsed absolutely. I have done so many dan- 
gerous stunts 
in "The 

Trey O' Hearts" that I 
thought nothing could 
frighten me, but I was 
mistaken. My sensa- 
tions when I made that 
200 foot plunge down 
the mountain side, with 
(Jeorge Larkin on a 
motorcycle and Hanford 
and Barkus "came turo- 
iling after" in a great auto- 
mobile were nothing com- 
pared with the sensations 
aroused by this apparently 
trivial incident. I was never so 
afraid of anything in my life as that 
1 would let that darling baby fall. 


TH K Federal league "has nothing on" 
the photoplay field for "jumps" of a 
sensational character, on the part of 
stars -whose names have grown to be 
household words. 

They are telling an interesting yarn 
about "Little Mary" Pickford, than whom 
there is probably no more popular player 
on the picture stage today. In the closing 
weeks of December, just at a time when 
announcements were beginning to creep into 
the trade journals that this famous actress 
had signed a new contract for a long period 
with the Famous Players Company, like a 
flash of lightning from a clear sky came the 
news that "Little Mary" had been engaged 
by the New York Motion Picture Corpora- 
tion at a salary of twenty-five hundred dol- 
lars per week. 

Moreover, according to the story, Adolph 
Zukor and Adam Kessel, heads of the 
Famous Players Company and the New 
York Motion Picture Corporation respect- 
ively, had actually bid against each other 
for her services in Mr. Zukor's office. 

Picture then, dear reader, Mary with a 


"Movie" Stars on 

By Charles 

languid gesture commanding silence and 
then, in a voice as languid, announcing: 

"It is useless to play out this farce, gen- 
tlemen. Flattering as is Mr. Kessel's offer, 
I cannot consider it. My feeling towards 
Famous Players is one of such loyalty that 
I must stay with them. Anything else is 

Well, it makes a good story, doesn't it? 
And, of course, not a word of it is true. 
Put there have been persistent rumors to 
the effect that Mary Pickford was making 
a change to give credence to this story. At 
this writing, however, it has never got 
farther than rumor. 

Mary seated in the office of Mr. Zukor, 
a pen newly dipped in ink in her little 
hand and in tlv>. very act of "signing on 
the dotted line" that new and crinkly con- 
tract which Mr. Zukor held out to her, 
when suddenly Mr. Kessel appears. 

"Stop !" he shouts. "Before you sign 
the papers, hear my bid !" 

"How much?" Marv inquires indiffer- 

"How much did he offer?" Kessel an- 
swers, pointing to Adolph. 

"Two thousand a week." 

"Twenty-one hundred !" cries Kessel, 
which Adolph promptly answers with, 
"Twenty-two hundred !" 

the Move 

W. North 

"Twenty-three hundred"- 

"Twenty-four hundred," retorts Zukor. 

The climax is reached when Kessel 
makes the figure twenty-five hundred and 
offers Mary a generous percentage hesides. 

Charlie Chaplin, the irresistible Key- 
stone comedian who has made a world-wide 
reputation for himself in both vaudeville 
and pictures, "closed" with Keystone at the 
end of one week and before the end of the 
next had signed an Essanay contract, at 
what is alleged to be the highest salary ever 
paid to a motion picture comedian. 

The Balboa Amusement Producing Com- 
pany of Long Beach, California, a concern 
which has long been making films, though 
the majority of them have been released 
abroad rather than in the United States, 
leaped into the limelight about the middle 
of December by engaging Henry Walthall, 
the famous Griffith star, who before ap- 
pearing in such films as "The Clansman," 
"The Avenging Conscience," "Home Sweet 
Home," and other Griffith releases, was a 
Biograph and a Reliance photoplayer. The 
week following, the Balboa people followed 
up this success by signing Ruth Roland, 
known to picture fans the country over 
as "The Kalem Girl." 

The Jesse Lasky Feature Play Company 

also acquired a Mutual star when Blanche 
Sweet, for years known as "the Biograph 
blonde" but more recently appearing in 
Griffith features for the Mutual, was in- 
duced to join the Lasky forces, under con- 
tract to appear in big multiple reel pro- 
ductions only. Her debut as a Lasky star 
was made in "The Warrens of Virginia." 
Since William Garwood left the Ameri- 
can Film Manufacturing Company to be- 
come leading man of an Eastern Imp com- 
pany, Irving Cummings, who will be re- 
membered for his excellent work in Than- 
liouser and before that in Reliance features, 
has been secured to play leads in the first 
American Company, opposite pretty Vivian 
Rich. Richard Travers, says rumor, is leav- 
ing the Essanay Company to accept a large 
salary with another concern and even such 
players as King Baggot. Francis X. Bush- 
man, Kathlyn Williams and Warren Ker- 
rigan are reported to have received highly 
flattering offers from other concerns than 
the ones with which they are now affil- 
iated. Where they will jump to and when, 
time alone will tell. 



Training Recruits with Motion Pictures 


THE moving picture camera has taken 
its place with the aeroplane and the 
submarine as one of the inventions 
of the last few years that have been 
used with telling effect in warfare. 

The English. Erench and German armies 
are now using motion pictures to make 
their soldiers efficient marksmen. Pictures 
are prepared showing men clad in the ene- 
mies' uniforms, engaged in charging, and 
righting from trenches. Screens arc set up 
in the open, and, as darkness comes on, 
these pictures are thrown on the screen. 
The recruits fire at the moving figures, and 
as the bullets hit the screen the film 
comes to a standstill, and at the hole 
pierced by the bullet a bright light appears. 
The picture then continues, other shots are 
fired, and the machine is stopped again to 

note the effect. The process continues as 
long as desired. 

The Erench employ the same method. 
At one end of an interior shooting gallery 
a screen is set up and at the other end a 
group of soldiers with their rifles raised, 
watch for the appearance on the screen of 
a company of cavalry charging. 

During the Japanese-Russian war, mov- 
ing pictures of the Japanese soldiers in 
action were made by the government and 
were shown throughout that nation to 
arouse enthusiasm. It has been suggested 
that this might prove successful in dispell- 
ing the lethargy of the English in recruit- 
ing for service in Erance. Roumania pos- 
sesses a nine reel picture of the recent Bal- 
kan struggle, and this film is being kept for 
future generations. 

The Recruits fire at the moving figures and the machine is stopped to note the effect. 


The Girl 

on the 



d actresses. For that is 
>ving picture acting in A \\jN 
ia means. One can . VV\S 
ture stage in-door film Ij v^^O 
lywbere, but any sort a >S\\y« 
:-of-doors plav can be \ \ 

"/ am going to leave the movies after a 

while. I am going to study more with 

Daddy and he is going to take me to Europe 

to put the finishing touches on me. " 

EN A is one of the new 
recruits of the back-to- 
, the-land movement of 
actors and actresses. For that is 
what moving picture acting in 
shows any 

of an out-ot-doors play 
staged in California the year 
round,, so the actors and 
actresses who sign up for 
film acting in that state 
are promptly shipped to 
the country, where they 
take on a deep tan, buy a 
home and raise chickens and 

It is almost unbelievable 
about an actress, but it is a 
fact that it is nearly impossible 
to get Miss Michelena to talk 
about herself, for she insists on 
talking mostly about her "Daddy." 
She is under the impression that 
her "Daddy" is the most re- k 
markable man in the world, 


Photoplay Magazine 

and she declares that all she ever knew 
she learned from her ''Daddy." 

She is so brimful of enthusiasm 
about her swimming, horseback 
riding, "Salomy Jane," her 
dogs, her Swiss chalet up in 
the hills of San Rafael, and 
finally her music, that it is 
refreshing to hear her. She 
is a native daughter of 
California, and is utterly 
obsessed with that wonder- 
ful worship of everything 
Californian, which charac- 
terizes the sons and daugh- 
ters of the Golden State. 
She talks about San 
Francisco as if 
the city were a 
pet cat and as 
if she were 

"If I stay in \ 
San Rafael long \ 
enough, I'll vote 
at the next special 
election. " 

Miss Michelcna 
jumped from mu- ' 
sical comedy, in 
which she has done all 
her theatrical work, 
to the movies 
only a few 

The other 

actors and 


seemed to be 

astonished to find 

that I could swim 

and ride horseback." 

ago. She has been starring since she was sixteen. 

She has taken leading roles in "Princess 

Chic," "The Girl from Dixie." "Peggy from 

v Paris," "The White Hen,"' "The Kissing 

k Girl," and "The Tic-Toe Man of Oz," 

■k and she has been a head-liner on the 

■k Orpheum circuit singing comic and grand 

^ opera selections. 

"Well, I suppose you want to know 
why I changed from comic opera to mo- 
tion pictures," said Miss Michelena to her 
interviewer in San Francisco after she 
had told him all about her experiences in 
the "fire," and had recounted a dozen 
legends of the Robert Louis Stevenson 
and Bret Harte country across the bay. 
"Well, it was this way. My Daddy 
brought us up for the opera, my sister 
Vera and myself. And he used to say," 
— here Miss Michelena broke into 
galloping Italian — "it means," 
she continued in explana- 
tion, "he who sings well 
speaks well. He always 
insisted that all opera singers 
must have experience in the 
drama to learn to enunciate. 
Daddy always said it was 
ridiculous to be able 

to sing prettily when 

The Girl on the Cover 


nobody could understand what the singer 
was saying. He was equally insistent that 
we must learn to act intelligently. 

"I always got good notices on my acting 
as well as ^^^ on my singing, 
but I j£ ^^ wanted dramatic 

experience and 

1 was planning 

to go on the 

dramatic stage before making a plunge for 
grand opera when I received an offer to go 
into moving pictures with the California 
Motion Picture Corporation. I laughed at 
the idea first, and then I began to think, 
and I talked it over with Daddy and he 
thought it would do me a heap of good to 
rest my voice and to sea myself as others 
see me. 

"As a matter of fact it does not seem to 
me that I see myself in the movies at all. 
It is funny, but 'Salomy Jane,' seems to 
lie another person altogether. 

"Well, I had no sooner settled down out 
there among the hills in Marin county, 

than I be- 

bought the prettiest 

little Swiss chalet in the outskirts of San Rafael 

and I live there with my maid and horse and 

two dogs. If I stay there long enough, I'll 

vote at the next special election. 

"When I started work, the other actors and 
actresses seemed to be astonished to find that 
\ I could swim and ride horseback. I have 
to thank my Daddy for that. I don't re- 
member the time I couldn't swim, and I have 
ridden horseback ever since I was a little 
a girl- Then, those folks up at our studio 
d» thought I would be afraid to spoil my 
'(^ music box by plunging into a stream. 
But that's all nonsense. Only hot house 
singers are afraid for their voices, and they, like fools, 
smoke which is worse than a cold plunge, Daddy used 
to say." 

"Now, Miss Michelena, stop talking about your 


Photoplay Magazine 

Daddy please, and talk about yourself and 
your film plays," the interviewer made bold 
to remark. 

"Oh, the plays. Well, we first put on 
Bret Harte's 'Salomy Jane.' I played Jane 
and just loved it. I am crazy about the 
part. Do you known where old Hangtown 
is? It is Placerville, a very respectable old 
village these days. We went up there and 
staged part of the show and we had a 
coachman that was a corker. He had 
driven a stage in the old days and he went 
down to the Portola Theatre in San Fran- 
cisco to see the films, and when the stage 
came out, he piped right up 'that's me 
driving that stage.' 

"After 'Salomy Jane' came 'Mrs. Wiggs 
of the Cabbage Patch,' and I had to play 
'Lovey Mary.' I didn't like the part at all. 
It is too weepy to suit me. Then we put 
on 'Mignon,' and I was in the seventh 
heaven again. Give me 'Mignon' in opera 
and 'Salomy Jane' on the stage and I'll 
work my eyes out. 

"Well, 'Salomy Jane' has made such a 
blooming success that -we are going to 
put on Harte's 'Lil of Poverty Flat,' and 

I am going to play the leadin' 'Lil.' Then 
we're going to put on 'The Price She 
Paid,' and 'Salvation Nell.' 

"I am proud of one thing, people tell 
me that I am altogether different in 
'Salomy Jane' from what I am in 'Mignon.' 
I have made 'Mignon' a perky, nosey little 
thing. Daddy says I did good work in 
both, and he knows. 

"Yes, I am going to leave the movies 
after a while. I am going to study more 
with Daddy and he is going to take me to 
Europe to put the finishing touches on me, 
and then I am going to make my debut in 
grand opera. But I would like to try 
'Salomy Jane' with a good support on the 
stage first. I am just balmy over 'Salomy 
Jane.' " 

She is a very vital, likable young woman, 
this American-Italian Beatriz Michelena. 
San Rafael, where the California Motion 
Picture Corporations studio is located, is 
near the Petaluma poultry district and if 
Miss Michelena stays up there much longer, 
she will be elected queen of the next Peta- 
luma egg carnival. No higher honor could 
come to a lass in that neighborhood. 


IN "Pruning the Movies," the Nestor comedy released January first, that 
* most potent of all measures, ridicule, is used to drive home a point in 
which every one in the motion picture business is interested. It is a slap at 
the local boards of censorship which have sprung up all over the country. 

The comedy illustrates concretely how titles are changed and scenes re- 
taken and gives the motion picture theatregoer an excellent idea — from the 
point of view of the film manufacturer — of the way in which censorship 
boards can mutilate an innocent film beyond recognition. The delightful 
thing about it is that in this instance, the manufacturer of films is driving 
home his point so good-naturedly. From start to finish the picture is full 
of laughs. 

A LONG wisp of artificial grain that served as a stick-up on the sweet 
** girl's hat was placed horizontally, so that it tickled the face of the man 
who sat next to her in the moving picture house, until it came to a resting 
place with the end nestling in his right ear. 

After a few. trying minutes, the man was seen to remove from his pocket 
a large jackknife, which he proceeded to strop on the palm of a horny hand. 

Excitedly the girl inquired: 

"Why are you doing that?" 

"If them oats gits in my ear agin," the man ejaculated, "there's gonna 
be a harvest." 

The Three of Us 


NO, SIR!" 
"I'm not 
I'm ashai 

said Rhy MacChesney. 

ready to quit ! Clem — 

ashamed of you ! Haven't 

you any faith? Can't you believe 

that things are going to be all right, if we 

just have the nerve to stick?" 

"I have not !" said her brother, Clem. 
A good-looking youngster enough, Clem 
didn't have his sister's fine, firm lines of 
face. There was more iron in her than 
in him ; more of the sort of stuff that pio- 
neers and those who seek to wrest a living 
from the earth itself must have. 

"I want my chance," said Clem. He said 
it doggedly ; it was as if he were reciting a 
lesson, almost, as if he had made up his 
mind in advance as to what he meant to 
say. "I want to go back to New York 
where I'll have a chance to amount to 
something." He swept his hand out with 
a magnificent contempt for the town, for 
the mountains, for the whole of Camp 
Warren — which to be frank, was not in 
a position to resent contempt. "How can 
one ever hope to do anything here? You 
know what Beresford says — " 

Rhy's face clouded. 

"I know what Lewis Beresford says — 
yes," she admitted. "And I suppose it 
counts for something. But — he doesn't 
know. Dad did know. Do you suppose 
he would have stuck, when everyone else 
quit, if he hadn't been sure there was gold 
in the mine? Oh — if he hadn't — if that 
blast hadn't killed him ! Then you wouldn't 
be talking like this, and Lewis would 
know I" 

"Oh, Dad might have been mistaken, you 
know," said Clem. "Other men who knew 
just as much about gold and mines have 
been. Rhy, old girl — I know it's hard. But 
isn't it time you made up your mind that 
we've got to do something ? We stay here, 
and stay, and stay. And nothing ever hap- 
pens. I can't do anything here. I'm 
strangled. I want my chance to grow. 
Beresford says he'll get me a job if we 
go to New York. Come on — " 

"No !" Rhy shook her head ; the note of 
doggedness had got into her voice, too, and 
into her look, as well. "No, Clem. I 
won't do it. I'm sort of sorry that every- 
thing is up to me, the way it is. I wish 
things were different — and yet I don't. I'm 
not going to pull up stakes here and go 
back East. Not for a while, anyway. I'm 
going to spend all we can on "The Three 
of Us" — I'm going to give that mine one 
more chance, anyhow, to make good. Then, 
if it's still a failure, I — why, then I'll be 
willing to think of making a move. It 
would cost a lot for the three of us to go 
back East, you know, Clem. Here we at 
least own our house, such as it is. And — 
everything's cheaper." 

They had had such arguments before. 
More than once since the blast had killed 
his father, Clem had wanted to abandon 
the mine and follow the example of most 
of those who had abandoned Camp Warren 
when the boom that had made it had ended. 
There had been gold there once; of that 
there was no question. And there were 
those who, like Rhy, still believed that the 
gold was still there. They spoke, as did 
Rhy, of the lost vein — the mother vein, 
that, when it was once found, would bring 
back the clays of Camp Warren's glory. 
They never doubted that somewhere that 
vein lay, waiting to be found, to make the 
man who should rediscover it rich. 

Lewis Beresford laughed at them. He 
had come to Camp Warren some time be- 
fore, weak and ill. It was to recuperate, 
to recover the strength of which a long 
illness had robbed him. he explained, that 
he was there. He admitted that he knew 
something about mining, but the practical 
men of the camp, real miners like Steve 
Towney, soon decided that his knowledge 
was theoretical, and therefore not anything 
to boast of: Beresford was quite willing 
to let it go at that, it seemed ; to do him 
justice, he never did boast. He fished and 
he hunted, when he grew strong enough, 
and he seemed to enjoy the quiet, rather 



Photoplay Magazine 

stagnant life of the camp. But it had for 
some time been obvious that he was no 
longer staying on for his health's sake. 
And the camp, and, more especially Steve 
Towney, felt fairly certain that it was 
Rhy MacChesney who kept him from going 
back whence he had come. 

Clem MacChesney, after he had left his 
sister, walked along until he met Beresford. 
He was sulking, there was a scowl on his 
face, which was not dissipated by Beres- 
ford's cheery greeting. The older man 
pursed his lips as he saw the scowl. 

"No luck, eh, Clem?" he said. 

"Luck? No!" said Clem. "Says she'll 
stick it out ! Oh, I say, Beresford — why 
do you suppose vou can't argue with a 

"I don't know, my son," said Beresford, 
with a grin. "But you can't, can you?" 

"It's Steve Towney that's making her 
stay here," said Clem, savagely. "As long 
as he keeps puttering away at that rotten 
claim of Ins she'll stick. They both say 
that the big vein is in one mine or the 
'other — or more likely in both. That if one 
finds it it will be just as good for the 

out and go to some live 

other. But I can't see that. I think Steve 
is plumb crazy — hanging on here the way 
he does when he might be making good 
money if he'd di 

"He's his own master, of course," said 
Beresford, thoughtfully. "But it does seem 
pretty hard on you, Clem. I wonder, now 
— isn't there some way to discourage Steve, 
perhaps? It would be for his own good, 
you know. He's all wrong." 

Clem stopped abruptly. 

"I say — you know I'm glad you agree 
with me and all, Beresford," he said. "But 
— why are you so anxious for us to go?" 

Beresford smiled cheerfully. 

"How old are you, Clem?" he asked. 
Then he made his smile even broader; more 
cheerful. "Come — that's not fair, either. 
But I'll wager one thing. You never-er — 
cared a great deal for a girl, did you, 

"Oh!" Clem stared at him and flushed 
a little, as a normal boy does when love 
is mentioned — especially if his own sister 
happens to be concerned. "You're stuck 
on— Rhy? Good Lord— why?" 


She remembered so well how they had come to Camp Warren in the old stage coach. 

The Three of Us 


The accident that killed her father had followed. She could remember the horror of that day. 

Beresford laughed outright at that. 

"That would be telling, wouldn't it, 
Clem?" he said. "But — you needn't be so 
surprised, young man. I suppose you 
wouldn't see what a charming — what a 
wholly delightful girl she is. Let that go. 
Suppose it were true? You're tired of this 
place. Can't you imagine that I'd like to 
get back to New York myself? And put 
it that I wouldn't care very much about 
going unless 1 knew I could see Rhy there." 

"I see," said Clem. After a moment he 
began to laugh, too. "That's great!" he 
said. "It's awfully funny, though. I say 
— can I be best man? And is Sonnie old 
enough to be an usher?" 

"Not so fast — not so fast," said Beres- 
ford, somewhat confused. "You're running 
ahead too fast, Clem — altogether too fast. 
But just keep your eyes open, will you? 
If you see or hear of anything new about 
Steve's crazy claim, let me know. I think 
he'd give something to keep you all here — 
the three of you." 

"Well — I'm for you and New York." 
announced Clem. "Sure I'll let you know 
if anything turns up. But it won't. Nothing 
ever does in this God-forsaken hole of a 

And meanwhile Rhy had gone to the 
mint — to the "Three of Us" that seemed to 
her to typify her chance of keeping the 
little family she had inherited together. 
Rhy was wholly devoted to her two 
brothers. She had looked after them since 
her father's death : even before that, when 
her mother died, she had had to assume a 
great part of the responsibility. She re- 
membered so well how they had come to 
Camp Warren. They had driven up in 
the old stage coach. Her father had been 
so fine and big: she remembered herself, 
a long-legged girl with pigtails down her 
back. Sonnie had been only a baby; Clem 
a sturdy youngster. They had been happy 
at first. Then her mother had died, and 
she had hardly got over the ache of that 
loss when the accident that killed her father 
had followed. She could remember the 
horror of that day : how she had clung to 
Steve Towney's arm. The mine reminded 
her of the past. It was shut down now : 
the workings were empty ; no blasts shook 
the air. And yet they did. hut from a 
distance. In the next claim Steve was at 
work. Steve, who had been her father's 
right-hand man and had, from the first, 
been her own most loval friend and servi- 


Photoplay Magazine 

tor. It was Steve to whom she had gone 
for advice in her hard times — which had 
been many. So now, after a little time in 
which she looked at the dead mine, she 
went on until she came to the heading 
where Steve was at work. She called and 
in a minute he came out, his face lighting 
up at the sight of her. 

"Hello, Rhy!" he said. "Hard at work, 
you see ! It's getting pretty near the end 

My option is up to- 
it, Steve?" 

of the work, too. 
morrow, you know. 

"Aren't you going to renew 
she asked. 

" 'Fraid not," he said, with a shake of 
his head. "No use. I've got just about 
enough money to do it. And if I spent all 
that — I'd have nothing to work with. No. 
Unless I strike pay ore before then I'll 
have to quit, I guess — for a while, any- 

It discouraged her. She wanted Steve to 
encourage her own determination to stay ; 
her refusal to yield to Clem's urging. But 
this hardly looked as if he could do it. 

"There's one thing, though," Steve went 
on. "If I have to quit here I can turn in 
and do some work for you, Rhy. You'll 
be wanting your assessment work done 
pretty soon, anyhow. And it'll save you 
paying wages if I do it for you." 

Her eyes filled with tears. 

"Oh, Steve!" she said. "Why are you 
so — decent to me? Why do we stick here, 
anyhow, you and I ? No one else has any 
hope. Clem wants to go; Mr. Beresford 
thinks the camp is dead. Even the Bixes 
haven't any hope. They stay because — oh, 
just because. And it's that way with the 
others here, too, isn't it? They've sort of 
lost their ambition. They stay because it's 
easier to stay than to go." 

"Well — I stick for the- same reason you 
do, I guess, Rhy — because I know that 
sooner or later that old vein's going to turn 
up. Your dad knew what he was talking 
about. When he said the gold was here, 
that went for me." 

"I know. That's the way I've always 
felt, too," said Rhy with a little sigh. "But 
when everyone is so sure we're wrong 
and we don't seem to get anywhere — " 

Steve came over to her, took her by the 
shoulders, and shook her playfully. 

"Quit it !" he said. "Do you hear? Quit 
it ! First thing you know you'll be having 
me discouraged, too. Oh, Rhy, girl — you're 

' Then I'll keep on hoping, " he said. "I can 
do that, can't I?" 

not going to turn me d< 

like the rest of 

them here, are you? You're going to keep 
on believing?" 

"I'm going to try mighty hard to do just 
that, Steve," she said, and the smile was 
back in her eyes. "I just wanted you to 
brace me up. That's why I came." 

"Rhy," he said. There was something 
different in his voice, and she drew a little 
away from him. "Rhy— I s'pose it's no use 
askin' if you've changed your mind? You 
aren't ready to — think about marr'yiii' me, 
are } r ou?" 

She shook her head. 

"No, I'm not, Steve," she said. "I don't 
care about you that way, Steve. And — 
and, even if I did, I wouldn't marry you. 
It wouldn't be fair, Steve. Not to you or 
the boys. Can't you see that ? While things 
are like this I wouldn't have any right just 
to think about myself. We've got to hang 
together, the three of us — Clem and Sonnie 
and I. If there was plenty of money it 
would be easier. But I've got to keep rhyr 
self for them, Steve." 

"But, Rhy — suppose that part of it was 
settled? Would you marry me then? I'm 
not asking you to do it now — only to tell 
me that vou would if vou thought you 

The Three of Us 


"That's not fair. Steve." she said. "You 
oughtn't to ask me that." 

"Why not?" he broke out suddenly. 
"Rhy — I'm not such a fool as you think ! 
I can see what's happened ! Everyone in 
camp can ! That Lewis Beresf ord is stayin' 
here just on account of you ! An' I sup- 
pose you — " 

. He didn't finish for the excellent reason 
that there was no one left to hear him if 
he had. Rhy had vanished ; he caught a 
glimpse of her flying skirts, heard the thud 
of her pony's hoofs. 

Rhy was not pleased. But neither was 
she quite as angry as she meant Steve to 
•believe she was ! Before she had finished 
her wild ride back to camp she was smil- 
ing, and she looked anything but angry 
when she drew rein at Mrs. Bix's house 
and. dismounted. 

"Now — what can I do to help?" she 
demanded, when she was inside. 

Mrs. Bix was in her kitchen, a motherly 
soul, hands and arms to the elbows white 
with flour. 

"Not a thing. Rhy," she said. "Unless 
you want to take a look at. the table. I 
think everything's all right. But you might 
just make sure of those pun'kins. A Hal- 
low'een party without pun'kins wouldn't 
be right, even here, would it?" 

Rhy laughed and went in to attend to 
the final touches of the table. This Hal- 
low'een party that Mrs. Bix gave each year 
was the one great social event of the camp. 
Everyone who was in any sort of standing 
for miles around was invited. Eirst there 
would be a glorious dinner, a feast to make 
the - mouth of the camp dwellers water 
when .the thought of it came to them, 
months before the feast itself. And then, 
when full justice had been done to Mrs. 
Bix's cooking, there would be the old Hal- 
low'een games, with ducking for apples, 
and all the rest of the traditional fun, and 
then a dance that would last, unless all 
precedent was broken, until the sun was up 
next morning. 

"Everything's all light," Rhy announced 
to Mrs. Bix. "And now I'm going home 
to dress. Oh, you haven't any idea how 
gorgeous I'm going to be ! I'm going to 
wear my grandmother's dress, and I'm go- 
ing to have little bobbly curls, and those 
old-fashioned mittens that come half way 
down one's hands — oh, I tell you I'm going 
to be grand !" 

"You needn't tell me!" said Mrs. Bix. 
"I know it alreadv, Rhy MacChesney! Be 
off, now!" 

And then, outside her own door, she met 
Lewis Beresford. He had been waiting for 
her, and he barred the way now. 

"I'm in a hum-, Lewis," she protested, 
still laughing. 

"Please," he said. "I want to talk to 
you, Rhy. I've been seeing Clem. Rhy — 
don't you think you're just a tiny bit sel- 
fish? Don't you think you owe it to Clem 
to let him have his chance? This place 
will never give it to him. And you — why, 
you oughtn't to be buried out here, Rhy. 
You ought to be in New York, where 
people could see you, and you could wear 
beautiful things, and go to the opera, and 
do all the things you'd like." 

She looked up at him quizzically. 

"How you do talk!" she said. "Lewis — 
how could I wear such things and go to 
such places in New York? Do you know 
what going to New York would mean? 
It would mean a cheap flat in a cheap 
house, without an elevator. Opera! I'd 

Clem had started to climb in through the window 
when he heard their voices. 


Photoplay Magazine 

She looked about nervously as she opened the 
door of the Bix house. 

be lucky to have a chance to hear the band 
play in Central Park!" 

"You know what I mean !" he said, al- 
most fiercely. "I could give you all those 
things, Rhy. And I want to — more than 
I ever wanted anything ! I love vou, 
Rhy ! I—" 

"I'm sorry, Lewis," she interrupted, 
gently. "Vou are a good friend. But — I 
can't do it." 

"You mean there isn't a chance for 

"I don't want to say that!" she cried. 
"I don't know, Lewis — really, I don't ! 1 
like you, oh, ever so much ! But I like — " 

He was too wise to take up that unfin- 
ished sentence. 

"Then I'll keep on hoping," he said. "I 
can do that, can't I ?" 

"Yes," she said. She gave him her hand. 
"If you want to, Lewis. I do like you." 

Clem was just inside the door when she 
opened it. She saw at once that he had 
heeri listening. Indeed, he confessed it. 

"I heard Lewis," he said, sullenly. "I 
didn't mean to — I just happened to hear. 

Rhy! Why can't we go back? You like 
Lewis. He's a corker. And we'd all be 
happy then — " 

"Clem !" Her cheeks were flaming. 
"Mind your own business! I'll do as I 
like about that ! And you shouldn't have 
listened — even if you didn't mean to. It 
was dishonorable !" 

She was still angry when she began to 
dress in the old fashioned garments that 
had been treasured so long. Into her mind 
there kept the faintest of questions about 
Beresford. Why was Clem so earnestly on 
his side? Was he trying to influence her 
through her brother? And then, clamor- 
ing, banging at the door, came Steve 

"Rhy !" he shouted. "Rhy ! Come out, 
quickly — I've got to see you!" 

She was all dressed then, and she ran to 
the door — Steve was not the sort to call 
like that unless the occasion were real and 
urgent. And so he was the first to see her 
as the vision of loveliness she was that 
night in the old world dress. 

"Gee !" he said, bewildered. "Gee ! Rhy ! 
You — why — I never saw you before !" 

She laughed at him. 

"What is it, Steve?" she said. "What 
brings vou thundering at the door this 

"It's the vein, Rhy!" he cried. "I've 
found it! It runs right through the two 
claims ! We must have the best of it ! 
And luck — it was the purest luck ! T was 
sort of thinking — after you went. And I 
guess I was sort of careless. Anyway, I 
fired a blast without meaning to at all — 
not in the place she opened up. And there 
she was ! Chock full of gold ! Look !" 

He poured out from a sack a little heap 
of quartz fragments. Rhy cried out as she 
saw the free gold in the rock. 

"Oh!" she said. "Steve! It is! Isn't 
it wonderful? After all these years!" 

They weren't listening to what was go- 
ing on within a few feet of them. They 
didn't know that Clem had started to climb 
in by the window from the rear of the 
house, as he often did, nor that, when he 
heard their voices, he stopped, and listened. 
They couldn't see the expression on his 

"Wonderful — yes," said Steve. "Rhy — 
this means you've been right from the first. 
It means that you're going to be rich. I 
am, too — but it's for you I'm happiest. 

The Three of Us 


"The Three of Us" is going to make good 
for you. But I'm sorry about this Hal- 
low'een party." he added, abruptly, his tone 

"Why — what do you mean, Steve?" . 

"I can't come, of course," he said. "I've 
got to ride over and take up my option. I 
wouldn't take a chance — and it expires at 
noon to-morrow, you know. So I reckon 
I'll just about have time to snatch a bite, 
and then I'll be off." 

Rhy's face fell. 

"Oh, Steve !" she said. "I — I want you 
to be at the party ! Why, I was just think- 
ing what a celebration it would be, and if 
you're not there — " 

"Shucks, Rhy," he said, "you'll have 
just as good a time. Of course, I'll hate 
to miss it, but I guess I've got to." 

"No!" she said. She put her hand on 
his arm. "Steve — I want you to come. 
And in the morning I'll ride over with vou. 

There was something in her eyes that, 
suddenly, he understood. 

"Rhy!" he said. "You're not playing 
with me? Why, this afternoon — " 

"This afternoon everything was 
different," she said. "I couldn't 
tie myself around your neck like 
a stone, could I, Steve? And — I 
didn't know, either. But now — 
oh, you've done 

You've had faith when no one else had 
it. I—" 

And then, belatedly, he knew enough to 
take her in his arms, gown and all, and 
silence her. It was no time for words, 
anyhow. That came later, when he had to 
go and dress. 

"I'm going to give you the option and 

the money to take it up," he said. "I want 

you to take care of it for me. Will you?" 

"Yes," she said, wondering. "But why, 


"Oh, just because," he said. "There's 
folks who'd like to get that claim now, 
girl. Folks who'd go a long way to keep 
me from taking up that option in time, 
and be ready to take it for themselves. So 
it's better to be safe." 

She took the precious paper and the 
money, and then, when he had gone, de- 
bated as to where to put them. And at 
last, woman like, she decided on the old 
flowered bag that already contained her 
dancing slippers, that she was to wear after 
the great dinner. But the possession of 
such valuables made her uneasy. She 
looked about nervously as she opened the 
door of the Bix house. But there 
was no one watching her. and she 
laughed at her fears. 

There was glorious fun that 
night in the Bix house. And when 
the merriment had reached its 
limax, at midnight, and the 
girls were going into a dark 
room, in the hope of seeing 
the face of a future hus- 
band in the mirror, Rhy and 
Steve played a trick on the- 
re s t. For 
Steve went 
in b e- 

"Now — home, girl," said 
Steve, and drew her to him 
to kiss her. 


Photoplay Magazine 

hind her, and she saw his face, as they 
had planned, and then she came out, and 
told them all, blushingly. 

"And this time it's true," she said. 
"Steve and I are going to be married !" 

Until that moment she had forgotten 
Lewis Beresford, such is the utter selfish- 
ness of love! It was only the sight of his 
face, suddenly gone white, that reminded 
her now, and she was full at once of con- 
trition and concern. She escaped from 
Steve, jealous already, and made her way 
to Beresford. 

"Lewis — I'm sorry," she said. "This 
afternoon, when you — when you spoke to 
me, I didn't know. I didn't mean to de- 
ceive you. And just now I was so happy 
that I forgot!" 

"I see," he said after a moment. His 
voice was cold. "I hope you won't find 
that you've made a mistake, Rhv." 

She did not notice the coldness in his 
voice, nor the curious words. 

"And there's another thing." she said. 
" 'The Three of Us' has proved itself at 
last, Lewis. It's a real mine. We're all 
going to be rich as well as happy. Clem 
shall have his chance, the best chance in 
the world." 

He laughed at that, and now she did 
notice his manner. It was harsh, grating. 
It jarred on her festive mood. 

"Good Heavens, Rhy !" he said, impa- 
tiently. "Are you still chasing that will 
o' the wisp? Do you believe that Towney 
has struck real gold? A pocket, perhaps 
— no more ! I tell you you're throwing 
away the substance for the shadow ! I can 
give you more than he will ever have — " 

"Lewis," she interrupted, "you're not 
yourself. Please don't talk so ! Do you 
think it could make any difference — the 
money? It might make things possible 
that couldn't be thought of otherwise, but 
that's all." 

"We'll see," he said, roughly. "I sup- 
pose I must wish you happiness, Rhy." 

And then he turned, abruptly, and left 
her, and the house as well. For a minute 
Rhy brooded ; it is hard to lose a friend. 
But she did not stop to wonder how Beres- 
ford had known what she meant, how he 
had had knowledge of a secret that Steve, 
she knew, had confided only to her. She 
had too many other things to think about 
that night. 

It was Clem, of course, who had told 

Beresford ; Clem, utterly under the spell 
of the older man, and ignorant, too, of the 
real reason for Beresford's presence at 
Camp Warren. Only Beresford himself 
knew that ; Beresford and the syndicate 
that had always believed that proper 
methods, with unlimited capital, would 
make great mines out of The Three of Us 
and Steve Towney's adjoining claim. 
Beresford had been waiting patiently for 
Steve's option to expire, meaning to take 

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A month later she watched the firing of the first 
blast of the revivified " Three of Us. " 

it up himself. He had planned, too, to get 
"The Three of Us." But there his motive 
had not been wholly ignoble. He did love 
Rhy ; he wanted her to owe everything to 

And now be saw defeat waiting for him. 
A defeat, too, that was complete. He 
would lose everything — if Steve Towney 
was able to take up that option. And he 
was determined to wrest victory from de- 
feat even now, at the eleventh hour. His 
face was grim and set as he left the Bix 
house : his plan was made. 

Sunrise found Rhy ready and waiting 
for Steve. But when he came he told her 
she must not ride with him. 

"I'm afraid, girl." he said. "I may 
have trouble — and I can't have vou mixed 

The Three of Us 

in. I'll make it alone. Ride to the fork 
in the trail with me — then go home." 

It was a new sensation for Rhy to take 
orders. . But she did not mind. Meekly 
she obeyed. 

"Now — home, girl," said Steve, and 
drew her to him to kiss her. 

She watched him ride off. She even 
turned homeward. But something checked 
her; some premonition of evil. And, not 
knowing why, she turned again, and rode, 
not by the trail that Steve had taken, but 
by another, toward the town where the 
option was to be renewed. She scarcely 
knew why she went ; she only felt that she 

And, once started, she rode hard. The 
trail she look was the longer, but she knew 
that, by hard riding, she could easily be 
at the appointed place before noon. And 
she rode hard. So hard that when she 
was still five miles from her destination 
she overtook a man cantering leisurely 
along ; Beresf ord ! He pulled up his horse 
and stared at her, in astonishment. 

"Where are you going, Rhy?" he asked. 

She told him, and saw him bite his lips. 

"I'll ride with you," he said. 

They rode along in silence. Sometimes 
Beresford spoke, but her answers did not 
invite more talk. Soon they came in sight 
of the lawyer's office. In that high moun- 
tain air things were easily visible a mile 
away. But Rhy's eyes, searching for one 
thing, missed it. Steve's horse was not out- 
side the lawyer's office ! 

In that moment she took her decision. 
She was riding close to Beresford; sud- 
denly she cut her whip sharply across his 
horse's head. It was cruel, but she had to 
do it. The horse reared ; Beresford, taken 
wholly by surprise, was thrown. And in 
a cloud of dust Rhy was off, galloping 
wildly toward the office. 

When she was almost there she looked 
back ; Beresford was running toward her ; 
his horse had disappeared. She leaped 
from her saddle, and ran in. 

"Has Steve Towney been here?" she 

"No, ma'am," said the lawyer. He 
glanced at the clock. "His option expires 
in just two minutes, too. Want it, ma'am?" 

"Wait till the time's up," she said. 

Would Beresford get there? She dared 
not look to see; she could only watch the 
clock, the big hand creeping, so that it 
seemed not to move at all, toward the hour 
of noon. And then, just as she heard run- 
ning steps outside, the lawyer spoke. 

"Time's up !" he said. "Ma'am?" 

"I'll take an option — here's a hundred 
dollars to bind it !" cried Rhy. 

He was counting the money as Beresford, 
his face streaked with dust and blood, burst 

"It's your's, ma'am !" said the lawyer, 
reaching for his pen. 

"Stop !" cried Beresford. "I'll buy that 
claim — I'll double anv offer — don't 

"Too late — I've given my word," said 
the lawyer. 

And then Rhy fainted ! AVhen she came 
to Beresford, a silent heap, lay in a corner 
of the office. Steve was holding her. 

"Was I in time, Steve? Did I save it for 
you?" she asked. 

"You sure did!" he exulted. "Beres- 
ford's gang held me up — and I thought I 
was too late. Got here just in time to give 
him what he deserved! But it's all right 
now !" 

She was Rhy Towney when, a month 
later, she watched, with her husband, the 
firing of the first blast in the revivified 
"Three of Us." 


T^HE New Yorker was descanting on the glories of Broadway. 
* "The streets are ablaze with light — a veritable riot." he said. "Why, 

there is one electric sign in front of a moving picture house with 100,000^ 

"Doesn't it make it rather conspicuous?" asked his English friend. 

In "Innocent, " her stage success of the fall season, she was 
a gay, wistful, coquettish, capricious girl. 

In the Eternal City," her first motion 

picture play, she is a tragically 

beautiful woman. 



IF I hadn't gone into the movies, I 
might never had discovered that a day 
is made up of morning, afternoon, 
and evening, instead of afternoon, 
evening, and night. I never before rea- 
lized that there was such an hour as nine 
A. M. I realize it bitterly now that I have 
to get to the Famous Player's studio at 
that hour, but reallv the acting itself is a 

Miss Frederick lives with her family who keep her enshrouded in an atmosphere of proud 
adulation — without spoiling her in the least 


Who's Married to Who 

in the Movies 


Mary Pickford 

(New York Motion 

Picture Corporation) 


Owen Moore 
(Bos-worth Feature) 




continue to give its 

readers photographs of 

the prominent married 

couples of the film world. 

Owen Moore and Tom Moore are 
brothers. .There is still a third 
brother in the Movies — Matt, who 
appears in Universal Films 

Alice Joyce 



Tom Moore 




Married Couples Who Have Made 

Gerda and Rapley 
Holmes, both of the Es- 
sanay Company. ■ 


Their Marks In The Film World 

Mrs. Louis Weber Smalley and 
Phillip Smalley of Bosworth fame. 


The Treason of Anatole 

By Vivian Barrin&ton 

Illustrations from the Imp Film. 


ISTEN!" said Fritz von Holm. 

His eyes grew soft. "There it is 

again — the violin! Ach, but he 

can play, that one ! Do you hear, 


"I hear, Fritz," said his wife. 
' It was after dinner, and the night's 
work was done. And now, as the music 
of the violin came down the stairs, out and 
down, and through the window, filling 
the whole place with its sobbing cadence, 
the two tow-headed children, so unmistak- 
ably German, so unmistakably, too, the 
children of Fritz and Freda, ceased their 
play and crept to their mother's side to 

Down came the music. At first the vio- 
linist played aimlessly, passing at random 
from one strain to another. Then he passed 
into a melody of Dvorak; familiar strains 
succeeded, familiar, at least to the two 
older ones, son and daughter of a musical 
nation. He played everything, this un- 
seen violinist. Beethoven, Schubert, Grieg, 
sometimes a noble theme from Bach. And 
always, after these preliminary wander- 
ings there would come wild, strange har- 
monies that the listeners could not identify. 
These must be his own, they guessed. 

It was not long before the children, 
curious, as children are, knew all that any- 
one in the house could know about the 
violinist who had so greatly delighted them. 
He was a Frenchman, and, they thought, 
very old. (Later Fritz learned that he was 
not yet fifty.) Every morning he went 
out, sometimes earning his violin, some- 
times without it. Sometimes, instead of the 
violin, he carried sheets of music, carelessly 
done up, which he always brought back 
with him. He lived alone, in the cheapest, 
poorest room in the house, and he prepared 
his own meals — though, from what the 
children said, these needed little prepara- 

Fritz and Freda saw him, too, having 
come to watch for him. They saw a stoop- 
ing man, who looked older, they thought, 

than his years, and who seemed to "have 
suffered much. When he passed them on 
the stairs he always smiled, and stood aside, 
politely, to let Freda pass; they saw the 
depression, the sadness, that really marked 
his expression only when he thought him- 
self unobserved. In public his smile was 
always ready, as if he felt that there was 
enough of gloom and sadness in the world 
without any addition to the store from him. 

And that, for a long time, was all that 
the Von Holms knew of the French violin- 
ist who lived above. Even so, it was a 
great deal. Though they had never spoken 
to him, he had revealed his soul by means 
of his violin. And it became their greatest 
pleasure to listen to the music that he made. 
Fritz belonged to a great singing society, 
through which some of the Germans in 
New York kept in touch with the father- 
land, through its wonderful songs, that so 
gloriously express the soul of a great peo- 
ple. Its rehearsals he attended religiously. 
But when he came home, on those evenings, 
his first question was always the same: 
"Well, what did the violinist plav for you 

But there came a night when there was 
no music. And then — another. And then, 
two nights together, and a third. Fritz 
looked at Freda ; she at him. 

"I am going up," said Fritz. "I am 
afraid there is something wrong !" 

Something was very wrong indeed. Fritz 
went upstairs. He knocked at the door; 
there was no answer. Again he knocked, 
and heard a faint movement within. And 
now he entered. Lying on the bed, fully 
dressed, was the violinist — too weak to rise, 
though he made the effort. Fritz took in 
the situation with a single look. The room, 
indeed, spoke eloquently. 

"Come with me!" he said. 

He helped the Frenchman up, supported 
him to the door, and down the steps. And, 
once in his own apartment, he did what was 
necessary. Brandy, first; that gave 
strength. And then, hot soup, which gave 

The Treason, of Anatole 


more strength, and warmth, as well, to the 
chilled body. And then, after a time, and 
with gentle pretences, a real meal. So 
Anatole — and they were never to learn 
another name for him — ate his first meal, 
the first of many, with the Von Holms. 
It was the beginning of a friendship be- 
tween him and the German family. And 
after that he made his music for them 
again, but now he sat by their fireside to 
play, and begged them to tell him what it 
was that they most desired to hear. 

Gradually, they learned his story. The 
story of an artist, impractical, helpless in 
mundane affairs. The peer of any violinist 
in America, beyond doubt, save for the rare 
geniuses like Kreisler and Ysaye, Zim- 
balist and Kubelik, he could get no en- 
gagement with one of the great orchestras, 
since he did not belong to the musical 
union, and could not raise the almost pro- 
hibitive entrance fee. And his own music, 
for some reason, found no publisher. He 
had come to America with high hopes ; they 
gathered that he had chosen the new land 
that he might forget some great grief. And 
he had found — starvation. 

Fritz von Holm was a doer, though, 
being a German, he was a dreamer, too. He 

worked in a great mercantile house; he 
might have been supposed to be out of 
touch with the affairs of one like Anatole. 
But he proved that he was not. Herr 
Schmidt, proprietor of a famous restau- 
rant, had been with Fritz in the army; they 
had served their military period side by- 
side. Fritz told him of Anatole, brought 
him home to hear the Frenchman play. 
Schmidt heard and knew what he was hear- 
ing; he saw, too, the value of Anatole's 
romantic appearance. And he engaged 
him, at a salary that seemed, to Anatole. 
fabulous, to play nightly in his cabaret. 

Anatole became the rage. Fie played, 
sometimes, music of his own; a publisher 
heard him, and demanded manuscripts im- 
mediately. And so prosperity, fame, of a 
sort, fortune, of a very real sort, came to 
Anatole, bewildering him, mystifying him. 
And all, all, he owed to Fritz. 

"I am happy — almost — again, Fritz, my 
friend," said Anatole again and again. 
"And I owe it all to you." 

Fie came to live with the Yon Holms 
now. But about that there was almost a 
quarrel. Fritz had urged him to come, but 
when Anatole brought with him a portrait 
of Napoleon, Fritz balked. 

Anatole at his first meal, the first of many, with the Von Holms. 


Photoplay Magazine 

Now he sat by their fireside to play and begged them to tell him what it ivas they most 

desired to hear. 

"A picture of that — monster !" he cried. 

"Then I do not come!" said Anatole, 
bristling. "Were not you Ge,rnians re- 
venged in. 1870 for all he did?'' 

And Fritz gave in. His wall saw the in- 
congruity of a picture of the Corsican, the 
Little V Corporal, beside the newer por- 
trait of a man in Prussian uniform, his 
moustaches upturned, like Fritz's own — ■ 
Wilhelm the Second, Emperor of Germany 
and King of Prussia. And nightly, now, 
there was a little ceremony. On Monday 
Anatole, taking his place beneath Napo- 
leon's portrait, would play the Marseillaise. 
Then he would move a little, and, beneath 
the picture of the German Kaiser, he would 
play "Deutschland, Deutschland Ueber 
Alles," or "Die Wacht am Rheiu." And 
on Tuesday he would play the German an- 
them first, and then the French hymn. 

And so there was peace, and happiness. 
Until, like a bolt of lightning, leaping from 
a clear sky, came the fearful news of late 
July — the news of war. Once more France 
and Germany were at one another's throats. 
Fritz, without a moment's hesitation, ar- 
ranged his affairs. He reported to the 

German consul, and obtained his instruc- 
tions for reaching Germany and report- 
ing to his regiment. He was a reservist, 
a soldier of Germany still, even in this new 
land, and Freda, tears in her eyes, bade 
him go. proudly. Already her wedding 
ring had vanished, and in its place she wore 
a plain iron ring, inscribed with the legend 
of the war of liberation : "Gold for this 
iron I gave, in the hour of mv country's 
need !" 

So Fritz sailed, on the neutral Dutch 
liner, to disembark at Rotterdam, and make 
his way through Holland to Germany and 
the army that had lent him his life, and 
now claimed it again. And on the ship 
lie met Anatole — bound for Boulogne, de- 
termined, despite all the French consul 
in New York had done to discourage him, 
to force the army of France to take him 
back, though he was beyond the age limit. 

"So we are enemies !" said Fritz. 

"Never!" said Anatole. "You are my 
friend in life and death, in peace and war. 
Our countries may be at war — though only 
the good God knows why ! But you and I 
are friends, Fritz. Listen. I have earned 
much monev, thanks to you. And I have 

The Treason of Anatole 


spent but little. I left all with those who 
will see to it that Freda and the little 
ones lack nothing while you are gone, 
Fritz. I knew you would not let me do 
it, if you knew — and so I waited until you 
could not say no." 

Fritz had no words to thank him. He 
wrung his hand, instead, in silence. And 
he hoped that they would not let Anatole 
go to the front. But he did not know 
Anatole yet, for all their friendship. 

Anatole bade farewell to Fritz at 
Boulogne, and went ashore, carrying his 
head high. He was an old soldier, after 
all, was Anatole. He had seen service, too, 
during his term with the colors; service in 
Algeria, by his own request. It would be 
strange, he thought, if they would not let 
him fight now! He thrilled at the sight 
of marching men in uniform; as he made 
his way to Paris lie saw that France was a 
nation in arms, and rejoiced. 

Anatole presented himself, as soon as he 
reached Amiens, which was the depot of his 
old regiment, of the Second Army Corps, 
at the old caserne — the barracks — which he 
remembered so well from the days of his 
service with the colors. But they laughed. 

"You are too old, Monsieur," said an 
officer. "Your spirit — ah, that is admir- 
able ! But this time France is prepared. We 
shall not need to call upon our boys and 
our old men to beat back the Prussians 

Anatole pleaded, respectfully at first, 
furiously at last. 

"Come, then !" he said, his eyes flashing. 
"I am too old, eh? Sacred name of a green 
cat! Give me a foil, and I will fence with 
the best swordsman you have here! If I 
beat him — will that be proof enough that I 
am still fit to serve France?" 

It wouldn't have been possible, of course, 
in any other country. But this was France 
— the France that had done the impossible 
so often that to attempt it was the proper 
thing. Anatole had appealed to the senti- 
ment of those who barred him. They called 
for Jean Douay, who was the best swords- 
man in that army corps, if not in all 
France. So they said. And there, with the 
officers looking on Anatole fought for his 
right to fight for France. And won, too. 
In five minutes he had sent the other's foil 
flying. That was enough. He got his uni- 
form, his rifle, his equipment. 

Anatole became the rage, playing nightly in the cabaret. 


Photoplay Magazine 

Within a week he was oft" to the front, 
with his old regiment of the line. And 
he never lagged. He took his part in all 
the bloody fighting of the long retreat 
from Belgium that carried his army almost 
under the walls of Paris ; he won the cross 
of the legion of honor in the days of the 
battle of the Marne, when France, at bay, 
turned, and drove the Germans back. He 
was a good soldier. 

And Fritz von Holm, meanwhile, had 
joined his regiment, too. But he was 

the mass. But Fritz played his part, too. 
Once or twice he did emerge, briefly, from 
the mass. He picked up a wounded officer, 
for example, and carried him across a bul- 
let swept field — for which he received the 
Iron Cross. 

And this exploit won him recognition of 
another sort, too. There came a time, 
during the terrific fighting in the north of 
France, when it became of vital importance 
to secure certain information. And Fritz's 
company commander, who, as it chanced, 

Fritz was called before a council of officers and asked to do volunteer service as a spy. 

younger; he had no trouble in getting his 
place in the ranks. It was all in his little 
book ; he was late in reporting, but he had 
a good excuse for that, and his command- 
ing officer told him that many of those who 
had been in America had not been so 
lucky ; that they had not been able to return 
when the Fatherland needed them most. 

Fritz was a good soldier, too, though a 
soldier of an entirely different type from 
that which Anatole represented. The Ger- 
man army does not encourage the individ- 
ual soldier. He is not supposed to think 
overmuch for himself, but only to obey. 
The individual is strictly subordinated to 

knew a good deal concerning him, sug- 
gested that Fritz be invited to volunteer 
for the service. So he was called before a 
council of officers. 

They explained the peril that he must 
face. And the reward, they told him, 
would be as great as the peril. If he suc- 
ceeded, if he returned with the information, 
he would have, not only his Iron Cross, but 
a more precious decoration than that, the 
order "Pour la Merite," and, with it, a 
commission. He would become an officer. 

"I will go," said Fritz. "But not for 
the reward ; for Germany." 

And so Fritz, without his uniform, went 

The Treason of Anatole 


out from the German lines, and into French 
territory. He spoke French like a native; 
he worked carefully and swiftly, and in 
three days his task was finished. He had 
the information ; there remained only the 
task of winning his way back to his own 
army and giving his report. It seemed 
that that must be easy. And then, when 
success was within his grasp, and escape 
from his danger, chance struck at him. 
A man who had known him in New York, 
a waiter, indeed, who had often served him, 
recognized him and denounced him. He was 
seized ; incriminating papers were found 
upon him. That was in the early evening ; 
before the moon was up he had been tried, 
condemned, and sentenced to be shot at 

Fritz shrugged his shoulders. It was, 
after all, what he had risked with his eyes 
open. He thought, as he lay sleepless, of 
those who would wait in vain for him to re- 
turn; of Freda, and the tow-headed chil- 
dren. * * * At midnight his guard 
was changed. The new guard looked in ; a 
light fell on Fritz's face. 

"Fritz — my friend !" 

It was Anatole who was to guard him 
in his last hours of life! 

"It is the fortune of war, Anatole, old 
friend," said Fritz. "I am glad that you 
are here. You can write to Freda for me. 
I was afraid that she would never know 
what had happened. Do not concern your- 
self, Anatole. I knew the risk I ran. I 
am willing to die." 

"Tell me! what is it?" he said. 

And Fritz told him ; there was no reason, 
now, why he should not. When he had 
done Anatole held the door open. 

"Go!" he said. "The way is clear. You 
can escape. The word is — " 

He gave the countersign of the night. 

"Go? And leave you here, to suffer for 
my escape? Not I!" Said Fritz. 

"Go!" repeated Anatole. "Think of 
Freda, and the little ones. Go for their 

"They would not have me back if they 
knew the price that you must pay, Anatole." 

"But — I am an old man. My life is 
worthless. No one depends on me." 

They argued. But in vain did Anatole 
seek to shake Fritz's determination. Until, 
at last, he made his final effort. 

"Go, then!" he said. "For the sake of 
the Germany that you love and the Kaiser 
you revere! You know that which would 
help them. Can you refuse — for their 

And to that plea, shamefacedly, with 
hanging head, Fritz did respond. And so 
Anatole became a traitor. They found 
him, in the morning, his prisoner gone. He 
was arraigned before a court-martial within 
the hour. He confessed. He did more. 
He told what Fritz had learned of the 
French plans, that these might be altered, 
and so prevent any gain to the Germans as 
a result of the information. So, knowing 
what his own fate must, none the less, be, 
he made atonement for his treason. 

It was he, not Fritz, who faced the 
firing squad. 


'"THOMAS H. INCE, the noted motion picture producer, comes from good 
■*• old Scotch stock, his forebears having migrated to America from the 
heather several generations ago. With that instinct born of Scotch descent 
Ince dearly loves a story and will walk a mile out of his way to listen to any 
new one from the land of haggis and "Scotch." 

"A British steamer," he said, "in the Oriental trade stopped at a port in 
Scotland and two Highlanders in full national regalia, friends of the captain, 
came aboard on a visit. They were met by the Chinese cook, who was mak- 
ing his first voyage abroad and obviously was much impressed by the visitors. 
Going below he announced to the skipper : 

" 'Scuse me, sir, two piecy missus come topside deck makee call." 

Norma Talmadge- 
the Adorable 

By Elsie Vance 

Four years ago 
Norma Tahnadge 
was attending a 
high school in 
Brooklyn, noiv she 
is being featured 
by the biggest film 
company in the 

IT MAY have been the eyelashes — which are the longest 
you ever saw — or the dimples — which are the deepest 
you ever laid your eyes on — or the sparkling brown 
eyes, or the rebellious brown curls, or the pink cheeks ; 
or, it may have been all of these things. At any rate, when 
Norma Talmadge applied for a "job" at 
the Vitagraph studio without an introduc- 
tion of any sort, Mr. Spedon singled her 
out from about sixty other girls and gave 
her a chance to tell him what she thought 
she could do. 

"In my eagerness to make an impression 
on him," Miss Talmadge said, "I leaned way over 
the railing that separated Mr. Spedon from me 
once, I nearly lost my balance) and I talked 
for half an hour straight, but I can't remember 
now what I said except that he gave me a 

This was four years ago, and 
madge was born in 1895, so you can figure 
out for yourself just how old, or 
perhaps one might better say just In" John Ranee, 
how young she was when she got ^wpwas'"" 
her first "job." She was just a Perfect and her 

. J •> . acting was well 

school girl attending a nigh nigh perfect.too. 
school in Brooklyn, and spend- 
ing part of her time with half a dozen other 
girls of her age in a stuffy little motion picture 
theatre adoring "the girl with the 
eyes and the man with the 
dimples" (Florence 
Turner and Mau- 
rice Costello). 
"It all 
looked so 
easy," she 
confided to 

A handsomer pair 
of lovers than Norma 
Talmadge and 
Antonio Moreno 33; 
never appeared 
on the 


Norma Talmadge — the Adorable 


Her eyelashes are surely 
the longest you ever 
saw and tier dim- 
ples the 
you ever laid 

arched feet clad in street shoes of grey suede 

and grey silk stockings. Bear in mind that 

this was the costume of the leading lady 

for the Vitagraph play and that in 

the finished picture it would look 

quite perfect, and you will see how 

little illusion there is when a 

picture is being taken. 

I had entered the studio 
during the rehearsal of a draw- 
ing-room scene. A group of 
about seventy-five people were 
gathered in the drawing-room 
listening to a musical. French 
windows open at the back, 
gave one a glimpse of a con- 
servatory and of handsome An- 
tonio Moreno making love to 
Norma Talmadge. It looked very 
pretty, but as I skirted the side of 

m e 1m 


"that I made up 

my mind that 1 could do it too, and I 

never. gave my mother any peace until 

she let me apply at the Vitagraph studio 

to see whether they'd take me on. Of 

course, now I know that it isn't easy at 

all and perhaps my mother knew that 

too, and just let me try because she was 

so sure that nothing would come of it. 

But at any rate, I did trv, and here 

I am." 

And there she was, looking utterly 
adorable and utterly ab- ,. , 

' , , More and more 

surd. Her delicate skm 
was covered with a thick 
coat of paint ; her long 
upcurled eyelashes were 
heavily beaded, and her 
lips were outlined with vermilion, and 
the sunlight that streamed through the 
glass sides and roof of the great studio 
mercilessly revealed all of the "make- 
up," but it could discover not a wrinkle 
on the smooth forehead, not a mark 
about the eyes, not a blemish on the 
smooth skin. In spite of the "make-up" 
Norma Talmadge was the prettiest 
thing you ever saw. She wore a dancing 
frock with a bodice of apple-green vel- 
vet cut very low and sleeveless and held 
in place by crystal bands over the shoul- 
ders. The skirt was of pink satin, 
rather short, and "slit," revealing high 

Miss Talmadge is 
playing parts in 
which she has a 
chance to demon- 
strate her genuine 
talent for emo- 
tional acting. 


Photoplay Magazine 

the set and came out at the back, I dis- 
covered that the marble bench on which 
the lovers were seated was of painted 
wood; that the French windows were bare 
frames without any glass in them, and that 
there was no conservatory there at all, 
merely a group of dusty palms. 

Miss Talmadge came toward me holding 
out her hands in the friendliest fashion, 
but I discovered from the fact that she bit 
her lip and twisted her fingers that she 
was just as shy as though she were still a 
school girl. 

"Since we have so short a time before 
you go back into the scene," I began, "the 
only thing for you to do is to talk every 

"What about?" she asked. 

"Oh, tell about how you live outside of 
the studio," I suggested. 

"Well, there isn't very much to tell. My 
mother and my sisters and I have an apart- 
ment not very far away from the studio. 
We don't really keep house, but Ave have 
our breakfasts there. Then I usually have 
luncheon here at the studio with my fifteen- 
year-old sister, Constance, and then in the 
evening, we all go down to Mrs. Zimmer's 
for dinner. 'We' means most of the people 
here in the company. We call Mrs. Zim- 
mer's 'The Club' and if we are not going 
to the theatre or going to dance or any- 
thing like that, we stick around there all 
evening. In the summer time when work 
is over, we usually all go down to Rock- 

away and go in swimming. I can swim 
five feet now without calling for help. 
And then, we all go riding a lot. Every- 
one in the company has his own horse to 
be used in the pictures and they let us ride 
them outside of hours. You can see how 
nice that is. We can go galloping across 
country any time we feel like it — most of 
us adore it." 

The director signaled and Miss Tal- 
madge held out her hand. 

"You see, I have got to go back now. If 
you can stay until the scene is finished, I'll 
be glad to talk to you some more. I'm 
afraid that I've not been very interesting." 

I should like to have stayed — but the 
studio was intolerably hot and dusty and 
the rehearsal of the scene with its crowd 
of extras seemed to me unutterably tedious, 
so I pocketed my note-book and prepared 
to leave. As I skirted the crowd of spec- 
tators and stage-hands and property men 
and directors at the front end of the studio 
(at least I suppose that is what the group 
was made up of) Miss Talmadge caught 
sight of me. Evidently it was not a crucial 
moment in the scene, for since she could 
barely see me over the heads of the people 
between us, she jumped up on the garden 
bench and waved her hand to me and 

What a slender, vivid figure she made 
against the background of dusty palms — 
and how utterly absurd and yet how utterly 
adorable ! 


/"\NE of the most striking demonstrations ever shown a popular favorite 
^^ was the gift sent to Mary Pickford recently from Sidney, Australia, an 
immense silver loving-cup and a big album of autographs from her Australian 
admirers. Miss Pickford was rehearsing a scene from "Cinderella," when 
the representative of "Little Mary's" admiring public of Australia arrived 
at the Famous Players studio. Daniel Frohman, who was directing, stepped 
upon the stage and stopped the scene while he ushered in the bearers of the 
loving cup. The speech of presentation brought smiles and tears, but when 
it was over, Mary turned, her face alight with happiness, and said : 

"Through you, I thank Australia for making me the happiest girl in 

A motion picture was taken of the presentation of the loving cup and 
album and this will be sent to Sidney so that the donors can see just how 
"Little Mary" looked when she received them. 

On Desert Sands 



By Bruce Westfall 

Illustrations from the Big U Film. 

FOR several days Cactus had been puzzled 
about a stranger who had reached town 
by stage and had. since his arrival, been 
doing nothing in explanation of his 
presence. Cactus accounted itself a civilized and 
progressive community. In effect, it was. A 
fort, some miles distant, and still maintained 
by the War Department because the Senator 
from the state was also Chairman of the Com- 
mittee on Military Affairs, bore witness to the 
fact that civilization had advanced in Cactus ; 
it was not so many years since that fort had 
>een something more than an ornament and a 
means of bringing public expenditures to the 
district. In those days troops had sallied out 
more than once to protect what was then the 
frontier from Indian raids. 

But now that was past. Cactus still had 
its wild times, but it was drunken cowboys 
and bad men (these last very occasional 
phenomena) who supplied them. There 
was still more life of the primitive, ele- 
mental sort in Cactus than in New 
York, say, or Dedham, Massachu- 
setts. But it was sporadic, and 
it lacked the picturesque char- 
acter of the West of Frederick 
Remington and the paper cov- 
ered chronicles of Buffalo Bill. 
So Cactus, when it finally 
learned the truth concerning the 
mysterious visitor was a little 
shamed. No need to make a 
mystery of it here ; this visitor 
was a distinguished novelist. A 
really distinguished one. I 
mean ; not one of the sort of 
whom tales of wild adventure 
are written. It will be a suf- 
ficient tribute to him to say 
that he was almost as well 
known in Cactus as in Bos- 
ton, and in both places re- 



Photoplay Magazine 

spected because he was a real writer. Cac- 
tus felt that lie must have come in search of 
literary material, and delegations of the 
leading citizens began to apologize for their 
town, seeking the novelist out for the pur- 

"You see," said Bill Redding, who kept 
the store, "things ain't the way they used 
to was. Now, if you'd come along before 
they cleaned up Crazy Cow's outfit, we 
could hev shown you sumthin'. That was 
a real honest to Gawd fight, that was — the 
wust since Custer got chewed up. That 
was the time when Cameo Clark showed the 
sojers how to get aroun' in the rear of the 
Injuns. But, nowadays shucks, we don't 
have no times like that no more." 

"It's awfully good of you to want to 
arrange an Indian war for me, you know," 
said the novelist, with a smile. "But I 
wouldn't have you take all that trouble for 
the world. It's not what I'm after at all. 
In fact. I don't know that I'm after any- 
thing. But I can assure you that I'm get- 
ting more than I hoped for. It's people 
I study, my friend, not battle, and murder, 
and sudden death." 

Bill Redding chewed that over for a 

"Jest the same," he said, "I reckon you 
can learn a sight about folks from the way 
they act when battle and murder and sud- 
den death come along, unexpected like — 
which is the way they used to come, 
regular, around these parts." 

"That's as true as it can be," said the 
novelist. "Now, if something would hap- 
pen to stir up this Cameo Clark you tell me 
of — or if I could even get him talk- 

"I dunno about that," said Redding. 
"He might start — and he might not. He's 
a queer sort, is Cameo. Still — you might 
try. Here he is. now. Oh, Cameo!" 

He addressed a tall man, riding by just 
then on a horse that was well above the 
average of the range. This man had about 
him a certain distinction that amounted 
almost to foppishness, yet lost that note 
when his face was considered. His clothes 
were unconventional ; a Mexican might 
have worn such things, but very few Anglo- 
Saxons. Yet on Clark they seemed appro- 
priate. Perhaps it was a touch of silver 

So K Troop rode out and we went hunting for those Indians. 

On Desert Sands 








^^B s i « 

■ * ' i. 

l£ . I 




"S/ie /vas Me trustingest little mite—snuggled right into my arms first thing. ' 

in his hair ; perhaps the extraordinary deli- 
cacy and fineness of his features. What- 
ever the reason, he was a fine figure of a 
man. as he rode ; it was easy to see whence 
rame his name of Cameo. 

He stopped and dismounted, coming up 
courteously, courteously acknowledging 
Redding's introduction. His face lighted 
up when he learned the stranger's name. 

. "I've read your hooks, suh." he said, with 
the faintest of Southern drawls in his 
voice. "But 1 never expected to have the 
pleasure of meeting you." 

"Tell him about this country, Cameo," 
urged Redding.' "Cosh — you know more 
about it than it does itself I Nineteen, 
wasn't you. when you began scouting for 
the government? See if you can't sort o' 
make those old times trot out — an' maybe 
we'll get into a book yet." 

Both Cameo and the novelist laughed at 
•Redding's departing back. But then the 
novelist grew more serious. 

"I wish you would, you know." he said. 
"Not for a book — but just for me. You 
say you've read my books. I've told you 
stories, then. Tell me one!" 

"But those I know aren't finished." pro- 
tested Cameo, a litttle dubiously. "I only 
know so much — " 

"Ah!" said the novelist. "You see that. 
do you? We have to finish our stories, we 
people who write. Nature so seldom dois ! 
That's what makes story telling an art. T 
suppose. Give me one that's unfinished. 
And perhaps I'll try to finish it. for you." 

"If that's a bargain !" said Cameo, sud- 
denly alert. "Is it, suh?" 

"If you like," agreed the novelist. "Now 
I'm interested!" 

"Well — I have seen queer things," 
Cameo began. "Puzzling things. I've 
wondered why folks do some things they 
do. But I'll tell you about the most puz- 
zling thing of all I ever was mixed in — 
just because I've tried to work it out so 
many times — to finish the story, if you like 
to put it that way. I'd like to see how it 
strikes you." 

"I'll light my pipe," said the novelist. 

"This thing began when I was first 
scouting for the government," said Cameo, 
then. "In those days, as you know, suh, I 
take it, men like me, who knew these plains 


Photoplay Magazine 

"He beat her— for which I've beaten him." 

pretty well, and something of the ways of 
the Indians, were attached to all the posts. 
This was mine. And one day we got an 
alarm about raiding Indians, over toward 
the mountains there." 

He pointed with his hand toward a 
distant range. 

"That was fine country for them, you 
see. Good water, lots of shelter ; it suited 
them first rate. So Troop K rode out, and 
I with it. And we went hunting for those 
Indians. But they'd fooled us. Either 
they got around behind us, or they'd never 
been where we went looking for them at 
all. They raised a lot of hell right about 
here, where Custer is now ; massacred up 
some families, burned a goodish few ranch 
houses, and all that. And they wound up 
by giving the troop a nasty fight. A lot of 
the boys were hurt, and I rode through to 
the fort to get them to send up reenforce- 
ments in the way of hospital supplies and 
ambulances, the fighting being pretty well 

"I got through easily enough, and, 
when it was done, I rode back toward my 
own place to see what was left of it. And, 
on the way, along the trail, I raised a lit- 
tle disturbance. That's the proper start of 
this unfinished story of mine. The first 
thing I saw was a smoke where there 

shouldn't have been one. That made me 
cautious, and I spotted it, before long, as 
a wagon, burning up. There were only 
two of them, a couple of stray bucks we 
hadn't rounded up. I knew I was too 
late to help the people who belonged to 
that wagon, but I got the two Indians, 
by way of punishment. And what do you 
suppose I found, there by that wagon?" 

The novelist only smiled. He had asked 
just such rhetorical questions himself too 
often to be trapped into an attempt to an- 

"A little girl child !" said Cameo. "Yes, 
sir — a girl not more than five years old! 
And she was the trustingest little mite 
— snuggled right up into my arms. 
Scared? Yes, some. That was natural, of 
course. But it wasn't enough to hurt her 
any. I picked her up; and off we rode, 
with her in my arms, and we hadn't gone a 
mile before she'd forgotten all about that 
wagon, and the dead people, and couldn't 
tli ink of anything but where we were go- 

"Well, I suppose folks would say that 
was strange enough. But it wasn't so 
awful strange — for those days. Lots of 
things like that happened, in those times, 
before the railroads were running Pull- 
mans across the continent. What was 
strange was this. I made camp that night 
with that kid. And in the morning, while 
I was getting breakfast, she sort of wan- 
dered around, picking wild flowers. And, 
sir, she plumb disappeared ! Vanished — 
just as if she'd melted into air ! I searched 
.for her all that day. And for clays after- 
ward I searched. Days? I searched for 
years! I'll get the fit on me even now, 
fifteen years after it happened, and go for 
another look. Because, if she died, some 
way, or was killed, there should have been 
some trace." 

"And that's the end of your story?" 
asked the novelist. 

"That's the end," said Cameo. "Now 
that's what I call a really queer thing. 
Perhaps you won't see how queer it reallv 
was, suh. Perhaps you won't understand 
what a strange awesome thing it was to 
have even as little a body as that vanish in 
a country like that. It wouldn't have 
seemed queer in a city, full of streets and 
houses. But out here !" 

"What do the others here say about it?" 

"They haven't had a chance to say any- 

On Desert Sands 


thing, suh. Because I never told them 
about it. That'll show you how queer it 
was. These folk know me. But they'd 
never have believed that yarn, suh !" 

"Your story's more than unfinished, mv 
friend," said the novelist. "It isn't even 
begun !" 

"I won't hold you to that promise about 
finishing the story," said Cameo, with a 
smile. "You haven't got the data you need, 
suh. But it was queer." 

The novelist admitted it, and, after a 
little more talk, Cameo rose and went about 
his business. But the novelist was to see 
him again — and that night. It was in 
Morgan's place— splendidly named the 
Cactus Waldorf- Palace, where one could 
get drinks of all sorts, and, if one han- 
kered for it, action for one's money in all 
the recognized games of chance from poker 
and seven up to faro and roulette. 

Cameo was playing, very idly, at a faro 
layout, risking little, and not really gam- 
bling, but playing for amusement. The 
novelist, his eyes half closed, sat against 
the wall, watching the gamblers with an 
absorbed and tremendous interest. Here 

he was seeing what he had come to Cac- 
tus to seek — human nature in the raw. 
There were men of all sorts in that room. 
Cowboys, sheepman, flea bitten, hard-faced 
veterans of plains and mines, Mexicans, one 
or two white faced, soft-handed men who 
might have stepped from the pages of Bret 
Harte or from the green room of a Belasco 
melodrama. There were good losers, bad 
losers ; men who hid any emotion they felt 
behind a mask of imperturbability. 

And one man the novelist had selected as 
unique, even in that company. This was a 
big blond beast — no other words describe 
him. Unmistakably of a Scandinavian 
type, he was a degenerate of a great breed, 
brutal, besotted. Cameo, coming over to 
greet the novelist, desisted from his idle 

"Who is that man?" asked the novelist, 
nodding toward the Scandinavian, playing 
poker, ineptly, with three Mexicans, and 
one of the white faced professional gam- 

"I don't know," said Cameo. "Stranger 
here. Comes from the mountains — a pros- 
pector, I suppose. He's been around — he's 

For a moment, when the cheating was discovered, there was a furious fight. 

Photoplay Magazine 

pretty drunk now. Says he hasn't seen a 
town before in ten years. Did you see 
a wagon outside, with a girl in it, half 


"His daughter! Pleasant for her, isn't 

"His daughter? Incredible!" said the 
novelist. "I never saw such a brute ! He's 
impossible ! There never really was a man 
so besotted, so utterly like a beast — " 

"He's pretty bad," said Cameo. Then, 
suddenly, he straightened up. Eyes from 
all around the room were turning toward 
the table where the big man was playing. 
-Some sort of altercation had arisen there. 
And in a moment all the room knew what 
it was. The Scandinavian — some one said 
he had called himself Olaf — had lost all 
his money. He wanted to keep on play- 
ing, on credit, on borrowed money — any- 
way. Tbe others refused. Suddenly he 
dragged the nearest Mexican to the door. 

"You see that girl?" he said. "I bane 
play you for her!" 

While the novelist, seeing raw life at 
last, gaped his wonder, the monstrous thing 
was arranged. Grinning, the Mexican 
agreed. The cards were dealt by a third 
party — it was to be a single hand. Stakes 
were arranged — a hundred dollars against 
the girl ! 

"But — a thing like that's not possible! 
You can't mean to allow it!" cried the 

"Hold on— no one can interfere vet." 
said Cameo. "Wait !" 

The hand was dealt. And Olaf lost. 
The Mexican leered. 

"I'll go get my girl !" he said, showing 
his teeth. 

Then Cameo Clark was between him 
and the door. 

"Just a minute, Pedro," he said. "I'll 
play you — five hundred dollars against the 
girl. Agreed?" 

The Mexican hesitated. He stole a 
quick glance — the novelist, rapidly learn- 
ing this strange life, wondered if Cameo 
saw it — at the white-faced gambler with the 
smooth, prehensile fingers. Then he 
agreed. Once more the cards were dealt. 
They were shown down : Cameo's, seem- 
ingly by deliberate intention, first. He 
held a pair of kings. And then, with the 
swiftness of light, his hand shot out, and 
he forced the Mexican's cards down on the 

And so the story had a happy ending. 

table — two tens, an ace, two smaller cards 
— and, falling from his sleeve a second 

For a moment there was a furious fight. 
But the cheating had been plain ; the town 
of Cactus could back Cameo without, the 
abhorred interference in a personal quarrel. 
The girl was his. And before he took her 
he spoke to the novelist. 

"Seems to be my destiny to rescue girl 
children, don't it?" he said, dryly. "Won- 
der if this one will vanish, too? But it's 
different." . 

"What are you going to do with her?" 
asked the novelist. 

"Take her to my motber," said Cameo, 
simply. "She's an old, old lady — but she's 
the one for this case." 

And take her he did. The novelist 
thought he had seen the last of Cameo 
Clark. But he had not. A sudden ill- 
ness laid him low ; when he was well 
enough to move, Cameo was waiting. 

"I've got a wagon that'll be easy for you. 
suh," he said. "And a place where you'll 
get back vour strength. And — something 
else !" 

"What?" asked the novelist. "I'm com- 
ing — but what else is it?" 

"A chance to finish that story!" pro- 

On Desert Sands 


claimed Cameo. He would say no more 
until they started. Then he explained. 
"That girl— that girl of Olaf's!" he 

■ cried out. "It was the child I saved from 
those Indians ! Do you know what she did ? 
She wandered away — and ran across Olaf's 
wagon. He was drunk; he didn't see her. 
She crept in, and he drove her off into the 
mountains. He kept her ; 1 suppose he 
didn't know what else to do. She says he 
beat her — for which I've beaten him! And 
now — well, now the story's being finished." 
And at Cameo's home the novelist 
learned how it was being finished. For he 
had not been there three days before he 
saw what had happened. The girl was a 
beauty, nothing less ; she had blossomed 
out in a place where love and kindness were 

*her portion, instead of the brutality of 
so many weary years. Cameo was in love 
with her; in a very agony of love. And 

he was ready to renounce all claim to her, 
for there was another, a young Manning. 

"You see the end of the story now, suh, 
don't you?" asked Cameo, after a few 
days. "I'm an old fool. But I can stand 
aside. She'll marry Manning." 

"Perhaps she will," said the novelist. 
"If — she makes up her mind that you don't 
want her! Man — you're not old — though 
you are a fool ! Take her — that's the end of 
the story !" 

"You — don't mean that," said Cameo, 
slowly, distinctly. "You're trying to cheer 
me up, suh — " 

"Ask her — give her a chance," urged the 

And that was what Cameo did. He took 
the word of the man whose business it was 
to read hearts and knew how stories should 

And so the story had a happy ending ! 


"\Y7HO is there outside a motion picture studio who has heard of the "cast 
™ director?" And yet, all the largest motion picture companies employ 
a man in such a capacity, a man who is a specialist in selecting suitable 
people to fill the endless roles in a big company's output of picture plays. 
He has to be a great student of human nature ; he has to interview from ten 
to a hundred people a day ; he has to decide whether or not there is a chance 
for them in a picture and then he has to tell them about it. He is an abso- 
lute autocrat. If he says he'll use an extra man, he gets the job. If not, 
there is no chance whatever for him. 

Of course, it is not alia matter of selecting new people. A cast director 
comes to know a thousand actors and to know just what part each of them 
may be called on to play successfully. 

It's up to him to cast, except for the leads, every picture produced 
by his company. He must know who would be best as the winsome ingenue, 
who as the weak sister, the strong brother, the erring husband, the foolish 
wife, who is the best looking society girl ; he must know whose face will 
bring the tears, the heart-throbs, the thrill ; he must know what man can 
make up to look more like a genuine gunman than "Gyp the Blood" ever 
did. When he does good work, there is seldom an appreciative word ; when 
be makes a mistake, well — he "gets everything in the deck from the ace to 
the ten-spot." But it is seldom known outside the studio what an important 
part he plays in the making of a picture. His hand is seen on the screen 
but never recognized. 

Truly, his would seem to be a hard life. And yet he knows what he 
accomplishes, and he likes it. 


The Original 
Prince of Pilsen 


By Jane Bryce 

As he appeared in 
his own play "The 
Power of Music," 
which ran for three 
years in Sweden 


UTA >* 

In the season of 1903-4, Arthur Donaldson created 

the role in "The Prince of Pilsen, " and played that 

role for four consecutive seasons 

VERYONE has pleasant recol- 
lections of "The Prince of 
Pilseiv' and the merry folk 
who made it a delight, and 
everyone would probably be interested 
to learn something of the creator of the 
title role, the man who sang it 1,345 nights 
in succession. 

His name is Arthur Donaldson and when, 

V in his attractive home, surrounded everywhere 

I by an air of quiet domesticity, he grew confi- 

f dential, you may be sure that I grew interested. 

Briefly, his story went thus : 

Born in Sweden, he developed, as a very 

small boy, unusual talent for mimicry, and 

when only seven years of age, he made his first 

appearance in a play called "Uncle Brown's 

Leather Couch," produced at the Stora Theatre, 

in Norr Koping, Sweden. His first American 

appearance was made with a Swedish company 

in 1890. Finally his magnificent baritone voice 

attracted the attention of certain managers, with 

the result that he was engaged by the Duff 

Opera Company, and subsequently, with the 

famous Emma Thursby, in concert tours under the 

management of Maj. J. B. Pound. In 1893, he 


The Original "Prince of Pilsen" 


organized a Swedish Stock Company, in 
Brooklyn, N. Y., to play at the old 
Athenaem, and the following season he 
brought this company to Chicago. In 
1896-97, Mr. Donaldson was engaged to 
sing the title role in "Rob Roy." 

"And that was a very lucky engagement 
for me," he said, his eyes lighting as he 
looked across the room to where stood his 
wife. She is a lovely woman, this Mrs. 
Arthur Donaldson, formerly Florence 
Walcott, a famous prima donna with the 
Aborn Grand Opera Company, and with 
the Metropolitan. 

"It was during this engagement that I 
met my wife, then Miss Florence Walcott, 
who was singing the role of 'Maid 
Marian.' Afterwards," (and here the "I" 
died, "we" began) "we were engaged by 
the Tivoli Opera Company, in San Fran- 
cisco, where we had a very successful sea- 

son. In the season of 1903-04, I created 
the title role in 'The Prince of Pilsen,' and 
played that role for four consecutive sea- 
sons, giving 1,345 performances in Lon- 
don and America." 

Now for his picture work. 

"First, in 1911, with the Kalem Com- 
pany, I worked under the direction of Mr. 
Sidney Olcott. After leaving the Kalem 
Company. I went back to my native coun- 
try, where I produced my own photo- 
plays for the Swedish Biograph Company. 
On my return to America, I played for 
Pathe and Kalem, my last appearance 
with Kalem being as Marquis de Mont- 
calm, in 'The Conquest of Quebec,' pro- 
duced by Mr. Kenean Buel. Since then, I 
have played with the Olcott Feature Play- 
ers, under the direction of Sidney Olcott, 
and am now to work in a fifteen-reel serial 
for Mutual, to follow 'Our Mutual Girl.' " 


At the Movies 

This is the title of a page that begins in the March issue 
of Photoplay Magazine. 

Where millions of people — men, women, and children, 
gather daily, many amusing and interesting things are bound 
to happen. 

We want our readers to contribute to this page. A 
prize of $5.00 will be given for the best story each month, 
and one dollar for every one printed. 

The stories must not be longer than 100 words and must 
be written on only one side of the paper. Be sure to put 
your name and address on your contribution. 

Think of the funniest thing you have ever heard at the 
movies and send it in. You may win the five dollar prize. 

Score of Prizes for Readers Every Month 




$1,000 REWARD! 

to anyone who can look at this picture of 

Roscoe Arbuckle 

(the heavyweight comedian of the Key- 
stone Company) and retain his grouch 


The Scorpion's Stin, 

By Richard Dale 

Illustrations from the Kalem Film. 

This is an unfinished story. Not since Frank R. Stockton wrote "The Lady or 
the Tiger?" has so absorbing a problem been presented as the one raised in this photo- 
play by C. Doty Hobart. How do you think this story ends? The National Board of 
Censorship wants to know. So do we. The best endings (not more than 150 words in 
length) will be published over the writer's name. Send your solutions in to "Unfinished 
Story Editor, Photoplay Magazine." 

HORACE MARSTON was a just 
man. He could justify every ac- 
tion of his life. To his dead wife 
he had meted out a justice that, in 
the end, had killed her. Yet had anyone 
told him this he would have looked at them 
in a scornful amazement. To him it meant 
nothing, less than nothing, that she had 
never, from the day of their marriage, been 
able to call her soul her own. To him the 
word "obey," in the marriage service, was 
not an empty, meaningless form. He ex- 
acted obedience from his wife ; he exacted 
it, too, from his daughter. He clothed this 
girl, and fed her ; at his discretion she en- 
joyed luxuries. What more could she 
demand ? 

The principle of an exact and even jus- 
tice, as he saw it, ruled Horace Marston's 
life. He neither asked for nor granted 
favors of any sort. He was prepared to 
make an exact and balanced return for 
everything he got ; he exacted a similar re- 
turn for everything he gave. The principle 
of Shylock was his ; what was in the letter 
of the bond he would perform. He de- 
manded his pound of flesh ; he might have 
used Shylock's words to the court in exten- 
uation, had he ever read them. Had Lyda 
Marston, his daughter, been a Portia, she 
might have conquered him. But she was 
not. Portia, it may be remembered, was a 
new woman : a pre-Pankhurstian feminist. 
Like many of Shakespeare's characters, she 
was a lady well ahead of her time. But — 
she was the product, as Shakespeare very 
well understood that she must be, of pecu- 
liar circumstances. By virtue of her 
w r ealth, inherited, it may be presumed, from 
a careless father, who had not thought of 
imposing upon her the restrictions that, in 

those days, it was supposed to be desirable 
to impose upon a woman of means, she was 
independent. Lyda was not. 

Lyda was not even a feminist. Perhaps 
she would have been one. The surge of 
that movement, that is making women who 
don't know the meaning of the word, inde- 
pendent, in a great measure, and ending 
the age long tyranny of men — men, who, 
in nine cases out of ten, didn't mean to be 
tyrants, didn't know they were tyrants, and, 
when they were tyrants, were so just be- 
cause it was the conventional thing for 
them to be, had touched her, of course. 
But Horace Marston was an effective bar 
to her self-expression. She never had 
money enough. She was lucky if she had 
carfare. But she had her charge accounts, 
of course, in all the stores : subject to the 
auditing of the monthly bills, she could 
buy what she liked. 

This story really begins with the flaming 
of a fierce quarrel between Horace Marston 
and his daughter. Lyda had asked him for 
her mother's engagement ring — and he had 
refused to give it to her. 

"I do not approve of the wearing of 
elaborate jewelry by a young girl," he said. 
"You have all you need." 

"But what are you going to do with it?" 
she asked. "What good is it locked up in 
your safe?" 

"I have thought of that," he said, with 
a frown. "It is no good. It represents a 
tying up of just so much capital. I think 
I shall dispose of these jewels. Later, 
when you are older, I shall provide appro- 
priate jewels for you, of course." 

The stark brutality of that didn't pene- 
trate his mind at all. Her frantic plea 
that he should at least keep these things 



Photoplay Magazine 

He threw off the thing that oppressed him, and for a time they were busy just in being happy. 

The Scorpion's Sting 


for her left him unmoved; an appeal to 
sentiment, which he did not possess, always 
did. He was cold about it ; dispassionate. 
He could justify his decision to himself. 
That was all that was necessary. He 
crushed her final attempt to argue. 

"Go to bed," he said. What could she 
do but go? 

He had business matters to decide before 
he followed her. He stayed in his library ; 
left it, for a few minutes, to return, not 
having locked his safe. And when he re- 
turned he saw at once that a man was at 
the safe; a man who was working busily 
at the inner compartment. And Marston 
knew the man. The lighting up of his 
eyes showed that. His revolver was out in 
a moment. 

"Good evening," he said, icily. 

"Well — what are you going to do?" 
asked the man. "Damn you — you've driven 
me to this ! If I could prove — " 

"You're mistaken," said Marston, easily. 
"No one could make you a thief except 
yourself. You entered into a contract with 
me; you could not keep it, and I exacted 
the penalty. Now you are trying to re- 
cover that by extra legal means. That's 
the idea, is it not?" 

He was still fingering his revolver, and 
smiling coldly. The man by the safe did 
not reply. 

"I will tell you what I am going to do," 
said Marston. "You would tell the story 
of our relations if you were arrested, I sup- 
pose ? You would win some sympathy from 
a sentimental public — and I should be at- 
tacked, as usual. A jury might even acquit 
you. Well — I do not care for that pros- 
pect. So — I find you, a burglar, a beast of 
prey. I shoot you — so — " 

On the word, he fired. But the man by 
the safe jumped ; the bullet went wide of 
its mark. He fired, too; his bullet shat- 
tered the lights in the centre of the room. 
Marston fired again ; the thief gave a sharp 
cry, and his revolver spoke. Marston crum- 
pled up, and lay still ; in a moment he was 
alone in the room. 

It was there that Lyda found him. She 
had heard the shots; she went straight to 
the room. The butler had heard the shots, 
too; he followed his own instinct, which 
was to get a policeman. And so it was 
that the butler, coming, with Officer Dono- 
van, of the police department, found Lyda 
bending over her father's body. 

They arrested Lyda! Donovan thought 
she was too cold, too little shocked by the 
tragedy. He didn't see grief in her eyes, 
in her bearing. And so she was brought 
to trial. 

There was no case against her, of course. 
It collapsed in a- score of places. There 
had been four shots ; the revolver they had 
found beside her had only been fired twice. 
There were obvious traces of burglary. It 
couldn't seriously be argued that Lyda had 
stolen the things that were missing; jewels, 
chiefly, since the money had not been 
reached. And, too. there was a good deal 
of doubt as to whether there had really 
been a murder. Horace Marston, certainly, 
had not been shot to death. He had been 
wounded, but the wound was a compara- 
tively trifling matter. His heart had killed 
him ; a heart that was diseased and unable 
to endure such a shock. 

There could be only one outcome to such 
a trial. Lyda appealed to the jury; her 
acquittal was certain from the start. And 
with her acquittal her new life, and her 
real life, began. 

Lyda felt more grief for her father, 
probably, than he deserved. Death wipes 
out the memory of many things; the nat- 
ural tug at her affections, and the vastly 
more important fact that she did not realize 
at all how badly he had treated her, were 
also factors. And yet it was not the same 
poignant sort of grief she had felt after her 
mother's death. It couldn't be. She got 
away, as soon after her trial as she could, 
from her house. 

Horace Marston was like Portia's father. 
He hadn't made a will. And so all the 
money and the property went to Lyda, 
without restrictions of any sort. He would 
have made a very pretty will had he not 
been one of those men who think that death 
is something that is never going to touch 
them. He would have tied up that money 
of his, so that his sense of justice would 
have gone on being a malevolent, ignoble 
force long after he himself was in his 
grave. But lie didn't — and so Lyda could 
go and bury herself in the country. 

She bought a little house, and she went 
there, all alone, and lived. Really lived. 
She read all the books her father had never 
allowed her to buy. And she straightened 
. out a number of things, not at all according 
to the principles of abstract justice that her 
father had sworn bv. 


Photoplay Magazine 

She let emotion rule her, instead of rea- 
son. She probably made a lot of mistakes. 
No doubt she made a lot of entirely unde- 
serving people ridiculously happy; people 
who hadn't the wit or the strength to win 
happiness from life for themselves, and 
were, therefore, according to her father's 
code, not fit for happiness. She did all the 
things, as a matter of fact, best calculated 
to make Horace Marston turn in his grave. 
But if he did that, he turned alone and 
unseen ; his turning didn't stop any of 
Lyda's absurd and unscientific benefac- 

And then she met Leister Mann. He 
was a fisherman. He lived near her little 
house and he used to fish all the time. 
That was what made her curious, at first. 
She didn't see how a man could fish so 
eternally without getting tired. He was at 
it every day and all day long. He used to 
go out on the lake, and she would see him, 
typifying patience, waiting for bites. It 
piqued her. 

He saw her, presumably, but he didn't 
pay any attention to her. And that wasn't 

normal. She -knew it. She wasn't bad 
looking ; she was the only young female in 
the neighborhood. Also — he was the only 
young male ; the only one, that is, who 
could win from her the sort of look a 
woman gives a man capable of arousing the 
life force that is the beginning of love. 

Not that she fell in love with him at 
sight, of course. It was nothing so crude. 
But this girl was pretty normal. The big 
instincts that work in men and women alike 
had free play in her. And the biggest of 
these instincts is the one that compels men 
and women to think of love, since, if they 
didn't think of it, the world Avould pres- 
ently cease to afford occupation for the men 
who take the census ! So she took notice 
of Leister Mann and she wondered why he 
didn't take notice of her. 

It was a short step from that state of 
mind to a determination to find out what 
it was in his fishing that so absorbed him. 
She got out a boat of her own, and sent to 
town for fishing tackle, and a book on how 
one catches fish, and then she set out and 
tried to fish. And she made horrible mis- 

Sis revolver spoke. Marston crumpled up and lay still 

The Scorpion's Sting 


"Come," he said. He gave Iter his hand, stand- 
ing in the boat, to help her from the dock. 

takes, and he had to row over and show 
her about them, and so, of course, they 
came to know one another. And, after 
that, Leister Mann did take notice of her, 
and before long was making up for lost 
time in that respect. 

In that wilderness which she had chosen 
for her country home they were attracted 
to one another, naturally, like magnet and 
steel. They fished together, and they 
talked, and walked, and rode together. She 
wondered why there was a peculiar, haunt- 
ing look in his eyes, and why he relapsed 
into unaccountable silences in which he 
was a thousand miles away from her. 

He didn't propose to her precisely. Cer- 
tainly she had a feeling that he hadn't 
meant to do it. They just came together, 
one day — and, without conscious intention, 
almost without words, they were clinging 
to one another, determined that they would 
always cling; that nothing should separate 

"I'm a beast." he said. This was later ; 
for a time speech had seemed unnecessary 
as well as impossible. "But I do love you, 
my dear. I love you well enough to go 
quite away, and stay." 

"There's something mysterious," she 
said. "I know it. But need you tell me? 
Can't we just let it all go — take everything 
for granted?" 

"I wish we could," he said. He was 
vastly troubled. "But — no, I don't sup- 
pose we can." 

He broke out fiercely. 
"I've got an awful thing in my life," he 
said. "A thing that haunts me, and fright- 
ens me, and that is going to come up and 
make me go through hell before it's done 
with me. And yet — I can look into your 
eyes, even now — to-day — this day of days ! 
— -and tell you that I haven't done any- 
thing that's really wrong! I can tell you 
that 1 was driven to do what I did, and 
that I'm really not guilty, even though 
most people would say I was !" 

She covered his hand with her own. 
"Isn't that enough?" she asked him. 
"Have you got to tell me any more?" 

"I don't know," he said. "I must think 
it out. I must see what is right." 

Then, for a time, they were happy. He 
threw off the thing that oppressed him, and 
for a time they were busy just in being 
happy. They were together every day ; she 
abandoned herself utterly to the joy of 
being loved, of being the first thing in a 
man's life. She had never had that sort 
of happiness before, and it was wholly new 
to her and very, very sweet. The shadows 
of the past seemed to fall away. She tried 
to forget everything that had preceded this 
time. But still, ever and again, she saw 
the look in his eyes that took him so far 
from her, and warned her that his problem 
was still unsolved. 

And then, all at once, the whole thing 
came out. Chance managed that ; chance 
is the stage manager of most of the trag- 
edies of the world, it seems. 

She was waiting for Leister one day. 
And he didn't come when she expected him. 
She went to look for him. And she heard 
him talking to another man ; a man whose 
voice was hoarse, with the sort of hoarse- 
ness one associates instinctively with vice 
and low things generally. And what they 
were saying was a revelation ; a revelation 
so horrible that it stunned her. She heard 
enough to know the truth : to know that 
this man to whom she had given her love 
was the one her father had encountered in 
his library, the man in whose place she had 
stood at her trial. 


Photoplay Magazine 

The complexity of emotion that the rev- 
elation • was to cause came later. In the 
beginning her one feeling was of rage. He 
had tricked her ; he had won her love by a 
fraud, a fraud so wicked, so inexcusable 
that it staggered her. Her first instinct was 
to give him up ; to betray him to the law, 
the justice, that awaited him. 

But the visualization of what that would 
mean checked the impulse. If she did that 
it would all come out. People would know 
how he had tricked her, had held her in 
his arms. And then there came a new 
thought ; the first she had in extenuation. 
He hadn't known — he couldn't have 
known ! — that she was Horace Marston's 
daughter. Somehow that soothed her. It 
concentrated her thought on the old of- 
fense ; it made it possible for her to absolve 
him from the newer one, the horrid thought 
that, knowing, he had been able to love her 
and make her love him in return. 

She pleaded a headache when he came 
at last ; she wasn't ready to see him yet. 
And in a sleepless, tossing night, she came 
to her decision. She had a courage of an 
extraordinary sort, this girl ; a courage so 
high that she could face the fact that, in 
spite of everything, she still loved this man. 
And by morning, she knew what she would 

do. The law was helpless here. It was 
for her to administer justice, after the code 
of Moses — an eye for an eye, a tooth for a 
tooth, a life for a life. She would kill, and 
she would die, too. It would be easy. A 
boat, out on the lake; his strength could 
not check her there. They would drown. 

She was resolute when she met him. She 
told him she wanted him to take her for a 
row ; he agreed. He was very sober. 

"I'm going to tell you everything this 
morning," he said. "I'm glad you want to 
get out on the lake. It will be . . . 
easier. I'm going to tell you what I did, 
and why — and that, though I killed, I did 
it without the intention to kill, and, after 
all, in self-defense." 

She felt herself choking. This was 
worse than she had feared it could be. It 
was his silence that had helped to steel her 
against him. But now — was he going to 
tell her everything? His eyes said that 
he was. 

"Come," he said. He gave her his hand, 
standing in the boat, to help her from the 

Doubt had come back into her eyes as 
he rowed toward the middle of the lake. 
What — what, after all her agony of deci- 
sion — was she to do? 


LJ Ii WAS going through some of his old papers, was Romaine Fielding, 
■*• *■ when up popped a little red ticket bearing his name and stamped with 
the bold stamp of Sir Arthur Johnson, albeit of Lubin, and dated May 5th, 
1913. It looked like — it was, the conventional slip issued to extra people by 
directors as evidence at the cashier's window that said extra had worked one 
day at so much per. Here was a jolt handed to the pride of ye actor — and 
the deuce of it was, Mr. Fielding could not remember ever having played 
second fiddle, let alone extra man, to Mr. Johnson. Then recollection began 
to slowly percolate. Ah yes, it all happened during a business trip to Phil- 
adelphia when his company was stationed in Nogales, Arizona. Mr. John- 
son had made the dare — Mr. Fielding had accepted, had received his little 
red ticket and departed hence, foregoing the five beans rather than lose this 
monument of good-fellowship. 

1V/I AYME : (at the store the next morning.) "In the first reel he choked 
* ** her twice and threw her down stairs to show his love for her !" 

Clara: (listening to the description of the picture play.) "Ain't that 
grand? But there ain't no earnest love like that in real life, is there?" 

Taking Tea with 
Alice Hollister 

By Pearl Gaddis 


A ROOM of dull-green walls, almost covered with photo- 
graphs large and small, of celebrities known throughout 
the world, with here and there a fascinating bit of jade, \ 
a piece of Egyptian pottery, odds and ends from the \ 
four corners of the globe ; over all, a soft shaded light — such is 
the living room of Alice Hollister. that arch villainess of the screen. 
And it was here I found her, in a charming, soft grey frock, eagerly 
ready to dispense hospitality to the stranger within her gates. 

Now, the very first thing you must do, if you would learn to 
know her, is to forget the "reel" Alice Hollister. For, truly, they 
are very little alike. The Alice Hollister of the films, is cruel, de- 
signing, an adventuress to her finger-tips; the Alice Hollister of 
her own home is kind, 
clever and sweet, 
with a natural 
gaiety that 
causes one 

The real 
is slender , 
well - formed 
and has lots 
of shiningblack 
hair. Her eyes 
are velvety brown 
and there is in 
them a tiny wist- 
ful t took that is 
alluring and elusive, 
but none the less real. 

to rejoice with her 
over mere trivialities. 
The real Alice Hollis- 
ter is slender, well-formed, 
and has lots of shining black 



Photoplay Magazine 

hair, that, when allowed to do so, falls in 
riotous curls far below her waist. She has 
very large and 
brown. A n d 
in them a 
fill look that 
ins; and elu- 

'To-day,' which I saw a 
I've never been on the 
now, I feel that some 
rience is absolutely 
to help me round 
ture work, 
that's my 

She has half a dozen /lobbies which 

studio life in Florida makes possible 

of realization. 


> ' 

short time ago. 
stage, and 
-v stage expe- 
'"'/ n e cessary 
out my pic- 
"I suppose, 
hobby — act- 
ing. I don't 
think I 
shall ever 
be happy 
until I've 
had m y 
fling at 

Miss Uotlister 
admits to being 
"ridiculously fond 
of her pet canaries 
and her absurd little 
dog. " 

with the 
pallor that De- 
speaks health, rather 
than frailty : and there is a 
flush of pink in the cheeks that comes and goes 
charmingly with "My Lady's" moods. Oh, I 
warn you, she is captivating, and too long ac- 
quaintance with her is like to prove dangerous ! 

An old colored ".Mammy." in a clean black 
frock, her spotless white apron, and 
turban finishing out the picture of 
the typical "befo' de Wall" slave- 
time negress, answered Alice's ring 
for tea, and a tiny, bright-yellow 
canary in a cage above the window, was sing 
ing as if he would burst his tiny throat, to a 
particularly unresponsive mate who huddled 
unsociably in her own corner, pretending 
that she was asleep. 

"l!ut she really isn't," said Alice, as she 
followed my interested glance. "She's 
just making believe. As a rule, I don't 
care for pets at all, but I am ridiculously 
fond of my canaries and my absurd 
little dog." 

"Do you know what I'd like most of 
all to do?" she asked me. as she filled a 
silver tea-ball. "I'd like most of all 
to have one season on the regular stage, 
in some strong, emotional play like _ 


Taking Tea with Alice Hollister 


stage work. Please don't misunderstand 
me," she interposed, hastily, putting an 
impulsive hand on mine, in her earnest- 
ness, "I'm very happy here in the studio. 
There can't be any people nicer than 
Kalem people, and I love my work devot- 
edly. But there is just a wee little bit of 
me that yearns for a brief glimpse 'behind 
the scenes' of a real theatre. It's just that, 
having tried picture-work and found it 
good, I long to have a try at the stage." 

We sipped our tea in silence for a few 
moments, and then she trilled a gay little 
laugh, as if in defiance of the earnestness 
with which she had advanced her theories 
of the stage. 

"When I feel like that about the stage, 
I always seek a quiet corner and have a 
heart-to-heart talk with Alice Hollister," 
she said, merrily. "I always tell her that 
she has the advantage of a legitimate 
actress in many ways. First," and she 
enumerated them on her finger-tips, "Alice 
Hollister can go to the picture theatres, 
see herself as others see her, and thereby 
correct and improve her work. Second, I 
have my home here, and oh! how I love 
it ! Third, my leisure time can be spent in 
a number of ways that must remain closed 
to the legitimate actress. 

"Guess how I spend several hours a 
week, when I get through work too late 
to go down town, or anywhere else, before 
dinner? I go down to the end of the dock 
there, and with my little fishing rod, I 
catch the nicest little fish you ever ate, for 
dinner. And then, there are days when I 
am not needed at the studio at all. Then 

I may sew, go motoring, go sketching, to 
picture theatres — oh! there are a million 
of things Alice Hollister can do that no 
legitimate actress may hope to !" 

And motoring, by the way, is another of 
Alice Hollister's hobbies. Once she ex- 
pressed a desire to drive a car herself. 
Instantly, there were numerous offers of 
cars, as well as of car owners, who wished 
to help teach Miss Hollister the ins and 
outs of driving a motor. A teacher and 
car were selected, and for two days Alice 
was content to just sit beside the proud 
teacher, and, as she expressed it, "watch 
the wheels go round." However, "watch- 
ful waiting" palled upon the vivacious 
little leading-lady and, snatching an op- 
portunity when the car's owner had gone 
into a shop, she decided to try her ail-too 
recently acquired skill. Instead of glid- 
ing smoothly forward, as a well-mannered 
car should do, her machine gave a groan, 
a couple of back flops, and succeeded in 
holding up traffic for a spell, until the 
owner could make a dash to the rescue. 
Alice was highly indignant that the car 
should prove obdurate to her commands, 
and now, she allows someone else to drive, 
while she admires the scenery. 

A group of callers entered, to interrupt 
us — "Helen Lindroth" and other well- 
known Kalem folk, so I regretfully took 
my departure. Miss Hollister accompan- 
ied me to the door of her charming little 
home, and her last words, as I left her 
standing at the top of the steps, were: 

"But I really would like to try one 
season on the stage!" 


A FEW weeks ago, the manager of an English moving picture theatre 
•**• had occasion to send his operator a telegram. It instructed the operator 
to substitute Lubin's "When the Earth Trembled," for an airship film. The 
wire was phrased as follows: 
• "Keep airship off arriving seven twenty when the earth trembled." 
A few minutes after the telegram was received, the operator was placed 
under arrest as a German spy, and the manager was also detained until the 
telegram was explained. 

Genuine Antiques for Colonial Photoplays 

The Friendship of Lamond 


Written from the Scenario of Emmett Campbell Hall 

By Helen Ba&& 

Illustrations from the Lubln Film 

VICTOR LAMOND gazed at the 
blue Virginia sky overhead and 
then at the Blue Ridge mountains 
in the distance ; then he lit an- 
other cigarette and resumed his tramp up 
and down the gravel path that wound in 
and out of the gardens of Klmhurst. He 
was thinking that his visit to his old chum, 
William Hardy, the master of Klmhurst. 
had turned out to be only another of those 
disappointments that a fellow is always 
encountering when he isn't working. 

To do Lamond justice, it must be ad- 
mitted that he was usually working. He 
was what the people who write fiction like 
to call "a soldier of fortune;" though quite 
as often it had been misfortune. Though 
still a year or two under forty, he had 
been a cowboy, a newspaper correspondent, 
a filibuster, a prospector and a 
breeder of fine horses. At the 
present moment he held in his 
pocket a letter 
from the Minis- 
ter of War in 
Venezuela of- 
fering him a 
commission as 
Colonel in a 
war that the 
said Minister 
meant to bring 
off as soon as 
possible. La- 
mond had been 
debating for 
two or three 
days the advisa- 
bility of turn- 
ing down t h e 
offer and spend- 
ing the follow- 
ing year on a 
ranch which he 
owned in Wy- 

tell you, Elsie, there 
for you— 

The visit to Hardy had been a bit of 
recreation which he had promised himself 
ever since he had learned of his friend's 
marriage, some four years ago, to pretty 
Elsie Manners, one of Virginia's most 
popular beauties. It had seemed so 
ridiculous— good old William marrying a 
beauty ! What in the world would he do 
with her, Lamond had asked himself, 
laughingly. Hardy was a business man 
through and through and, like many men 
of today in the South, realized the tre- 
mendous energy required of the Southerner 
who would overcome the inertia which 
surrounds him. He had made money, as 
the luxury of Klmhurst bore witness, and 
he was still making it, and Klsie — well, 
Lamond frankly admitted to himself that 
the root of his disappoint- 
^^^^ ment lay in the character 

|j? WL of his friend's wife. 

8% B^ There are women, he told 

jg^ himself, who manage to 
'VJBBr combine outer and inner 
K beauty, and why Wil- 
d£| liam Hardy, of all men, 
■ hadn't drawn one of 
the best, was in- 
Of course, she 
was young and 
probably in 
time — Lamond 
threw aside the 
cigarette and 
entered the 
house through 
the conserva- 
tory, which ad- 
joined the li- 

It is odd 
upon what 
small things 
big things con- 
tinually hinge. 


's nothing I wouldn't do 
-nothing. " 


Photoplay Magazine 

If Victor Lamond had heard anything else 
except the particular words he did hear, 
lie would undoubtedly have turned and left 
the conservatory as quietly as he had en- 
tered it. As it was, he remained exactly 
where he was behind a palm, and listened 
shamelessly. It was Elsie's voice that he 
had heard and what she had said was : 

"No, Harold, I can't! I tell you I 
haven't the courage!" 

"You've courage enough; the trouble 
with you is that you don't want to be free. 
You'd rather live on here and grow old and 
stupid, neglected by a man who cares for 
nothing but making money, than be happy 
with some one who would devote his life 
to you." 

Lamond had no trouble whatever in 
identifying the second voice. It belonged 
to young Harold Maxim, the good-looking 
New Yorker who was also a guest at Elm- 
hurst, and who. quite patently to everyone 
but Hardy, had been making love to Elsie 
for some time. With a tightening of the 
lips, Lamond placed himself in a still bet- 
ter position for deliberate eavesdropping. 

"No, oh, no!" 

"Then why do you hang back when I 
offer you freedom? You're the sort of 
woman who ought to be loved by a real 
man — a man of action — not a half dead 
money grubber like Hardy. I tell you, 
Elsie, there's nothing I wouldn't do for 
you — nothing !" 

"I know it, but I — oh, it's such a dread- 
ful thing to do! It's so cruel! I may 
not love him, but to go away and leave 
him without a word — " 

"It's the only way you'll ever have the 
courage to leave him. Listen, sweetheart, 
there's only one train a day out of this 
beastly place and that's at five in the after- 
noon — " 

"Two." Elsie's voice was mechanical. 
"There's another at five in the morning." 

"H'm! Well, we won't take that one. 
You get your things and slip out at four 
o'clock and meet me in the shrubbery, and 
we'll be having dinner together in Wash- 
ington tonight. Say you will." 

"I — I want to, Harold, oh, if I was 
only as brave as you are." 

"If you want to. that settles it. I'll be 
brave for both of us." There was a silence 
of a moment and the eavesdropper, who 
could see as well as hear, observed that 
the "man of action" was adding example 

to precept, and embracing the hesitating 
lady. It was much to Lamond's relief 
that the luncheon gong sounded and the 
couple rose to leave the conservatory, for 
lie doubted his ability to get away unheard 
and to be discovered just now would be 
the ruin of his plan. For, he told himself, 
Hardy's honor must be protected — aye, 
more than that, his faith in the woman who 
did not deserve it must be preserved. 

"The little fool!" he said to himself, 
unsympathetically, as he heard Elsie's 
nervous laugh in the library. "She doesn't 
deserve to be helped, but she belongs to 
Bill and I'm not going to see Bill suffer if 
I can prevent it. 'Man of action,' in- 
deed." And for the first time in days 
Lamond chuckled aloud. 

Victor Lamond never ate luncheon. It 
was a habit easily acquired and awkward 
to be enslaved to. Instead, he strolled 
down to the stables, where he found 
Jasper, the old coachman, currying a hand- 
some bay mare. 

"Morning, Jasper, how's she behaving?" 
The old darky chuckled as he touched the 
silky coat of the thoroughbred gently. 

"Lawdy, sail, she's de beatenest female 
ever was in dis stable, sah. She done kick 
down mos' all her stall las' night, an' ef 
Ah didn' have a gift fo' han'lin de sex, 
sah, Ah sho' does believe she'd have kick 
de shins offen me, an' dat's er fac', sah. 
Keep still, yo', Babe, yo' hyah me?" 

"High spirited, eh? How's the gray?" 

"Fust rate, sah. Yo' gwine sen' em out 
to de ranch, sah?" 

"Yes. Had the saddles on them yet?" 

"Yassir, me an' one ob de boys done rode 
'em las' night, sah. Dat gray sho' has a 
rough ole trot, sah." Jasper chuckled. 
"When de foot of him come down hit come 
lak de foot of Providence — mighty hard." 

"Mrs. Hardy ride much, Uncle?" 

"Wal, sah, not much lately, sah. Not 
sence we been havin' company, sah, an' _ 
Misto Hardy always dat busy. Mis' Hardy, 
she ain't had 'Buster' outen de stable dese 
fo' weeks, sah." 

"Saddle him at two o'clock, with the 
gray and 'Babe.' I think I'll start the 
family in good habits while I'm here," 
and Lamond went back to the house. On 
the way. however, his face lit up in a 
smile. "The foot of Providence!" he 
laughed. "Why not?" 

Luncheon was over and Lamond found 

The Friendship of Lamond 


"/ tell you, I saw you do it. D'you think I'm blind that you can put a thing 
like that over on me?" 

Elsie alone in the library. She was stand- 
ing at the window and her face was drawn 
and nervous he thought. 

"I've been down to the stables," he be- 
gan. Elsie never took the trouble to make 
conversation particularly easy for him, he 
reflected. This time she looked up and 
said "Yes?" rather encouragingly but noth- 
ing further. Probably she was worried ; 
she ought to be, anyhow. Five o'clock ! 

"I bought a couple of horses to send out 
to the ranch, and they arrived last night. 
I've been down taking a look at them." 


"I was rather looking forward to a few 
rides with you and Bill, but — " 

"We haven't been riding lately. Will's 
always so busy and I — " she paused, awk- 

"Doesn't Maxim ride?" 

"Oh yes, I suppose so, but — there are 
so many walks around here and — and there 
have been so many other things — " 

"I wish you'd go out with me this after- 
noon. I want to try the horses and it's a 
wonderful day. Won't you?" 

"I'd like to but — well, you see, I don't 

suppose Mr. Maxim has any riding things 
here, and I couldn't go away and leave him 
when Will's so inhospitably busy, could I ?" 

"I've got plenty of riding togs, if that's 
all the trouble. Here he comes now; I'll 
ask him." 


"Oh, Maxim, look here a minute. Mrs. 
Hardy wants you to come out with us to 
try a couple of horses and I've told her I 
have some extra riding togs in my trunk. 
What do you say?" 

"This afternoon?" Maxim's face was 

"I — I told Mr. Lamond that you — that 
you might not care to," Elsie said, feebly. 

"Nonsense, he's a good sport, of course 
he'll come. I want him to try out the gray 
— splendid horse — I'll probably sell him to 
you after you've had him for an hour. I'll 
see Jasper about it," and without waiting 
for an answer, Lamond started for the 
stable, leaving the young couple staring 
at one another in dismay. 

"You can't go riding at two and catch a 
train at five," remarked Maxim, crossly. 
"Why didn't you say you had a headache?" 


Photoplay Magazine 

"He didn't give me a chance," Elsie 
l(X>ked as though tears would be a relief. 
"He simply came along and told me I had 
to go. He's — he's the most determined 
person !" 

"If we miss the five o'clock train — " 

"I told you there was another in the 
morning," crossly. "And I have got a 
headache and I don't know that I shall 
care if we do miss it." 

"But, dearest, we musn't miss it. Re- 
member your promise." 


Two o'clock saw a party of three start 
off a' horseback, two of whom went most 
reluctantly. Lamond, mounted on "Babe," 
who danced and shied and gave every evi- 
dence, of a lively disposition, saw Maxim 
approach the gray, with a feeling that 
would have been pity if he had not re- 
membered so clearly the recent scene in the 
conservatory. Elsie, still inclined to be 
cross, glanced at her lover critically. She 
had never seen him on horseback before — 
and she was a Virginian. Her face grew 
red, and she turned her attention stub- 
bornly in the direction of her horse's ears. 

The party lasted some two hours and a 
half. The efforts of Elsie and Maxim 
to cut it short were frustrated by the stu- 
pidity of Lamond, who displayed positive 
genius in taking wrong roads and insist- 
ing on abiding by them. The anguish of 
Harold Maxim can only be fully under- 
stood by those who, in absolute ignorance 
of every law of horsemanship, have found 
themselves obliged to ride a trotting horse 
for two hours and a half, and to be pleasant 
and affable while so doing. 

In vain would Elsie try to keep to a 
gentle canter ; Lamond's mare was deter- 
mined to trot, and what she did the gray 
did also. In spite of her anger with him. 
Elsie found herself watching Lamond. 
whose easy, western riding seemed to her 
the acme of horsemanship. And then to 
look at Harold, who, bobbing about, like 
corn in the popper, his face red, his knees 
bent, his breath coming and going in 
gasps! It hurt and Elsie had a horrible 
feeling that Lamond knew that it did. 

Of course no one caught the five o'clock 
train. Lamond, who spent the time be- 
tween their return from the ride and the 
dinner- hour in the conservatory, which 
commanded a view of the shrubbery, as- 
certained that. He also overheard the end 

of a conversation between the lovers as he 
happened to be going upstairs, which ex- 
plained Harold Maxim's disappearance 
on the early morning train the following 

"I thought so." he told himself, grimly. 
"It was the heroic atmosphere that the 
rascal threw around himself that she was 
in love with — not himself. The foot of 
Providence worked uncommonly well." 
* * * * * * 

During the remainder of his visit, La- 
mond had many opportunities of observing 
this trait in his friend's wife. She had evi- 
dently acquitted him in her mind of any 
guilt toward Harold Maxim, whose de- 
parture left her much in his society. She 
had an almost pathetic admiration for the 
picturesque. Will Hardy's quiet virtues 
and steady cleverness, she seemed never to 
take into account.- To attract her, a deed 
must be performed in the lime light. La- 
mond reflected, with some contempt, that 
the hero of a best seller would probably 
command her undying respect. Once 
Maxim had dropped out of her imagina- 
tion, he seemed to have dropped out of 

This, then, was the wonderful courage that she 
had dreamed of, this cold blooded murder! 

The Friendship of Lamond 


Suddenly Victor Lamond turned, quick us 
thought, and fired. 

her life, and she waited patiently for a new 
hero to adore. And yet, she was a sweet, 
lovable little woman — if you didn't under- 
stand her too well, he told himself. That 
was why Bill worshipped her; he didn't 
know her. Me had built the same sort of 
shrine for her in his imagination that she 
was forever building about her heroes, and 
he was blind to her faults. 

To Lamond's horror, he soon found that 
he, himself, was beginning to take : Maxim's 
place. Elsie would listen to his stories 
of t"he adventures he had met with, and 
her eyes would flash and glow as they never 
flashed or glowed for William Hardy's 
rather stodgy reminiscences. She wanted 
to ride with him every day, insisted that he 
teach her to ride cross saddle, and was tre- 
mendously impressed when allowed to read 
his letter from the Venezuelan Minister 
of War. 

"Watch' out, old chap, she's going to 
make just as big a fool out of you as she 
did out of young Maxim." he told himself, 
one day. "And it's not as disagreeable as 
I had supposed it might be." That night 
he told Hardy that he thought the fol- 
lowing week would see him started for the 

"Oh, I hope not," Hardy was genuinely 
'distressed. "I thought you were going 
to stay with us all summer. Elsie will 
miss you like the deuce. Victor. It's pret- 
tv dull for her with onlv me around." 

"Nonsense, Bill, don't let her be dull. 
Ride with her — give her more of your time 
— wake up a bit." 

Hardy laughed good naturedly. He 
was a big, good looking, easy going fellow, 
who loved to see his prettv wife enjov her- 

"Why, I'm rather heavy company for 
Elsie," he said. "I keep the machine going 
while she buzzes around and has a good 
time. I wish you'd stay a bit longer, old 
fellow ; I won't be so busy next month and 
then we'll manage to see more of each 
other." And so things went on from day 
to day, till Lamond made up his mind 
there was only one way to make Elsie 
Hardy appreciate her husband. 

"She's got to see him display some of 
this courage and heroism that she's al- 
ways talking about," he said to himself. 
"It won't be easy for Bill doesn't lean 
toward heroics — and yet — why, there's not 
a man in America with a keener sense of 
honor than Bill Hardy, or a better notion 
of fighting for it if he has to. That's it 
— that's the game — she's got to see Bill 
fight! It won't be easy, either. There's no 
one for him to fight but me or Jasper. Oh, 
hang these sentimental women, anyhow; 
why can't they raise 'em with horse sense?" 

-I- ^ -•- -■- V V 

A month had gone by since the episode 
of young Maxim, and Elsie, Lamond and 

Victor left the room and also left a wife who 
had fallen in love ivith her husband. 


Photoplay Magazine 

Hardy were sitting in the library one even- 
ing. The two men were indulging in a 
friendly game of cards, while Elsie was sit- 
ting near, book in hand. She was not 
reading, nor was she watching the card 
game. In her mind, she was comparing 
the two men, as they sat there ; wondering 
what Will would have been had his life 
lain along the lines of that of the younger 
man. Will was so good and kind, so in- 
dulgent of her every wish, and yet — so — so 
— uninteresting! No one could possibly 
imagine him fighting in a Venezuelan revo- 
lution, rounding up outlaw cattle, daring 
the dangers of a filibustering expedition — 
in short, doing any of those fascinating 
things that seemed to be plain, every day 
matters to Victor Lamond. He was just 
weak, that was all, weak! And she, who 
admired courage above everything in a 
man. was married to him. 

It was just at this point in her medita- 
tions that she became conscious that the 
game had stopped. Someone's voice was 
raised in anger. Elsie turned white and 
dropped her book with a crash. The words 
had been harsh and decidedly to the point, 
and it was Victor Lamond who had spoken 

"I tell you, I saw you do it. D'you 
think I'm blind that you can put a thing 
like that over on me?" his face was ugly 
and his voice hard. He held in his hand a . 
card that he tore in half and flung in 
Hardy's face. Elsie held her breath. 
Never in her pleasant little life had it 
been allowed her to hear the voice of one 
gentleman raised in anger against another. 
Teamsters and people of the streets, yes, of 
course — but in a lady's library! It was 
quite different from the quarrels that they 
put in books, oh, quite ! Hardy's face was 
purple and he was evidently trying to con- 
trol his temper. 

"Don't be a fool, Lamond," he said. 
"Elsie, please leave us, my dear." 

"A fool — " Lamond burst out again 
passionately. "I tell you, I saw you take 
that card from the bottom of the pack! I 
say you — I — " 

Hardy rose from his seat, his face dis- 
figured by an anger that Elsie had never 
seen before. He leaned over the table and 
said in a tone of concentrated fury: 

"You lie, Victor Lamond, and you know 
it!" There was a cry of rage from the 
younger man, who jumped to his feet, and 

they stood facing each other like a pair 
of bulldogs ready to spring. Elsie, un- 
mindful of Hardy's request, ran between 

"Will," she cried, "Will, please—" 

Hardy started. He had evidently for- 
gotten that she was still in the room. 

"Go upstairs, Elsie. Go at once!" His 
tone was as hard and ugly as Lamond's 
had been. Frightened, the girl went 
slowly up the stair, leaving them facing 
each other. 

"You'll answer for this, Hardv! I tell 

"I'll answer for it whenever and how- 
ever you like." Both voices had low- 
ered, but Elsie could hear them from her 
room at the head of the stairs. It was more 
than she could bear, and softly she opened 
the door and leaned over the railing of the 
stair. Lamond had taken down the heavy 
pair of duelling pistols that had hung on 
the wall ever since Elsie could remember. 
He had loaded them and had handed one 
to Hardy, who examined it grimly. Elsie 
felt as though she were paralyzed and with- 
out the power of speech. Silent as the men 
themselves, she watched them measure the 
distances and, turning their backs upon 
each other, walk the required number of 
paces. This, then, was the wonderful 
courage that she had dreamed of, this cold 
■ blooded murder ! Oh, to be able to scream 
and run down the steps to prevent the 
slaughter ! 

Suddenly (she could never forget the 
sight as long as she lived) Victor Lamond 
turned, quick as thought, and fired. Fired 
upon a man whose back was turned to him ! 
Elsie's voice came back to her! With a 
shriek she rushed down the stairs and threw 
herself upon her husband. 


"He shot — I saw him — the coward — 
when your back was turned ! Oh, Will, if 
he'd hit you — if he'd hit you!" 

"But, my darling, he didn't." Hardy's 
voice was gentle as he caressed the hys- 
terical woman. Then he turned to La- 
mond, who shrunk away from him. "You 
puppy," he said, scornfully, "Get out of 
here before I forget myself and shoot 
you !" 

"I'm sorry — don't — don't shoot! I lost 
control of myself." Lamond's voice was 
strange and faltering. He did not look 
either the husband or wife in the face, but 

The Friendship of Lamond 


dropped his eyes and edged toward the 
door. "Sorry — didn't mean anything any- 
how. Apologize, I'm sure." He spoke 
thickly, like a drunken man. Elsie, 
ashamed for him, averted her eyes. Hardy 
spoke briefly. 

"I don't understand it, Victor, but, of 
course, if you apologize — " 

"I'll be leaving in the morning. Going 
on the five o'clock train. Sorry it had to 
happen this way. Good evening," and Vic- 
tor shambled out of the room. 

"I don't understand it," Hardy repeated. 
"Victor Lamond, of all men in the world ! 
I'd have just as soon suspected myself of 
playing the coward." 

"You — a coward?" Elsie's voice rang 
out proudly. "Will, you're the bravest, 
truest, best man that ever lived, and I — oh, 

I love you a thousand, million times more 
than I ever dreamed I could! If you'll 
only, only forgive me for never having half 
appreciated you, I — " and she tumbled, 
crying, into his arms. 

"Why, Elsie, dearest, what nonsense! 
You — the best little wife that ever lived. 
Stop it at once." 

The next day a lonely traveler stepped 
on the train at five o'clock. As he seated 
himself, he drew a letter out of his pocket 
and eyed it smilingly: 

"I reckon I'll give that Venezuelan job 
a once over before I turn it down," he ob- 
served, replacing it in his pocket. "A 
revolution sounds rather good to me just at 
present. Guess I'll run down there." 


|V/I AJOR FUNKHOUSER, the official guardian of Chicago's morals, aided 
AVA and abetted by Chief of Police Gleason, is sponsoring a new plan — the 
segregation of motion picture audiences. The plan proposes that in all motion 
picture theatres one side be reserved for unescorted women, the other side for 
"unescorted" men. "Couples" will be permitted to sit side by side in the center. 

After Chief Gleason and Major Funkhouser had discussed the idea, they 
passed it on to Mayor Harrison. The Mayor submitted it to the City Council 
and it has now been put up to Corporation Counsel Beckwith, who is to give an 
opinion as to whether or not such an ordinance would be legal. 

This is the second time within six months that the question of segregating 
men and women in public places has come up in Chicago. East summer the 
Lincoln Park Board ordered the segregation of men and women at the Diversey 
Bathing Beach, and a wire fence divided the bathers throughout the summer. 

To the exhibitor, this is a truly serious one. The great danger, of course, 
is that his audiences will be cut down at least fifty per cent. It cannot be sup- 
posed that when a pretty girl's lack of a "man" is published to the world, she 
will continue to patronize the movies as freely as she now does. And to the for- 
lorn and lonely "boy from the country" the place will be utterly robbed of its 
glamor. He will have to sit in loneliest isolation among others of his sex, just 
as lonely. 

What, pray, do the City Council and the Civic League, and Major Funk- 
houser and Chief Gleason and all the rest think of young people anyway? 

Ruth Stonehouse Entertains 

By Katherine Synon 

IF Elbert Hubbard were to revise his 
famous series of Little Journeys to in- 
clude journeys to the homes of well- 
known motion picture players there is 
little doubt but that he would write a 
Wordsworthian classic around a visit to 
Ruth Stonehouse. For there is something 
Wordsworthian about this player of the 
Chicago Essanay Company, something so 
naively simple that complete and adequate 
description of her in her own setting would 
require the gift of a Blake or some other 
artist in words of one syllable. 

To begin with, any one who goes to 
see Ruth Stonehouse has to adjust all his 
preconceived ideas of her as a tragic 
actress. Miss Stonehouse has played so 
many parts of persecuted heroines, of 
wronged wives, of sad and solemn daugh- 
ters, that the public has come to confuse 
her own personality with her roles. Then, 
too, she has great dark brown eyes that 
look as if they were wells of grief, and 
dark hair that holds midnight in its thick 
strands. And she has a pensive mouth 
that droops a bit at the corners when she 
isn't smiling. Having been liberally en- 
dowed with the attributes for the playing 
of sad sisters, Ruth Stonehouse might be 
expected to live up to her looks. 

She doesn't. 

When she is at work, she is whatever 
the part requires of her. On the fringe of 
her work, when she is in the studio or the 
dressing rooms, she doesn't quite get away 
from her tragic air. But when she is at 
home in her pretty apartment on Argyle 
street, close to the Essanay studio, Ruth 
Stonehouse is quite herself. And that self 
is a blithe, child-like young person, who 
is interested in everything about her, who 
is radiantly happy, and who takes a de- 
lighted and delightful pleasure in living 
life simply. 

The other day — fortunately for her, a 
rainy day that prevented the taking of 
studio reels — Ruth Stonehouse was at 
home, tying up packages, bulky, Santa 
Claus packages that overflowed the corner 
of the living room. It was the ending of 
her chosen Christmas task of making 

happy the holiday for some poor children 
who would not otherwise have Christmas 
happiness. Like a youngster herself, she 
sat on the floor, continuing her task. 

"You know," she said, "that I'll never 
get it done if I don't finish it today. For 
you never can tell when bright weather 
will come, and then we'll have to work to 
make up for the lost time of these dark 

"Don't you think," she asked "that hav- 
ing a house of your own is the biggest fun 
in the world? I suppose that any one who 
has always had a house never appreciates 
it in quite the way that the homeless people 
do. Most of the motion picture people 
have been actors who had a home in Mas- 
sachusetts, which they might see once a 
year, or a home in Indiana which they 
passed twice in the course of their tours. 
Hut, just the same, I do like the motion 
picture work so well because having a 
home permanently instead of theatrically 
is the greatest inducement. 

"I suppose," she went on, "that there 
isn't a woman living who doesn't like to 
make curtains and embroider tablecloths 
and napkins and fix pillows and cook, yes, 
cook. Oh, I know some women say they 
can't abide cooking and that sewing bores 
them to death, but I don't believe they 
really mean what they say. It's part pose. 
I know that I love to cook and to sew, 
every bit as well as I love to act." 

If you could see Ruth Stonehouse busy- 
ing herself about the kitchen — when she 
doesn't have to — you would have to credit 
her entire sincerity. No one would pre- 
tend — least of all Ruth Stonehouse — to the 
liking of something as prosaic as cookery 
when there are so many other activities 
to choose from. And sewing! She says 
that she sewed nearly half the pretty things 
that make her Argyle street apartment so 
attractive, a place of brightness and sun- 
shine, of gaiety and charm of which the 
pivot is the girl who admits that she isn't 
yet graduated from playing with her old 
dolls and whose joy in life is that of the 
children with whom she plays and whom 
she loves. 

Ruth Stonehouse Entertains 


Ruth Stonehouse was at hotne, 

tying up bulky, Santa Clans packages that overflowed the 
corner of the living room. 

She had letters to write and she sat at the desk by the windows of the 

sun parlor. 


Photoplay Magazine 

Miss Stonehouse admits that she isn't yet graduated from playing with 

her old dolls. 

This player of tragic roles has sewed nearly half the pretty things that make her 
apartment so attractive. 

Whiskers and False Pride 

By C. W. Garrison 

ALL ready." called the 
director, and then 
he gave a final look 
of inspection be- 
fore beginning the scene. 
"Hey, you Smith! Where's 
the beard I told you to 
put on? Hurry up and 
get behind it." 

"Smith" drew himself 
up to his full height and. 
in a manner indicative of 
injured pride and right- 
eous resentment, began to 
explain that he did not 
think he ought to don a 
beard — that he owed the audi- 
ence a glimpse of his features 
as he really was — that it 
was much beneath his 
dignity and — 

Hut the sharp, snappy 

Although Murdock McQuarrie's 

impersonation of an old 
•na maii does not do justice 
_ I to his own good looks. 
1— £ nevertheless he de- 
lights in just such 


voice of 
the director 
rudely inter- 
^^ rupted the actor's objec- 
▼ tions to hiding his hand- 
some features behind a 
bunch of false hair. 

"All right, get out and 

stay out ! Jones, take 

Smith's place," was all he 

said. Few words, those, 

but that director "said a 

bunch" when he told "Smith" 

to get out. Smith "got out and 

stayed out." And since then he 

has never known what a steady 

job is like. 

Now pride is a mighty fine 

thing. Pride in self, pride in 

work and pride in position 

are good things to have. 

But, too much of a good 

thing is to be avoided. 

Take the case of "Smith." 

He was an unusually good 

looking chap but totally 

unable to appreciate .the 

fact that versatility is of as 

much value as personality. 



Photoplay Magazine 

date the versatility of an actor or actress. The proper 
tribute is given to the cleverness of a player who can 
act any part from that of a young person to that of an 
old man or woman. 

An excellent example of this is furnished by 

Margarita Fischer, who has received more letters of 

praise and commendation for her acting in "The 

Other Train" than in any other picture, and it was 

a one-reeler at that. In this photoplay Miss Fischer 

was seen, first, as a young girl and then as a middle 

iged woman, passing from beauty to sordidness, and 

then the picture showed her in the sere and yellow 

stage. She says that such a part is far 

more interesting than playing a young 


Little Katie Fischer 
detests putting a 
cigar in her mouth, , 

but she can, and and pretty woman all the time. 
propir/cSAl Charles Ray of the New York Motion 
alt the swank of a Picture Corporation is 

jaunty knight of 
the road. " 

one of the young 

actors who can 

. take any sort 

Sk of a part 

jjk, and can 

lt\k make up 

so that 

He lacked the 
faculty that 
marks t h e 
f u 1 
p h o to- 
p layer 
of to- 
ol a y, o f 
adapting him- 
self to any line. 

Imagine Paul- 
ine of "The Perils" refus- 
ing to do some stunt because she thought 
it obscured Pearl White. Think of Kathl 
Williams refusing to don some 
outlandish costume for the rea- 
son that it was unbecoming ! 
Can you imagine Henry Wal- 
thall refusing to disguise him- 
self with a beard or a mustache 
or both? Where would Ford Ster 
ling be if he did not use the queer 
little bunch of hair that always 
adorns his face? 

No, the really big photo- 
players are those who have 
evinced their willingness — 
nay, eagerness — to use as 
many different make-ups as I 

Who would suspect that 
lovely Barbara Ten 
nant could appear 
so unattractive as 
she seems to be 
in the lower 

possible. The public appre- 

Whiskers and False Pride 


sibly be the misshapen figure shown in so many 

And who would believe that pretty Adele 
Lane of the Selig Company could disguise her 
charming features and make some of the 
baffling character impersonations that com- 
pletely hide her real self in the part that 
she is playing? 

Murdoch McQuarrie does not resem- 
ble the old man that he is here shown 
impersonating, and the character he 
represents does not, in the least, do justice 
to Mr. Murdoch's appearance. Yet he 
takes delight in assuming disguises that 
are almost impenetrable. 

Grace Cunard forgets everything but the 
part she is playing ; nothing seems impossible 
to her. A comparison of her picture as she 
really is with that of an impersonation of a 
half-witted boy fails to reveal any resem- 
blance. This character is anything but a de- 
sirable part, yet Miss Cunard played it 
without protestation of any sort. 

Of course, there are some of the pop- 
ular players who never don a disguise of 
any sort. The directors 
appreciate the fact 

that the picture 
going public like 
to see them as 
they really are 
rather than in 


Grace Cunard 
completely sub- 
merges her own 
personality in 
the rather tin- 
desirable part 
of a half-witted 

Maurice Cos- 
tello, E d w i n Au- 
gust, Jack Kerrigan, 
Francis Bushman, 
and a few others are 
among those 
whose faces 
almost al- 
ways appear 
on the screen 
beards or mustache. 
These are players who 
possess unusual personal 
magnetism. But not one 
of them would hesitate 
to assume any disguise 
that the director sug- 

John Bunny is a special- 
ist. He has commercialized his 
face and form (or lack of form) 
to such an extent that to disguise 
him would be to invite a storm of 
disapproval from his world-wide au- 

There are specialists in slap-stick 
comedy which requires exxeptionally 
good acrobatic ability, specialists in heart- 
interest drama where intense interest must 
li registered, and specialists in every phase 
of acting. 

Merit is the essential quality for success in 

evervthmg. Versatilitv is another prime factor. 

i%oifiady,'''Ma%ariZ The' day of "Smith" who refused to don a beard 

Fischer dons spectacles has passed. And in his place has come the plaver 

and substitutes old slip- , r .,, , . , \ ,, , , f\ ,, 

persjorher usual trim who will put his heart into the work despite all 
efforts to hide his features behind false whiskers. 

little shoes. 

The Alarm of Angelone 


By Edith Huntington Mason 

Illustrations from the American Film. 

A GREY haze smothered the bright 
blue of the bay so that island of 
Capri was no longer visible from 
the Posilippi drive and even ob- 
scured the city so that the white porch of 
the Bertolini Hotel ceased to beckon from 
the hillside. Between Naples and Pompeii 
a modern trolley line extends, and along 
this trolley line, in the green, luscious val- 
ley, are numerous little villages. In one 
of these in a street so narrow, so dirty, and 
so beautiful that you catch your breath with 
the pleasure of beholding it, Angelone, the 
carpenter, was saying good-bye to his wife 
and little children. Hard by old Vesuvius 
threw a tiny plume of smoke upward above 
the ring of blue mountains that lovingly 
guarded entombed Pompeii, which lay some 
miles to the southward. Close at hand the 
life of the village went its usual course, 
for all the world as if Angelone were not 
going to America, as if his wife were not 
weeping her heart out on his bosom while 
his children clung passionately to his legs 
reciting in sobbing chorus : 
"Addio, Pappio! Addio !" 
* * * 

|7 DNA LANE was a peculiar girl, at 
*- u least so thought her fiance, Dan Grev, 
for although she had everything in the 
world that money could buy, she was not 

"I must have something to do, Danny," 
she sighed, "something to account for my- 
self to the world. It's so lazy just to exist 
and spend money !" 

They were motoring up town from the 
young man's office in Wall Street, where 
Edna had called for him. 

He skilfully avoided an electric driven 
by a dowager with a detached air, then cast 
the young girl a whimsical look. 

"I suppose the job of looking after a 
poor fellow like me isn't enough for you," 
he said, and then, rapidly, as she blushed 
and frowned, "you know how much I want 
you to name the day for our wedding, dear, 


but you always have some reason for 
putting me off." 

"Why no, I haven't." she protested, her 
eyes big and dark under her small white 
hat. "I don't want to put you off, but 
there always are reasons, really and truly." 

The light died suddenly out of his eyes 
and he turned and busied himself with 
the wheel. 

"Just so," he said tersely, "just so." 

A small gloved hand was laid im- 
pulsively on his arm. 

"Don't be cross," said the girl, "you 
know I love you, it isn't that only I — I — " 

But the caress which on former occa- 
sions of a similar nature had been sufficient 
to banish his frown, was this time lacking 
in effect. 

"Only what?" he said briefly. "What 
is it that you want, Edna?" He turned 
to look her full in the face. "Come, tell 
me what you have on your mind. I've 
been wanting to know for some time." 

"Wait till we get home," she replied, 
her pretty face graver than usual. "I 
can't talk about serious things in a car 
with every crossing policeman staring me 
in the face." 

Mrs. Lane, Edna's mother, was not at 
home when they arrived, so they had 
luncheon by themselves, as they often did. 
Although the lilac buds were bursting in 
the park, the air was still chilly and the 
maid had lit the wood fire in the tiny- 
grate. The dining-room, with its tall, 
heavily curtained windows, massive wal- 
nut furniture, and high ceiling was quiet 
and made them feel at ease and secure, 
and the duck, and salad, and cool, 
sweet compote were just the things to 
tempt their appetites after their brisk ride. 
The young attorney sighed as he looked 
at the girl opposite him in her trim tail- 
ored dress, which only accented the more 
her exquisite femininity. 

"If only it could be like this forever!" 
he said. 

The Alarm of Angelone 


The color rushed into her face. She 
leaned toward him. 

•'It will be, dear boy," she said, ''it will 
be. But first — but first — " she paused. 

"Well," he said, "tell me. I can't wait 
any longer!" 

She laughed a little. 

"I'm so afraid you'll be angry when you 
hear what I've done," she said. "But do 
you know, dear, I'm going to work. I've 
taken a position on a salary." 

He stared, astonished. 

"You've taken a position?" he echoed. 
"What under the sun do vou mean by 

"Why, you know," she replied, "I've 
told you all along that I must have some- 
thing to do, must try to 'find myself,' like 
Kipling's ship, so when this splendid job 
was offered me — superintendent of an em- 
ployment bureau in the tenement district — 
I took it!" 

"I see!" he said. "It's very interesting, 
but I can't say that it sounds like getting 

She looked a trifle confused, a trifle 

"No, it doesn't," she admitted, "and you 
see that's just it. I don't want to be mar- 
ried until I've proved myself, until I've 
found that I can fill some useful position 
in the world. It's a hobby of mine, as I 
think I've told you, that girls ought 
to 'make good' before they think of 

He grew rather pale. 

"A very original theory, no doubt," he 
said, "but isn't it just a little, just a little 
hard on the chap you are engaged to 

They rose and seated themselves before 
the fire while the maid removed the 

"I suppose so," she said in a troubled 
way, "but, Dan. if it's a matter of life and 
death to me — if I think it's necessary to 
niv happiness to do this — vou won't mind, 
will you?" 

"Yes, I do mind," he said and there was 
anger in his eyes. "I mind very much, 
and I don't understand it, either. You 
don't know anything about employment 
bureaus and you won't 'make good,' as you 
call it, if you stay there till doomsday, 

Angelone, the carpenter, was saying good-bye to his wife and little children. 


Photoplay Magazine 

Hardly had he passed the customs house gate when new hope, new fortitude seized him. 

and, in the meantime, I have to wait. It 
isn't fair, Edna, it isn't fair!" 

"I'm so sorry you're angry," she said 
with the meekness of the person who in- 
tends to have her own way, "for I wanted 
you to see my office. It's such a duck of 
a place ! And such interesting people 
keep coming up the stairs !" She looked 
at him sideways through her lashes. But 
he was not to be cajoled. 

"You'll have to excuse me," he said, ris- 
ing to go, "on the proposition of seeing 
your office. I don't approve of it and shall 
not go near the abominable place — " 

"So there !" she finished for him, mis- 
chievously, but was grieved to see that he 
left her without a smile. 

G LOWLY the great steamer crept down 
**■' New? York harbor, the lights on the 
Singer building beaconing from afar, the 
dull gray water alive with tugs and hurry- 
ing ferry boats — dim shapes in the gather- 
ing twilight. It was a marvellous sight 
enough, that ring of gigantic buildings 
that hemmed it in, and in the midst the 

lofty arm of the Statue of Liberty waving 
a welcome to the whole world ! But its 
grandeur, its majestic beauty was lost on 
at least one passenger, a gentle-faced 
Italian in the steerage who stood by the 
rail apparently with seeing eyes, but whose 
vision was introspectively intent on an- 
other bay, another harbor ringed about 
not with buildings but with mountains 
and guarded by the most beautiful city 
in the world. 

But Angelone was not homesick long. 
Hardly had he passed the customs house 
gate when new hope, new fortitude seized 
him. The rattle and bang of the strange 
city streets which he passed through on 
his way to the employment bureau to 
which he had been directed, seemed some- 
how to speak to him of the fortune he was 
going to amass in this rich country of 
America before he sent for his family, and 
lie clasped his bundle resolutely and with 
a stout heart, plodded up the stairs to the 

The Italian had rather dreaded his first 
encounter with an employment bureau. 

The Alarm of Angelone 


They didn't have such things where he 
lived. The very name itself had a formid- 
able sound, and he had expected to find a 
great room filled with busy people who 
would pay no attention to him. He was 
somewhat startled, therefore, upon push- 
ing open the door when he saw, in the 
bare, prosaic little place with its two roll 
top desks, a clock high on the wall midway 
between, and a railing hemming "them" 
in, not a crowd of persons at all, but only 
a girl and a man. The girl, he observed 
with his artist's eye — the universal heritage 
of his race — was beautiful and, although 
the waist she wore was simple, lie knew 
at once that the small horseshoe at her 
throat was made of diamonds. 

It was not the girl's beauty or her 
clothes, however, that aroused his interest, 
it was the fact that upon her lovely flushed 
cheek were drops brighter even than the 
diamonds. At first Angelone was shocked. 
All his tender Latin sympathies were 
aroused and his impulse was to go to her 
and sav — onlv in Italian, of course: 

"Never mind, pretty one, Angelone loves 
you anyway." But fortunately, perhaps — 
as it is possible this demonstration might 
have been misunderstood — the young man 
who was bending over her seemed already 
to have qualified in the role of comforter 
of Beauty. At least he was agitatedly 
mopping those precious tears with his own 
handkerchief, and although Angelone 
could not understand his words, his ac- 
tions were as plain in English as Italian, 
and their tenderness was unmistakable. 

"Of course. I wanted to come." he was 
saying. "You couldn't keep me away, 
darling. And if you want me to, I'll wait 
forever, only, of course, I can't help hop- 
ing it won't be too long before you 'make 
good !' " 

What more he would have said is not 
known, for just at that moment the two 
caught sight of Angelone nodding and 
smiling in the doorway — full of delight 
over the reconciliation. The alacrity with 
which the girl sprang to her feet, and the 
blush that swept her fair brow might have 

Much amused with Angelone's efforts to insert his letter in the fire-alarm box, they took it from him. 


Photoplay Magazine 

flustered another than Angelone, but the 
simple child-like soul knew not the mean- 
ing of the word. 

He walked into the room and up to the 
confused pair, quite at his ease, and won 
Miss Lane's heart at once by bowing low 
and ejaculating as he reached her the 
single word "Bella!" His manner was so 
quaint, his dark face so gentle and 
friendly, the atmosphere was cleared at 
once, and the two burst out laughing. 

"Call in the interpreter, please, Dan," 
she said all business again, "and I'll see 
what our friend wants !" 

A job with a building contractor was 
found for Angelone and he set to work 
with enthusiasm to do his part toward 
erecting a cheap clothing store on East 
Fourteenth street. 

And with the end of every week in 
which a pay envelope was handed to him 
his heart grew lighter, and the prospect 
of seeing his wife and children again more 

"Soon I shall send for them," he would 
whisper as he sat in his little room and 

counted over his savings. "Soon I shall 
see them all again !" • 

At last the time came when he had 
accumulated enough to pay the coveted 
passage over on the big boat. Two well- 
dressed women who stepped out of a 
motor in front of a fruit store, stopped to 
stare at him as he passed for he had not 
been long enough in New York to lose 
his picturesque look. 

"Poor fellow !" said one to the other, 
"how sad to think of him tramping our 
ugly city pavements, probably with a 
basket of unsalable statuettes on his arm. 
He was much better off in the vineyards 
of his own sunny country!" She meant 
well, but she did not know that the man 
she pitied was Angelone going to post the 
letter that was to bring his family to him 
across the water. 

But an untoward event marred the hap- 
piness of that day for Angelone. A 
passerby had directed him to the mail box 
and he had mistaken the firebox on the 
other side of the post for the one indicated. 

Poor Angelone, he was very simple! As 

Where was that dear familiar smile, the strong clasp of the kind brown hand? 

The Alarm of Angelone 


They all found themselves in Angelone's cell. And oh, the joy on that gentle face. 

he was wrestling with the little red iron 
door who should come along but Miss 
Lane, the young girl who had found him 
his position with the contractor, and with 
her the young man he had seen that day 
in her office. Much amused with Ange- 
lone's efforts to insert his letter in the fire- 
alarm box, they took it from him, laugh- 
ing, and put it in the militant green box- 
on the other side, stamped with Uncle 
Sam's initials. 

But that was not enough for Angelone. 
Relieved from anxiety about his letter his 
interest in the firebox only increased. A 
few minutes more fiddling resulted in his 
putting in an alarm and in less than no 
time the engines were fuming at his elbow. 
O how Angelone regretted his curiosity 
then! His great eyes of blackest velvet 
opened to their widest as he raised ex- 
postulating hands before the officer who 
confronted him. 

"I did not know! I did not know!" he 
stammered. "I am sorry." 

But his apology, far from being ac- 
cepted, seemed only to enrage the officer. 
And a heartless magistrate, ruling that 

ignorance of the law was no excuse, fined 
the unfortunate Angelone sixty dollars. 
And when his wail of protest was inter- 
preted to mean that he had just sent his 
"all" to Italy, the same heartless person 
who had become so surfeited with the sight 
of human suffering that he would not have 
blinked even at the burning of Rome, said 
in laconic tones, "Sixty days, then." 

And so they locked him up, the lovable, 
loving and inoffensive Angelone, who had 
promised to be at the dock to meet his 
wife and little ones three weeks from that 
day, and who was now cut off even from 
sight of the sun. It was enough to make 
angels weep, but Angelone wept instead. 

A warm June day, and again a great 
steamer came into port with its adventurers 
from the old world. Among them was 
Mrs. Angelone. Poor thing! All the way 
across the Atlantic she had buoyed up 
herself and her little family with pictures 
of the joy which awaited them when 
"Pappio" met them at the customs house 
gate. And now, where was he? Maria 
was dazed, lost. Adrift in the great city 
she hardlv knew which wav to turn. 


Photoplay Magazine 

But fate was playing Maria's cards that 
day. It happened that a countryman of 
hers of evil disposition encountered the 
little party wandering through the streets. 
Pretending friendship, he soon had her 
story from her and assuring her that he 
knew her husband, persuaded her to enter 
the gloomy doorway of a dark tenement. 
There he would certainly have succeeded 
in robbing her if her cries had not attracted 
to the scene a young girl in smart black suit 
and hat, who happened to he visiting a sick 
woman on the floor above. It was Edna 
Lane, of course, and soon Maria was sob- 
bing out her story on her kind young 
shoulder, the thief having taken to his 

Edna led her upstairs where the sick 
woman she had been attending who could 
speak English as well as Italian, trans- 
lated for them both and soon Edna was in 
possession of the facts. The name of the 
lost husband, Angelone, attracted her at- 
tention and when Maria had described 
him carefully, she gave a little surprised 

"Why!" she said, "I believe that's my 
Angelone!" and to the poor wife's joy she 
told her that she knew her husband, al- 
though she did not know where he was 
then, and would help her find him. 

The days passed slowly for "Mrs." 
Angelone in this new land without her hus- 
band, and to relieve the monotony for the 
children she sent them out into the street 
with accordion and violin to earn a few 
pennies with their music. Silvio, the boy, 
a dark-eyed child with a little white, three- 
cornered face, had a very sweet voice and 
the brave little pair found themselves 
quite prosperous in their adventure. Ah ! 
Heaven-born inspiration, Mrs. Angelone! 

For one day when the heart of July had 
descended upon the city and the breeze 
from the river seemed to have taken a 
permanent leave of absence, the two little 
children, trudging the dusty pavements, 
paused before the long windows of a big, 
gloomy building in the centre of a block 
and lifted up their voices in harmony. It 
was a song their father used to be fond of 
when they had all been happy in Italy 
together, a simple air, but O how wonder- 
fully it fell on the ears of a little man with 
soft black eyes and gentle smile, who oc- 

cupied a small barred room just above the 
heads of the children. 

"Silvio mio! Lucia cara!" he called, 
his voice quavering on a sob. "Look up, 
my dear ones, it is your father!" 

And what a glorious news was that with 
which to greet the mother who never 
laughed now, but went always with a tear 
on her lashes. They had found father! 
They had found father ! How they ran ! 

Not long after they had reached their 
home, an agitated woman with a shawl 
thrown over her head, hurried into the 
office of Miss Edna Lane. It was just 
time for closing the bureau and Dan, with 
the automobile, was waiting for her down 
below. But when the interpreter had 
translated the news. Edna was almost as 
excited about it as Maria. 

"Come," she said, "we'll get the children 
and go and find him!" And she hurried 
the woman downstairs and into the wait- 
ing automobile, where the plan found a 
no less eager ally in the young attorney. 
Silvio and Lucia were soon ensconced in 
the tonneau and the whole party whirled 
away to the prison door. 

A little delay while Dan, instructed by 
Edna, paid the prisoner's fine, and they 
all found themselves in Angelone's cell. 
And O the joy on that gentle face ! 

"O Maria, mia ! My dear one. O thou 
sweet-voiced Silvio and my little girl, my 
baby!" And the tears which the little 
carpenter unashamed shed on the bosom of 
his Duse-like wife, drew sympathetic tears 
from the eyes of Dan and Edna. 

"O, Dan ! They are so happy ! Isn't 
it a wonderful world?" said Edna, relax- 
ing her Usual dignified mien and clinging 
to the young attorney's arm as they walked 
down the corridor, even as Maria was 
clinging to that of her new-found husband. 

"Yes, dear," he said, "and you've been 
the one to make it so for Angelone and 
Maria ! Don't you think it's about time 
we decided that you've made good?" 

Her lips denied him what he would have 
asked for. 

"Not here, darling," she said, "not 
here!" But though she pushed him away 
from her with the small white hands that 
had wanted so much to do something for 
others, her eyes held a promise for her 
lover that opened the gates of Paradise. 

And Now Lillian Russell Becomes 
a Movie Actress 



RHAPS there is no 
stage favorite who has 
triumphed over the 
years more superbly 
than Lillian Rus- v v 
sell, who made her 
first appearance at an 
amateur performance of 
"Time Tries All" at 
Chickering Hall in Chi- 
cago, nearly forty years 
ago. Certainly, it is not 
Father Time's fault that 
Lillian Russell's beauty is 
of our mother's generation 
and not ours, for he has dealt 
lightly with her. Her hair is 
as thick and burnished as it 
was when she was a girl ; her 
eyes are as clear and her skin 
as smooth and delicate. She is 
a beauty, and no mistake about 
it. Hut when one sees her, one 
realizes how fast our standards 
of beauty have changed. To- 
gether with militant suffrage and 
the feminist movement has come 
the ultimatum that a beauty of 
the twentieth century must be 
lithe and slim and boyish, and 
Lillian Russell still adheres to 
the princess gown which fits 
without a wrinkle, the lines of a 
"perfectly molded" figure. 

Not until 1904 did she appear 
in anything except musical com- 
edy and her big dramatic suc- 
cess did not come until 1908, 
when she took the part of Mrs. 
Henrietta Barrington in "Wild- 
fire." in which the World Film 
Corporation has chosen to star her. 

The Great Adventure of 
Madame Kalich 

By Nathaniel Pfeffer 


' A R T A Q F T HE I.O XY- 
LAN DS," one of the recent 
Famous Players films, should 
have had a subtitle. This 
should have read "The Great Adventure 
of Madame Bertha Kalich." 

Talk to the great Polish tragedienne 
about this, her first experience in moving 
pictures and you will come away with the 
sense of having heard the story of a 
pioneer's voyage into an unknown land. 

In "Marta of the 
Madame Ka- 
lich made a 
voyage in- ,■ 
to the un- 
it n ow a 
land of 

When 1 saw Madame Kalich — shortly 
after she had posed for Marta and when, 
incidentally, she was seriously considering 
appearing in another film drama — the im- 
pressions of her experience were still 
fresh. She still felt the thrill and she com- 
municated it. And I may say that few 
women are so capable of doing that. 

Sitting on a divan Bertha Kalich is as 
strange, as magnetic, as picturesque a 
figure as the Bertha Kalich of "Hamlet," 
"Monna Vanna," "Rachel." "The Kreutzer 
Sonata" and "Sappho." The long, slender 
lines of a sinuous body, the delicate, rest- 
less hands, the sensitive mouth, the black, 
deep-set eyes in a long, thin face framed by 
the blackest hair — they bespeak first the 
artist but, more, a rare personality. So, I 
say, she not only felt the thrill, but she 
communicated it. 

"Understand," she said, "it was not all 
new to me. Pantomime, at least, was not 
new. I had acted in pantomime when I 
was a little child in Europe. It was my 
first experience on the stage. But to act 
just before a camera, a machine — that was 
new. To go through a part in a studio or 
in a valley with mountains around me — 
that was new. 

"Yet it was some time later before I 
fully appreciated it all. That was when I 


The Great Adventure of Madame Kalich 


first saw part of the films run off. The 
part 1 saw was that in which 1 am in 
Menelik's hut, a strong part, you remem- 
ber. That sensation I cannot describe and 
can never forget. It was un- 
canny, worse than a nightmare. 
I wanted to shut my eyes and 
I couldn't. I had to look — 1 
stared dazedly. I kept asking 
myself, 'Who is this woman 
It isn't — it can't be — myself.' 

"I wanted to laugh, then cry. 
then scream. I watched it. 
fascinated. It was as if I were 
looking at the struggles of an- 
other woman, a stranger. I 
thought it was real. It was 
perhaps the most terrible, vivid 
experience of my life. When 
it was over I awoke as if I 
had been in a trance. Never 
before had I even a 
definite idea what 1 
must look like to the 
hundreds before me. Imagine seeing my- 
self with my own eyes — moving, talking, 
suffering! Do you wonder?" 

I didn't. Put baldly in words and set in 
cold type, this may lose its tenseness, its 
convincingness. In Madame Kalich's vivid 
speech, flavored by the pleasant accent she 
retains, and emphasized by eloquent ges- 
tures, it did not. You felt as she did. 

But Madame Kalich's reactions on her 
first moving picture experience arc not all 
personal. She is an artist and a serious 
artist and she has some definite — and in- 
teresting — views. She sums up her ver- 
dict on the moving picture in one trenchant 
sentence : 

"It is the flaming torch of the new 
temple of the theater." 

Here it is apt to relate Madame Kalich's 
confession. Several years ago when mov- 
ing pictures were an experiment and no 
actress of even moderate distinction had yet 
appeared in them, a New York manager 
came to her with a flattering offer to ap- 
pear in a certain drama on the films. She 
was indignant, startled, almost humiliated. 
She thought it a reflection on her art, al- 
most as if she had been asked to do a clog 
dance. That was several years ago. To- 
day she is proud of having been on the 
screen. She knows that while she thought 
she was guarding the ideals of her art, she 
was in fact onlv conservative. And she 

Madame Kalich 
calls the moving 
picture "the flaming 
torch of the new 
temple of the 
theater. " 

has the grace to confess it, and to record 
not only her conversion but her faith in 
the moving picture as an art. 

"People are accustomed to say," she 
says, "that it is a great thing for the public, 
for the people who cannot afford to go to 
the ordinary theaters. To me it is just as 
great a thing for the actor and actress. 
Don't think I deny that it is a great edu- 
cator for the public, that it gives thousands 
an opportunity to see great artists in great 
plays and that it will give them a desire for 
better things. I don't. But just as much 
I think it will improve the quality of the 
acting in our theater. 

"Just consider what a terrible record the 
film is. It sets everything down : it records 
everything ; it puts in permanent form 
every blemish, every error. When people 
see you in an ordinary drama, the)' carry 
away only impressions. The things you 
have done wrong can be corrected, can be 
wiped out by doing them better. But you 
can wipe out nothing from a film. It is a 
permanent, irrevocable record of your 

"Don't you think that will make us 
actors and actresses more careful? Don't 
you think, also, that it will make us learn? 
If we see our mistakes, not only will we be 
able to correct them, but if they are down 


Photoplay Magazine 

in black and white so everybody can see 
them, we will have to correct them. 

"So you see the moving picture opens up 
a big art to a public which has never had 
it before; it is an educator for the artist 
himself; it also — by taking scenes in the 
outdoors, in natural scenery, without the 
artificial stimulus of stage devices — makes 
the drama more real, more vital ; it rein- 
troduces the great art of the silent drama. 
Don't you think I am right when I say that 
the moving picture is the flaming torch of 
the temple of the new theater?" 

Madame Kalich doesn't look entirely 
on the favorable side, however. She is not 
insensible to the need for improvement. 
She thinks that a more delicate, sensitive 
camera must be perfected. She thinks also 
that the art of lighting must be improved. 
The art of shadows must be introduced, she 
says. Lines must be softer, colors less bald, 
tones more subtle. But all this, she agrees 

is only mechanical. It will come with ex- 
perience and improvement. 

Just as an aside Madame Kalich spoke 
of the great good of moving pictures for 
the humbler concerns of the actor. 

"It is foolish to say the moving picture 
spoils the actor. It helps him. If he 
watches his faults, carefully corrects them 
from the record before him, he will learn 
faster than if he is in a 'legitimate' drama 
under a stage manager. 

"Yes, the moving picture is a sort of 
training school. It is a teacher. It is a 
sort of — what shall I say?" — 

The sentence was supplied by a demure 
young woman who had modestly sat in the 
background — a frank looking girl with a 
pleasant face, a voice of soft modulations 
and cadences, and an ingratiating manner. 

"It is the preparatory school for the 
higher university of acting, mother." 

She was Madame Kalich's daughter. 



By Berton Braley 

""TIME was a man had need to go 
* And travel far and patiently 

We'll find them on the movie reel. 

The whole world furnishes our show 

To glimpse strange scenes in Borneo 

Or Syria or Araby, 

A swift and throbbing history 

Upon the spot he had to be 

Of folk that hurry to and fro 

Where foreign lands their sights re- 

Of comedy and tragedy, 


Love, hate and war — the pictures 

But now — they're brought for him 


to see 

They make their quick and sure ap- 

He'll find them on the movie reel. 


Life, life itself, keen, vibrant, 

The book that used to make you glow 

free — 

With fear and doubt and hope and 

You'll find it on the movie reel. 


The fairy tales you used to know 


And listen to at Mother's knee, 

Only the future has no key, 

The tales of old mythology 

No glimmer of it may we steal 

Of gods and men, of woe and weal, 

And yet, in time, who knows but we 

They live again for you and me, 

Shall find it — on the movie reel? 

It needs someone as beautiful as Clara Kimball Young to wear anything so gorgeous as this gown of 
Persian Patterned silk bordered with crystal beads, girdled with gold colored satin and with a petticoat 

and diminutive sleeves of gold lace. 


From the buckle of brilliants 
on her satin slipper to the 
bow-knot of brilliants in her 
shining hair, Arline Pretty, 
leading woman with King 
Baggott's Imp company, is the 
personification of artful sim- 
plicity. The sleeves of chiffon, 
the low neck banded with 
ermine, proclaim this a din- 
ner frock, whose trailing skirt 
of softest rose -colored velvet 
enhances the delightful dignity 
of its youthful wearer. 

In the Imp picture, "Am- 
bition," Frances M. Nelson 
wears an afternoon frock that 
is vastly becoming. The short 
jacket of black velvet is braided 
and buttoned down the front 
with silk buttons. The kilted 
skirt of blue charmeusc hangs 
in soft folds below the knees 
and suggests a freedom of 
movement denied by the nar- 
row underskirt of velvet. 


Violet Mesereau, Universal leading lady, wears a Gidding's gown whose simplicity of line is designed 
to emphasize the sumptuous richness of its material. Gold colored chiffon velvet is left unadorned in 
the bodice, but in the skirt it is covered with gold net spangled with opalescent blue sequins hanging in 
straight folds that are weighted down by a broad border wrought in a rose design in gold beads. 


Many ropes of pearls and a broad band of 
black velvet are the only garnitures on 
a wonderful gown worn by Louise Orth 
of the Western Universal studio, which 
is made of successive layers of the most 
delicate fabrics, lace over pale blue 
flowered chiffon over the filmiest of 
chiffon satins. 

Simple enough for a 
debutante, but beautiful 
enough for a Prin- 
cess, is the lace and 
chiffon dress worn by 
demure little Vivian 
Martin in "The Wish- 
ing Ring. " 



The Strange Case of 
Princess Khan 


Written from the Scenario of James Oliver Curwood 

By Wallace Hill 

Illustrations from the Seli£ Film. 

THE roaring of the lion is entertain- 
ing only to his hearers; to them 
only is it a novelty. To the lion 
himself it is likely to be a bore ; he 
gets too used to it. 

So Philip Dawson, notwithstanding the 
soft words and softer looks of the semi- 
circle of Paquin-created women that 
hemmed him in around a divan, found him- 
self suffering from a vivid though sup- 
pressed sense of ennui. To be sure, he 
was a successful novelist and part of the 
price a successful artist pays for his suc- 
cess is the duty of roaring. Just the same 
he found himself distinctly though re- 
signedly bored and though it was the 
Carewe ball and the atmosphere was regal 
and the women queenly, — well, he was 
very bored, indeed. 

Then the semi-circle was bisected. 

"Mr. Dawson, I have some material for 
you !" 

The speaker was Mrs. Carewe, mistress 
of the Carewe mansion, the most fashion- 
able of the fashionably gowned. 

"Yes, some real material. You are going 
to meet the seer of seers, master of the un- 
known, who possesses the key to the lock 
of all the mysteries. Wait !" 

And with that portentous promise she 
hurried away, only to reappear with what, 
in appearance at least, fulfilled her prom- 

Accompanying her was a strange figure 
— a long-bearded, turban-topped Oriental, 
with the face of a patriarch, the sunken, 
burning eyes of a traveler of the paths of 
the unknown, and the flowing robes of his 
race. One lion met another. Philip Daw- 
son, novelist, exchanged bows with Sadi 
Khan, the Mysterious Hindu, the dealer in 

magic who was just then furnishing society 
with its newest thrills. For a minute, as 
the two exchanged courtesies, even the 
light-footed Gardens, who were illustrating 
their newest steps to an admiring circle 
of new-dance enthusiasts, were eclipsed in 

"Sadi Khan," Mrs. Carewe confided to 
Dawson privately, "has promised to give 
a demonstration for a few of us tomorrow 
evening. Will you come?" And, fas- 
cinated, he accepted. 

So the next evening Dawson found him- 
self, all unexpectedly, on the threshold of 
adventure. As the low-bowing Hindu 
servant opened the door to Sadi Khan's 
house, Dawson stepped from the twentieth 
century to the tenth, from the Occident to 
the Orient. The mystery of India hung 
on the walls, lay in the divans, curled up 
from the hookahs, faintly glimmered from 
the exotic ornaments strangely placed here 
and there. Yet he felt as if a sudden op- 
pression had been laid on him as he was 
conducted by another servant up richly 
carpeted stairs where already the small 
group of Mrs. Carewe's elect was awaiting 
its induction through the veil of the un- 
known. And oppression turned to distrust 
as they seated themselves in a semi-circle 
at the bidding of the swarthy and inscrut- 
able Ben Saada, confidante and assistant 
to Sadi Khan, and awaited the Great Seer 
himself. Nor did it abate when he came, 
suddenly and noiselessly gliding toward 
them from behind thick, dark red curtains 
of velvet. 

They sat silent while servants tied their 
wrists behind their backs and listened to 
Sadi Khan. 

"Tonight, O my friends," he intoned 



Photoplay Magazine 

slowly, "tonight the spirit of a long dead 
princess of India will respond to mv 

And as he spoke he drew near them, 
passed around the semi-circle, looking fix- 
edly into the eyes of each, and gently waved 
his hands from side to side before them. 
Back and forth from one end to the other 
he went until the consciousness of all of 
them lay in the palm of those delicate 
hands, until all were transfixed in the rigid- 
ness of hypnotism. Still eyeing them fix- 
edly and slowly moving his arms above his 
head and lowering them in rhythmic- 
swing, he began stepping away from them 
until he reached a tall ebony cabinet. Then, 
with arms raised, hands joined and head 
bent so that his face and body were hidden 
behind his loose robes, he stood motion- 

So he stood for fully several seconds. 
Then the arms dropped and there stood — 
a woman. A woman of strange beauty, 
with light hair falling in clouds about her 
shoulders, with a small white ornament on 
her forehead, eyes that looked as from be- 
yond, and clad in shimmering robes that 
faintly revealed the lines of her body. 

For a second or two the woman — or ap- 
parition — stood still and then, gliding as 
in some strange ancient dance, she ap- 
proached the semi-conscious watchers. 
Stopping directly before Dawson, she bent 
in the low bow of the Orient, forehead to 
the ground, and receded as she had ap- 
proached. Before the ebony cabinet she. 
too, raised her arms, joined her hands and 
bent her head so that the robes fell about 
her face, she too stood motionless and 
dropped her arms, and as the draperies fell 
aside — Sadi Khan stood, gravely surveying 
the circle. 

Now he moved less ceremoniously. He 
approached his hypnotized guests, sharply 
clapped his hands before the eyes of each, 
and each jumped into wakefulness. As 
they did so the servants unloosed their 
wrists and they stood forth, dazed and 
startled, the mist of the trance still in their 

"My friends," Sadi Khan intoned once 
more, "you have seen the soul of an Indian 
Princess whose body has been dust for 
three thousand years." 

To all but one of the seer's fascinated 
guests the demonstration was no more than 

There stood a woman of strange beauty, with light hair falling in clouds about her shoulders. 

The Strange Case of Princess Khan 


They wrapped the "Princess" in a cloak and prepared to take flight. 

a new sensation for animated dinner con- 
versation. That one was Philip Dawson. 
The oppression and distrust with which he 
entered doubled as he went out. And as 
he walked to his rooms they approached 

Still in puzzled meditation, he was sit- 
ting in his armchair an hour later when 
the glint of something light on his coat at- 
tracted his attention. He bent over to 
examine it. It was a hair — a woman's 
hair ! 

He caught his breath exultingly be- 
tween his teeth. 

"I knew it! The flesh and blood of a 
woman! It was flesh and blood ! The soul 
of an Indian Princess? I thought so." 

To the resolution born of that discov- 
ery was due the visit Dawson paid to Sadi 
Khan the next afternoon. Met by Ben 
Saada he was taken into the seer's pres- 

"My friend," he said, after being greeted 
unctuously, "I am writing a novel on oc- 
cultism and I need material. I will give 
you $1,000 if you will bring back the spirit 
to me alone." 

Perhaps warned by intuition, Sadi Khan 

hesitated, but as he did so his eyes met 
those of Ben Saada, who nodded an al- 
most unnoticeable assent and the seer con- 
sented. Dawson was immediately taken 
to the room in which the previous demon- 
stration had been given. So anxious was 
he that he did not stop even to hang up 
his hat, but took it in with him, laying it 
on his knees as his wrists were tied behind 
him, Just as before, he was hypnotized, 
the figure of Sadi Khan faded into that of 
the beautiful woman, and the latter came 
to him in her glide. Only this time she 
came closer to him, her head bending nearly 
over his lap as she made her strange 
obeisance. And this time, when he came 
out of his trance, he was even more wrought 
up than before. 

"Who is that?" he burst out almost as 
soon as his wrists were untied. "Who was 
that I saw?" 

"Why, you were hypnotized, my young 
friend," responded the Hindu. "It is an il- 
lusion of your brain." 

Leaving the seer's house he strode swiftly 
down the steps to his motor. As he raised 
his hat to put it on something white 
dropped out of it. Agitated, he hurried 


Photoplay Magazine 

into his car, opened the note and read: 

"Once a week my reason is unlocked by 
my uncle with a powerful drug. The rest 
of the time I am under a hypnotic spell. 
I am writing this in my normal self in the 
hope that it will reach a friend. I am half 
English, but he calls me the Princess 

Trembling with excitement as he read 
this Dawson directed the chauffeur to make 
for the nearest police station. There he 
excitedly laid the entire case before the 
officer in charge, even showing him the 

"Officer, there is a woman being im- 
prisoned in the house of that impostor," he 
declared, "and we've got to free her." 

Ten minutes later he was speeding once 
more to the seer's house, this time with two 
detectives beside him. There was no wast- 
ing of ceremonials as they entered this 

"You have a woman in captivity here," 
Dawson flatly accused Ben Saada. "We've 
come to look for her." 

If the crafty Hindu servant was per- 
turbed it was not evident in his counte- 
nance. As for Sadi Khan, he looked in- 
dulgent and amused. He did not flinch 
even when the note dropped into Dawson's 
hat was shown him. He even laughed. 

"You see," he jokingly explained to the 

detectives, "I amused myself by writing 
this note. I apologize. But you may 
search the house if you choose." 

They did search, but their efforts were 
futile. They looked into all the mys- 
terious cabinets and recesses and rooms, but 
they found nothing, and when the detec- 
tives drove off with Dawson they were 
convinced that "the old geezer was telling 
it straight about the note." Not so Daw- 
son, however. It had gone beyond argu- 
ment or question with him. He knew be- 
yond possibility of doubt that there was a 
woman and not the spirit of a princess in 
that house and he meant to find it — if not 
through the police, then by some other 

Nor was there in the Hindu's house at 
that time the Oriental calm which marked 
it before. At the very time when the detec- 
tives were informing Dawson that "the old 
geezer was playing it square," Sadi Khan 
and Ben Saada were in close and excited 
converse. A few minutes later the latter 
was dispatched with the mission of shadow- 
ing Dawson's movements. At the same 
time Sadi Khan made his way through a 
concealed trapdoor to a secret alcove. 
There, on a divan, apparently asleep or 
unconscious, lay a beautiful woman. Her 
face was the face of the "Princess of 

As one awakened in a new world, she gazed about her, and made ineffectual attempts to discover 

where she was. 

The Strange Case of Princess Khan 


"My princess," he murmured, "my real 
princess. " 

With a sardonic leer the seer bent over 
the divan and scrutinized the woman as 
she lay asleep. Then from within his robe . 
he took a vial half-filled with a dull red 
liquid. He reached down as if to force the 
liquid down her throat, but quickly drew 
back. Instead he bent still more closely 
over her. drew his hands over her face 
several times and then slowly straightened 
up. As he did so. the woman, with her 
eyes still shut and apparently unconscious, 
followed him. As he stood erect, she stood 
erect. As he stepped back, she stepped 
back. Thus he led her about the room, as 
if she were a wooden toy on a string. On 
his face was the cruel exultation of a man 
who has a dagger at an enemy's throat and 
is toying with him before he puts him to 
death. Then he led her back to her divan, 
let her head fall back on the pillow, and 
locked her in, content in the feeling that she 
was secure. 

In the meantime Dawson was acting on 
his resolve. He drove immediately to his 
rooms, called two of his intimate friends, a 
scientist and a newspaperman on the tele- 
phone, told them the story and appealed for 
their aid. He not only obtained promises 
of such help, but induced them to come to 
his rooms immediatelv. And as he clicked 

the receiver at the end of his conversa- 
tion there appeared against the window 
pane behind him a brown face, the face of 
a Hindu. While Dawson waited for his 
friends he mapped out a plan of action 
whereby the seer and his servants could 
be taken by surprise and the entire house 
searched before they be warned. This 
plan was laid before them when they ar- 
rived and they made ready to leave im- 
mediately for its execution. And as they 
were donning their coats, the same brown 
face appeared against the window-pane. It 
was the face of Ben Saada. He was car- 
rying out his mission faithfully. 

So faithfully and successfully did Ben 
Saada carry out his mission that before 
Dawson and his friends were even in their 
automobiles he was giving warning to Sadi 
Khan. Nor did they lose time. While an 
automobile was being summoned for them, 
they went into the secret alcove, wrapped 
the "princess," still in a hypnotic trance, in 
a cloak and veil, and Ben Saada gathered 
her in his arms to take flight. Hindu im- 
perturbability was at an end ; they were re- 
solved on flight. 

But they had little time to waste ; so lit- 
tle that they had but started when Daw- 
son's high-powered car came in sight and 
the pursuit was on. The stake being big, 
discretion was cast to the winds. The 
Hindus made recklessly for the open coun- 
try, with Dawson and his friends not far 
behind them. Mile by mile the wild chase 
continued, past suburbs, past farm houses, 
past fields. Little by little the pursuers 
gained. On and on the two cars rushed. 
Finally when the pursuers were so close 
that capture seemed inevitable. Ben Saada 
suddenly arose in his seat, pulled out a 
revolver and began to fire. His enemies 
were prepared for him, however. And as 
they clashed on. the bullets flew from car to 
car and it seemed as if the race would be 
not to the swift but to the quick of aim. 

It was to neither. It came to an abrupt 
end when the Hindus' car suddenly disap- 
peared from view. It had gone over a 

Frantically. Daws.on led his friends on a 
search for the bodies— or. rather, for the 
body of the woman. They found all three. 
Sadi Khan and Ben Saada dead and the 
woman unconscious but alive. 

The next afternoon in the home of 
Philip Dawson a gray-haired woman was 


Photoplay Magazine 

bending over a young woman seemingly 
fast asleep. The gray-luiired woman was 
Philip Dawson's mother, the younger one 
was the "princess." The latter was unin- 
jured by the accident that killed her cap- 
tors, but she was still imprisoned in the 
bonds of sleep. The secret of the drug 
by which her senses had been periodically 
released was dead. It had died with the 
Hindu seer. For days physicians puzzled 
over her in vain and each pronounced the 
fateful judgment : "She must sleep thus 
forever until "the drug is found." 

It was found. From a secret pocket in 
the robes of Sadi Khan was taken the vial 
he had brandished but a few hours before 
and which he had taken with him to his 
death. It was given to Dawson to bring 
life to the woman he had saved. With 
trembling fingers he emptied the vial into 
a glass, poured the liquid down the girl's 
throat and waited. 

There was a long-drawn sigh, her breast 

heaved, and slowly, experimentally, she 
opened her eyes. As one awakened in a 
new world she gazed about her, gained her 
feet, and made ineffectual attempts to dis- 
cover where she was. She staggered now 
here, now there, until by chance she came 
face to face with Dawson. She stared at 
him, then shrank back as a frightened 
child from a stranger and fell back on the 
couch in a deep sleep — the sweet sleep of 
utter weariness. 

* * * * * * 

On a golden afternoon weeks later a girl 
sat on a little pile of rocks clustered as a 
nest in the shelter of thick beech trees. 
Beside her stood a man eagerly talking, 
then bending to look into her eyes and to 
close his hand over hers. 

"My princess," he murmured. 

And the eyes of the princess "whose body 
had been dust for three thousand years" 
glowed with the joy born of youth and life 
and love. 

een ana Heard at ike Movies 

"W/ATCH for this heading in Photoplay Magazine next month. It's worth 
" waiting for, because under it you'll find many a laugh, and many a grin. 
We're giving some one five dollars — maybe it's you — for the best little yarn, 
of less than 100 words, of something seen or heard at the movies. And even if 
you don't get the big prize there's a dollar consolation prize for everyone whose 
story is printed. 

Think! Write! Send! 

Address "Seen and Heard" Editor. Photoplay Magazine. 8 S. Dearborn St., 
Chicago. 111. 

The Most 
Important Man 

By John Oscar 


F YOU were asked off-hand to name the man 
who is at once the most important man inside 
a motion picture studio and the least import- 
ant outside, what would your answer be? 
You'd, doubtless, have to think a bit and then 
you'd probably answer, the camera man. But it is 
r not even the camera man. It is the director — in this 
case. John Adolfi. 

Mr. Adolfi has done great things since he threw his 
cap into the ring seven yearns ago. He was an actor 
before becoming a director, and as an actor he became 
well-known. As soon as he was advanced to the more 
important position of director, he dropped out of the 
(ublic eye and he has stayed out, although every month 
has seen him make significant advances in his chosen 
work. He did his first directing for the Powers Com- 
pany, where he stayed for only six months, and then 

John Adolfi is above 
Ihe average height, well- 
knit and vigorous, 
and deter- 

I found him out back of the 

studio, with several members of his 

company, including Mary Aldeu. 

Sam de Grasse, and Eugene 

Pallctte gathered about him. 



Photoplay Magazine 

changed to Reliance and Majestic, where 
he has been for two years. He is one of 
the few Majestic workers who were re- 
tained when director David Griffith took 
over the Mutual Company. 

Having, in much the manner of the pre- 
siding officer of a club, presented all the 
data at hand, we will now pre- 
sent the gentleman himself 

Mr. Adolfi is a tallish 
good looking man. 
well-knit and vigor 

u s, dark-haired 
and determined 
his mouth and 
chin suggest that 
their owner ex- 
pects (and in- 
tends) to have 
his own way un- 
less he is con- 
vinced that the 
other fellow's is 

1 found him out 
of doors in the studii 
yard with several mem- 
bers of his company, : 
eluding Mary Alden, Sam 
de (Jrasse, and Eugene Pal- 
lette seated about him. He 
was reading a scenario aloud 
to the company, and as I 
came up, I heard him say: 

"We'll get to work on this first thing in 
the morning, folks," and the players hur- 
ried away, their day finished at four-thirty 

"What do they do when they aren't 
working, Mr. Adolfi?" I asked. 

"Heavens, I don't know," he answered, 
a bit dazed with the suddenness of my ques- 
tion. "Eat, sleep, dance, I don't know. 
You see they are not around here then, so 

1 don't know what they do." 

Then I asked some more questions, and 
learned a number of things. 

First, that Mr. Adolfi often writes his 
own scripts, and that those that are not 
from his own pen — pardon me — typewriter, 
are gathered from the four corners of the 
earth by the scenario department. 

"Do you, personally, select your own 
cast for each play?" I next asked. 

He didn't seem to think it any of my 
business, but lie answered very courteously : 

"Yes, alwavs. Then I select the out- 

door scenes, consult with a stage carpenter 
about the necessary inside 'sets,' next comes 
a seance with the property man. a consulta- 
tion with my assistant director, and then 
the camera man. We figure out just how 
things should go. to get the best results. 
And then comes the actual directing of the 
1 'layers." 

Aren't you beginning to 
tgree with me about the 
most important man? 
"And what about 
make-up and cos- 
tumes ? Do you 
order them 
changed, wh e n 
necessary?" I 

"Yes, to all 
of that. When 
necessary. It sel- 
dom is. But now 
and then a play- 
er's idea of a part 
differs from a direc- 
tor's, and then it is 
necessary to compro- 

Compromise! T'll wager 
I can guess who it is that 

His mouth and chin suggest that , •. . 

their owner expects {and intends) to ■ Hives 111 When It tomes to 

have his -.own way unless he is con- compromise— and it isn't 

vinced that the other fellow s is better. f . 

the director! 

"And how much time do you spend on 
one reel ?"' 

"About a week. AVe rehearse each scene, 
usually only once or twice, but at times, 
when the action is a bit difficult, we go 
over it. several limes and rehearse until 
everyone knows to a dot, just what is re- 
quired of him. Thus we avoid expensive, 
troublesome, 'retakes' and everyone is en- 
tirely satisfied." 

I didn't have to ask him whether he did 
out-door "interiors," for I could see at a 
glance that he did. And who wouldn't, in 
California, the land of flowers, where the 
light is like liquid gold? The stage where 
Majestic, Reliance and Komic pictures are 
produced, is a large one, 80 by 1 20 feet, 
and beautifully located. 

The latest pictures on which Mr. Adolfi 
has put his O. K. are. "Through the Dark." 
"A Blotted Page," "Broken Nosed 
Bailey." "Blue Pete's Escape," "A Woman 
Scorned," "The Horse Wranglers," and 
"A Diamond in the Rough." 


Wooing and Weddin; 
of Slippery Slim 

the prominent attorney, went gayly out, one 
bright California day to visit the Essanay 
studio in Niles. 

At the studio she met a very tall, young 
man who manifested an extreme inter- 
est in her presence. Victor confided 
later to at least five people that he 
knew the minute he saw Mildred 
that he had lost several years of 
his life in not having known her 
before. He 
>egan try- 
i n g to 
make up 
for lost 
A few 
',1 o u r s 
a t e r a 
tudio ines- 
".. t lie San 

THE greatest 
of the wor- 
ries of Vic- 
tor Alfred 
Potel, who is the 
one and only Slippery Slim of S'nake- 
ville, comedian of the Niles plant of 
the Essanay Film Company, has al- 
ways been that no one would take him 
seriously. Now he has a new worry — 
But let's begin at the beginning. 

A very short time ago, Mildred Lud 
milla Pam, daughter of Leopold Pam. 
the theatrical promoter, and niece of 
Judge Pam of Chicago and of Max Pam, 



Photoplay Magazine 

Jose valley for Slippery Slim, was recalled 
by the studio manager who had found Vic- 
tor — and Miss Pam. In his haste the man- 
ager addressed Victor as "Slim." Mildred 
looked upon Victor with eyes of awe. She 
didn't laugh when she learned that the 
debonair young man was the original of the 
farcical human corkscrew of the Essanay 
films. She told him that she thought his 
work was wonderful. 

For eleven days Victor kept the studio in 
a ferment of continuous and usually futile 
search for him while he told Mildred, who 
was staying with some friends in Niles, the 
story of his life. It's not such a very long 
life, but it took Slippery more time to 
tell it than it takes him to get out of a 
comedy situation. He told of how lie had 
started out to be a travelling salesman for 
a clothing house. He had to admit that 
he had failed in this business for the rea- 
son that the firm he represented was mis- 
guided enough to use him as a model 
for the garments they wished to sell. 

The garments seemed desirable enough 
to Victor Alfred when he spread them out 
in his hotel rooms. When he wore them to 
the offices of prospective customers they 
seemed blighted. Of course, they hadn't 
been built for his architecture. Victor 
Alfred is six foot four in height and not 
more than eighteen inches wide. The nar- 
rowest suit in his stock went around him 
twice. The longest one let his ankles sliow 
in chic Parisienne fashion and let his 
wrists come down in up- York- State style. 
The merchants greeted him with rapture; 
but nobody bought his goods. 

Finally,' as Victor told the girl from the 
east — he must have told her, the other 
Essanay actors say — he decided that there 
■was some joke about him. He examined 
his line carefully. He couldn't find any- 
thing to laugh at in the excellent garments 

which he offered to the trade. Finally one 
of the trade told him the truth. "The 
joke, my boy," he said, "is not in your line. 
It's in you." 

Now Victor is a bright young man. He 
saw the point. "If that's so," he said. 
"I'll capitalize myself. People like jokes." 
And he set out to find how to do it. 

He says that he was on his way to Es- 
sanay's Chicago studio when he met 
G. M. Anderson, the "A" of Essanay and 
the "Broncho Billy" of motion picture 
fame. Mr. Anderson sighted Victor Al- 
fred a block away, for Victor Alfred is of 
the build of an old-fashioned clipper ship. 
He saw the possibilities for motion picture 
fun in the structure of the remarkably 
tall, remarkably slender young man. He- 
halted the youth. He offered Victor Al- 
fred a chance of a job. The rest of the 
story every one knows. 

Eight days after Miss Mildred Pam ar- 
rived in Niles she telegraphed her father, 
requesting his immediate presence there. 
Eleven days after she met Slippery Slim of 
Snakeville Miss Mildred Pam became Mrs. 
Victor Alfred Potel. 

Everybody made it a festive occasion, 
particularly Victor Alfred Potel's friends. 
In fact they seemed to find so much rea- 
son for mirth that Mrs. Victor Alfred said 
she didn't see anything funny in two peo- 
ple who liked each other getting married. 
And then everybody but Victor laughed. 

Some one took Slippery Slim aside. 
"Slim," he said, "if you lose your sense of 
humor, you'll lose your job." 

Victor ruminated. "That's not what's 
worrying me," he announced. "What I'm 
afraid of is that my wife's going to be so 
good a cook that I'll lose my figure. I 
could get along without a sense of humor. 
But what'll I do if I ever get.fat?" 

Matrimony is a problem ! 


JWIANAGER of Picture Theatre : (to applicant for work.) "What kind 
V>7 of work can you do?" 

Applicant : . "Well, boss, I think I'd make a fine prompter for the actors 
• on the films." 

On the Inside at Lubinville 

By Esther Pennington 

LUBINVILLE is the only place in 
Philadelphia not discovered by Ben- 
jamin Franklin, who wandered in 
from Boston one day and trans- 
fixed everything in the City of Brotherly 
Love with a benevolent eye and a bronze 
tablet. Although the War of Independ- 
ence was waged after that time and Phila- 
delphia became the capital of the United 
States, while Washington was a mud hole 
on the Potomac, Philadelphia changed not 
at all until Siegmund Lubin, arriving from 
Germany by way of New York, revolution- 
ized the town with motion pictures and 
founded Lubinville. 

Lubinville stands on the outskirts of the 
older section of Philadelphia at the corner 
of Indiana avenue and Twentieth street, 
but it extends all over Philadelphia when 
the Lubin directors need metropolitan set- 
tings for films. This extension has done 

more to arouse Philadelphia from its Rip 
Van Winkle existence than all the jibes of 
New York and Chicago. No one in Phila- 
delphia knew the real significance of the 
Liberty Bell until a troupe of players in 
revolutionary colonial costumes rushed 
past the intersection of Chestnut and Broad 
streets, pursued by a man waving a camera. 
Nevertheless, Lubinville proper is a 

From the gate of the fortress there 
emerged one day a beautiful woman mag- 
nificently attired in a yellow satin gown 
and a pink brocaded coat. She swept 
haughtily through a double line of blase 
young men whose total disregard of their 
dinner jackets in broad daylight argued 
that they were to the manor born, and 
ascended the steps of the waiting limou- 
sines. A perspiring, red-faced, gray- 
haired man in white trousers and a vivid 

You may find the painters at work on a new set in the same studio in which scenes are being filmed. 



Photoplay Magazine 

This gives a very good idea of the tremendous amount of artificial light needed for taking interiors 

on a dark day. 

shirt of violet stripes, rushed frantically 
from the other side of the automobile. 
"Get back," he cried, "get back!" 

"What's the matter now?" inquired the 
lady in the pink brocade, pausing at the 
door of her vehicle. 

"That's the same coat you wore in the 
last scene, and you're supposed to have 
changed," roared the interrupter. 

"Well, no one told me," she assured 
him, "and you'll have to wait till I change." 
She swept bade again through the gateway 
with the same regal air. 

"Whew !" breathed one of the dinner- 
coated youths. "It's great to be a direct- 
or's wife and make him stand around." 

"Get out of the way !" the gateman 
growled at him. and the blase troupe all 
retreated to let the perspiring gentleman 
of the violet shirt pass through the lodge. 

Within the gates there flashed a scene 
that for an instant looked like the interior 
of a British barracks. Red-coated soldiers 
were passing from one building to another 
across a courtvard set between structures 

of high, military walls. On the benches 
lounged men whose khaki looked at first 
sight like the undress uniform of Tommy 
Atkins, but who proved on closer inspec- 
tion to be clad in exact replicas of the uni- 
forms of the American soldier in the Phil- 
ippine campaign. At one end of the court- 
yard, soldiers of France played cards in an 
unconsidered and undirected scene that 
looked exactly like one of those in "Under 
Two Flags." A girl in western riding 
costume of corduroy and sombrero stood 
watching them. A girl in Quaker garb 
waited in a doorway to talk with a man 
whose raiment proclaimed him an English 
Puritan of Oliver Cromwell's time, but 
whose unalloyed mirth marked him more 
Cavalier than Roundhead. Suddenly she 
slapped him squarely across the cheek and 
ran off with gay laughter, followed by un- 
puritanical threats from the wearer of the 
broad-brimmed, high-crowned black hat. 

Suddenly there clanged a brazen bell. 
Instantly men and girls rushed toward the 
doorway in the left-hand corner of the 

On the Inside at Lubinville 


courtyard. The tall buildings around the 
place emptied other men and other girls 
from low doorways and from high stair- 
ways that led up to other doors that seemed 
to be set in the glass roofs. "Luncheon !" 
a girl shouted shrilly. A man mocked her 
high soprano. "Luncheon nothing!" 
boomed a deep bass. "I'm going to eat 
a dinner." They wedged somehow into the 
doorway, flocking up the stairs like a mob 
in a play, a strange medley of nationalities 
and periods, all the way from tuniced 
Romans to double-tuniced evening gowns, 
and all the grades from emperor to scrub- 
woman, all happy, all ravenously hungry. 
Into the dining room they rushed after 
their ascent had brought them to the high-, 
est floor of the building. Waitresses be- 
fore steaming, nickel-plated urns kept pass- 
ing cups with a speed that betokened long 
training in railway restaurants. Orders 
flashed to and fro, attended by airy bad- 
inage. Some one flung a biscuit. "Stop 
that !" an authoritative voice commanded. 
Amid the chatter of two hundred peo- 
ple it was hard at first to distinguish either 
people or conversation ; but at the end of 
the long counter a very pretty girl made a 
place for me beside her. Her smile had 
that familiar quality that devotees of mo- 
tion pictures come in time to recognize as 
one that they have seen in pictures some- 

where. She wasn"t Ethel Clayton, for 
Ethel Clayton was down at the other end 
of the counter, perched on a high stc>ol and 
wearing a deeply decollete gown of black 
velvet. This other girl wasn't in costume, 
unless a fascinating poke bonnet of the 
very latest style might be called a cos- 
tume ; and she was so exceptionally, tan- 
talizingly pretty that it was almost impos- 
sible to think that one might have seen her 
picture without remembering her name. 
She smiled a whole battery of dimples. 
"I'm Louise Huff," she said, "otherwise 
Mrs. Jones. And that's Florence Hackett 
on the other side of you," she introduced. 

To those familiar with the Lubin films 
Florence Hackett is a gaudy adventuress. 
She always plots and intrigues and con- 
nives. She steals the jewels in the great 
jewel robberies. She forges letters. She 
kidnaps children. She disrupts dynasties. 
Acquaintance with her acting would lead 
her followers to believe that she would be 
a haughty woman of slant eyes and a cruel 
mouth. But this girl at the other side had 
merry brown eyes that twinkled and a 
humorous mouth that ran into little laugh 
wrinkles when she talked. She talked be- 
tween mouthfuls of strawberry pie. 

"I love to be a villainess," she said in 
explanation of her work. "I'd love to be 
a real villainess in real life. Everybody 

The wardrobe room of the Lubin plant is a fascinating place and its resources are illimitable. 


Photoplay Magazine 

walks all over me," she said plaintively, 
"except Louise. Louise couldn't walk over 
anybody." She gave a glance down the 
counter that fell upon several sisters of 
the studios, who received it directly above 
their own pie-laden forks and returned it 
with compound interest. "But I'm not 
going to let people impose upon me any- 
longer," Miss Hackett announced in a 
tone that carried to the extreme end of 
the room. 

"Was any one trying to, Florence dear?" 
Ethel Clayton inquired. 

"Not twice," said Miss Hackett without 
the meekness that she claimed. But in an 
instant her assertiveness had departed as 
she began to talk of her love for Lubin- 
ville. "I'm the veteran here," she said. 
"I'm the oldest woman on the place." 
Louise Huff laughed heartily. 

"What about Jane?" she inquired. 
"Jane," she explained, "is seventy-eight." 

"Well, she came after I did." Florence 
Hackett said. "I mean that I was the 
first actress whom Mr. Lubin engaged for 
Lubinville. I'm awfully proud of it." she 
declared. "Once, a little while ago. I was 
having some trouble in Philadelphia and 
I thought 1 could not Stay in this town 

You wouldn't believe that a chicken yard could 
be part of a motion picture plant, but raising 
eggs is only one of the infinite variety of minor 
activities carried on at Betzwood, that magnificent 
country place which is an adjunct of Lubin's Phil- 
adelphia Plant. 

because of my own unhappiness. I told 
them here, and they told me that, even if 
I went, I could come back whenever I 


Betzwood can furnish this troop of cow-boys with a setting that no one in the world would take for 

anything but Wyoming. 

On the Inside at Lubinville 


wanted to come. Mr. Lowry advised me 
against going, though. 'You're not as 
miserable here as you'll be anywhere else,' 
he told me. And I found that he "was 
right. I was more miserable away than I 
had thought w : as possible. And one -day 
I telephoned him from New York. 'Come 
right back,' he said, and I cried over that 
telephone for ten minutes before I dared 
go out on the street." 

•'It is home, sure enough," said Louise 
Huff. Florence Hackett smiled fondly at 
the girl. "It should be for you," she 
teased her. "Louise met her husband 
here;" she said. "He's one of the direct- 
ors. We all knew he liked her a long 
time before Louise seemed to find it out, 
for he put on all the sort of pictures that 

It was not many years ago that Lubin's machine 
shop in which his cameras, projecting machines, 
etc., are made, was as jealously guarded as a 
cloister, so keen tops the rivalry among the vari- 
ous motion picture companies. 

called for a girl of her type." Louise 
blushed furiously. "And he's still putting 
them on," the older woman continued. 
. Then at the door appeared a short, 
rather stoop-shouldered man with a shock 
of gray hair, a drooping gray mustache 
and kindly blue eyes. A cry of greeting 
whirled out to him! "That's Mr. P'Arcy," 

some one explained. H. A. D'Arcy he 
was, who is Siegmund Lubin's son-in-law 
and publicity manager, but who won fame 
even before the days of the movies as the 
author of that famous poem. "The Face 
on the Floor," that has gone through all 
the nations of the world under the title he 
didn't give it, but which it won for itself 
as a stone wins moss, "The Face on the 
Mar Room Floor !" 

He smiled genially upon the crowd, 
summoning a man whom he sought, and 
stepping to one side to give a glimpse of 
Siegmund Lubin. who was showing some 
visitors through the wonderful plant, and 
expatiating upon the mechanical marvels 
of the place. A bald man of shrewd eyes 
and a wide brow. "Pop" Lubin only when 
he isn't around, the man in the doorway 
was one of the tremendous figures in the 
newest and most rapidly growing of the 
great industries of the world. With the 
power of a great executive he dominated 
the place while he stayed. It was not 
merely that he owned Lubinville. It was 
because of his vivid personality that the 
lunchroom was silent while he remained. 
With his going the work bell clanged. 

Down the stairway rushed the actors, 
through the courtyard and into other door- 
ways and up other stairways, going to 
their dressing rooms and studios, prepared 
for the rush of w r ork that is so characteris- 
tic of the Lubin studios. The wheels of 
activity whirled fast beneath the glass 
roofs. No one loitered now. Every one 
worked. But the same spirit that had 
marked the noontide recess, the spirit of 
camaraderie that is so noble a feature of 
Lubinville, the spirit of fun and mischief, 
pervaded the work, a fire in the volcano 
that old Benjamin Franklin would have 
enjoyed if he could come again through 
the streets of the red brick houses with the 
rocking chairs on the porches and the 
"busybodies" on the second-story windows. 
For he would have remembered the experi- 
ments with lightning that he himself made 
in the Pennsylvania city and he would 
have appreciated how "Pop" Lubin still 
plays with the lightning under the glass 
roofs of Lubinville. 

Order Your Copy of Photoplay Magazine in Advance 
The demand usually exceeds the supply. Make sure that you 
and your friends get copies. 

"The Thanhouser Twins," known throughout the 
world by that name, are Marion and Madeleine 
Fairbanks. There was a time when no one could 
tell them apart, but some of their friends claim 
they know them now. 

SPECIALIZING in children isn't 
supposed to be the line of work for 
which a motion picture studio is best 
adapted; but the Thanhouser has 
come into quite as much fame through its 
staff of children artists as through the ex- 
cellence of its photoplays. Therefore the 
children of this plant are the bright and 
' shining stars of the place and the center 
of the spotlight whenever they stand in one 
place long enough to have it thrown upon 
them. For the quartette of youngsters 
whose photographs under the Thanhouser 
imprint are known from one end of the 
world to another are the Fairbanks Twins. 
Madeline and Marion. Helen Badgley, the 
baby, and Leland Benham, the eight-year- 
old boy. 

To see them in the pictures is to believe 
that they may possibly be children whose 
serious purpose in posing for motion plays 
may divert them from the more real pur- 
pose of playtime. But to see them together 
in one of the big rooms of the %tudio is to 
know that the four youngsters are having 
the time of their lives and turning the 
workaday place into a veritable Toyland. 

Almost any day in the Thanhouser 
studio in New Rochelle there go on games 
of hide and seek, of blind man's buff, of 
London bridge, that would demoralize any 
public school and that would bring joy 
to the pedagogic heart of a Montesorri. 


Those Thanhouser 

In and out between busy actors and ac- 
tresses, who are never too busy however 
to give them an encouraging pat on the 
head, run the Fairbanks twins, the Badg- 
ley baby, and the Benham boy. Some- 
times they take refuge in a corner to hold 
remarkable conversations that prove ex- 
tremely enlightening as well as amusing to 
those who happen to overhear them. 

One of these took place not long ago 
when the four of them made a playhouse 
out of a scenic set and proceeded to have 
a tea party, importing Helen Badgley's 
dishes for the occasion. It would have 
been a notable success had Leland Ben- 
ham been able to keep still. But that's 
another part of the story. Dave Thomp- 
son, who was dressing in the next room, 
says that one of the twins — no one can 
tell their voices apart, but he thinks from 
the context that it was Marion — remarked. 
"I'm tired of adulation." 

"What's that?" asked the Badgley mile. 
who is five years old. with ravishing brown 
eyes and golden curls and pink cheeks. 

Leland Benham of the Thanhouser studios who 
plays "Boy" and whose favorite play is "Just Play." 

"Those Thanhouser Kids" 


Helen Badgley, who is "The Thanhouser Kidlet" 
is only five years old, but is already the real prima 
donna of the studios, having more temperament 
than Emma Eames ever had. 

"It's a bad cold," said the other Fair- 
banks twin. 

"No, it is not." said Marion. 

"It is, too." said her sister. "For mother 
said you were getting too much adulation 
and you know that you ain't got nothing 
but a bad cold here." 

"Well, I don't know what it is," said 
one of the brown curled beauties, "but it 
ain't a cold, and whatever it is, it's nice." 

Perhaps they might have gone farther 
into the philosophy of the things that are 
nice but not advisable for daily use had 
not Leland Benham upset Helen Badgley's 
tea set. There was no tea in the cups or 
the teapot at the time, but there was grief 
in Helen's soul for the tea that might have 
been spilt.. And she wept as if the floor 
had been inundated with the fluid that had 
never been present. The twins tried to 
comfort her and banished Leland to the 
outer darkness. 

The banishment was an evil thought. 
When next discovered Leland, who is eight 
years old and possessed of a demon of 
mischief that peeps through the curtains 
of his brown eyes on divers occasions, was 
found in session with the janitor of the 
Thanhouser plant. The session was 
stormy on the part of the janitor, placid 
on the part of Leland. 

Leland was standing just outside a 
square of cement that had been carefully 
fenced in to keep passcrsby from stepping 
upon it while it was in the process of 
hardening. The cement had not yet hard- 
ened but distinctly visible in it were the 
imprints of two feet strikingly similar in 
size to the sturdy ones of the Benham boy. 
The janitor was surveying them. 

"You did step in there," he was saying. 

"I did not," said Leland. 

"You did, too." shouted the irate guar- 
dian of the cement. 

"I did not." insisted Leland. 

"I saw you," cried his accuser. 

"You never did," said the Thanhouser 
boy, "for I looked both ways and there 
wasn't anybody at all in sight." 

And the session broke up in a riot. 

Between playtimes however the Than- 
houser kids do some genuinely hard work, 
although they call it "other play." Helen 
Badgley has been in "Brother Bob's 
Babv." in "The Tin Soldier and the 
Doll," "Coals of Fire." "A Clothesline 
Quarrel." and a score of others. The. 
Fairbanks children, as the Thanhouser 
Twins, have been in hundreds of motion 
pictures. Leland Benham is having almost 
as many to his credit as are his father 
and mother. But the studio knows the 
youngsters by their play rather than by 
their work. And if a rushing director 
falls over a hobbyhorse, what would he 
dare say when two score men and women 
stand champions for four busy-brained 


"THE production of "How Hazel (Jot Even" was, a few weeks ago. stopped by 
*■ an accident which occurred to Miss Dorothy Gish. who was being featured in 
the picture. She was on her way home from the Majestic studio, in Holly- 
wood, Cal., when she was struck by an automobile and the wheel passed over 
her foot, breaking several bones and making it impossible for her to appear 
before the camera for several weeks. 

Robert Harron is distinctly different from any 
resemblance to this role that he plays. 

WHEN David < iriffith planned to 
stage the photoplay "The Es- 
cape.'' drafted from Paul Arm- 
strong's hectic and brutal melo- 
drama for Helen Ware, he made some 
radical changes so that the photoplay 
stands out as a man's rather than a wom- 
an's play. 

In the original Helen Ware ran away 
with all the show except that part in 
which Harry Mestayer did one of the finest 
pieces of acting of a Bowery type ever seen 
on the stage. In the photoplay, in spite of 
the intelligent work of Blanche Sweet 
and Mae Marsh. "The Escape" was dom- 
inated by the work of the three men who 
did the intensely disagreeable roles of 

Three Rou^h- 



the terrible McGee, the weak brother, and 
the drunken father. 

To Donald Crisp, to Bobby Harron, and 
to E. A. Turner go the honors for the 
masterly performance of these trying 

Griffith, who is one of the most pains- 
taking directors in the world, sent Crisp, 
Turner and Harron to New York's How 

Robert Harron as he really is. 

Donald Crisp followed a ivell-known Bowery 
Cltaracter until he could emidate every movement. 

cry to study the types they were to play. 
When they had mastered their atmosphere 
and their general idea of character in the 
roles, Griffith set them to work at the 
definite sculpture of their individual roles. 
The result is the trio that makes "The 
Escape" a noteworthy photoplay. 

Outside the film Harron. who is the 
youngest of the group, is so distinctly dif- 
ferent from any resemblance to the role he 
plays that a word of explanation of him 
may be necessary to those who see him in 
the part. He isn't twenty years old yet. 
He came to the Biograph's plant when 
he was only fourteen. He worked as a 
messenger boy for six years. Once in a 
while Griffith put him on the stage to do 
messenger roles. Harron's naturalness 


necks from 

Richard Willis 

and ease proved an excellent foundation 
for motion picture work, but it was not 
until Griffith tried him out one day as a 
waif of the streets that young Harron 
showed that he possessed real talent in the 
playing of these difficult roles. From that 
time the Biograph studio was without the 
services of R. Harron, messenger. R. 
Harron, actor, had taken his place. 

Donald Crisp in real life. 

Crisp, who played the ferocious McGee. 
was educated at England's famous boys' 
school, Eton, where he won the annual 
cross country run of ten miles and where 
he was one of the stars of the Rugby foot- 
ball team playing during his entire course. 
Eater he served in the British army, hav- 
ing been with the Tenth Hussars dur- 
ing the Boer War. He was wounded three 
times during the course of the conflict and 
was promoted to the post of color sergeant 
for conspicuous bravery. 

The big Englishman owes his theatrical 
engagement to the fact that John C. 
Fischer heard his tenor voice and imme- 
diately signed him up for opera tours 
through Cuba, Mexico, and South America. 
On his return to New York he played the 

Turner mastered the general idea of this character 
in Salvation Army Headquarters. 

leading part in "At Yale." After an en- 
gagement with Cohan he met David Grif- 
lith. The producer engaged him for the 
Biograph company where he has been play- 
ing for four years. 

F. A. Turner, the last of the trio, has 
been playing befoi'e the footlights for 
twenty-two years. During that time he 
has played with nearly all the important 
American and English actors and in nu- 
merous stock companies. 

To the cooperation of these three men, 
their enthusiastic entrance into the direc- 
tor's idea, and their fine work before the 
camera. "The Escape" owes that "punch" 
that characterizes it as one of the excep- 
tional productions of the Biograph studios. 

F. A. Turner doesn't look much like the "rough- 
neck" he plays in "The Escape. " 


Can She Bake a Cherry 
Pie, Billy Boy? 

ONCE upon a time May Irwin as- 
tonished the world by proving 
that she was a most wonderful 
cook. Her expert knowledge of 
the culinary art seemed to come as a shock- 
ing surprise to the public, who somehow 
didn't seem to associate cookery and 
comedy, much less cookery and high 
tragedy. "Why shouldn't I cook?" 
the buxom May retorted. Her retort 
registered.' Since that time the asso- 
ciation of actresses and frying pans 
has been more common until now the 
assertion that ninety-nine per cent of 
the motion picture actresses are good 
cooks doesn't meet witli any excite- 

But if you think pi what some of 
the actresses have to do in the inter- 
vals between meal times, you'll 
realize that one must be a 
very remarkable woman in 
order to accomplish these 
somersaulting feats. Look 
at Kathlyn Williams, star of 
the Selig Polyscope Company, who tames 
lions and tigers and panthers and plays 
with bears and elephants. Now Kathlyn 
Williams can bake cherry pies and many 
other kinds of pies after she comes in 
from the lion's cage. And the best of her 
pies, she says, is a lemon custard pie, for 
which she gives this recipe: Ingredients — 
two eggs, one cup of granulated sugar, one 
cup of water, one tablespoon of butter, one 
tablespoon of cornstarch dissolved in 
w-ater, and one lemon. Grate the rind, 
then peel off the thick white skin, and 
grate the rest of the lemon, being careful 
to remove the seeds. Mix, and pour in 
pan which contains pie dough as prepared 
in usual way. Save out one of the whites 
and beat to a stiff froth with a tablespoon 
of pulverized sugar. After the pie has 
baked, place the whiting on top and re- 
turn to the oven until it is a delicate brown. 
Then Mary Fuller, who is put through 
all the daredevil feats that the scenario 


editor of Universal can think up for her, 
is quite expert on cooking. This is her 
own testimony. People who've eaten what 
Mary's cooked say better of the result than 
she does. . j .. . 

"Cooking?" she says. "Let me see. 
Yes, lately I have been most 
occupied cooking 

When you stop to consider that Cteo 
Madison has to do just such stunts as 
this between meals, you'll realize how 
remarkable an accomplishment it is for 
her to make the best ripe olive salad 
yon ever ate. 

up scenarios. A good scenario, done to a 
turn, well seasoned with spice, stuffed witli 
meat, stirred witli motion, sweetened with 
sugar, and served appetizingly, is at pres- 
ent my favorite recipe. It takes some 
thought to prepare this dish, but if a suc- 
cess, it is much praised, and has a wide- 
spread demand. 

In some of the days of yester-year, how- 
ever, I did cook very well with a stove. 
When I was in the seventh grade, cooking 
was included in the course, and once a 
week I donned a rather wrinkled apron 
and cap, and with kindred spirits leaned 
over stoves and looked into cook books. I 
learned how to burn my fingers, inhale the 
smoke of burning vegetables and redden 
my face to the hue of a turkey gobbler's 

When I rose- to the surface again after 
my term of cooking lessons there was one 
thing I could make very well, so my girl 
friends told me, but there was one other 

Can She Bake a Cherry Pie, Billy Boy? 

relish that was my favorite to prepare. The first was 
cake. I baked cakes principally for my mother's card 
parties and musicales. I prepared them with care, with 
bounty yet with economy. 1 watched their progress in 
the oven zealously in a prayerful attitude and a red face. 
I iced them lovingly. They were good cakes and 
pleased my mother very much. Her friends compli- 
mented me on my skill, and what is more, ate them — 
the cakes. 

The second dish, which was my favorite, was 
green peppers. I only made them once. But it was 
memorable. With great enthusiasm one day, I opened 
my neatly inscribed cook book and turned tc 
''Stuffed Green Peppers." 1 assembled about 
me on the table a quantity of dishes and in- 
gredients, and bustled about the kitchen much 
to the discomfiture of our "domestic." 1 
was busy for a long time, peeling onions, 
with results, cleaning peppers, chopping 
meat and bread, measuring salt and pepper 
and butter, and doing all the niceties that 
an amateur cook does and that a profes- 
sional one doesn't need to do. 

At last my fleet of peppers was 
placed expectantly in the oven. 1 
whiled away the time of waitin 
best I could — jumping the rope 
in the street, "sic-ing" my dog 
down a rat hole, and such juve- 
nile refreshments — and hastened 
back to the stove. Our 
dinner hour was called be- 
fore they were done, and 
the family assembled at the table 
some time before 1 deemed it right to take 
them out of the oven. In the now dark- 
ened kitchen, 1 placed them on a platter 
and bore them triumphantly aloft to the 
dining room. They were the cynosure of 
all eyes, and the butt of remarks. They 
were a disappointed-looking lot of peppers. 
Some were sad, some were "peeved," and 
some were fat and helpless. Nobody woul< 
eat them, though they had a very pleasant 
aroma to me. So I ate all seven of them 
myself. Seven — I had made one for the 
dog. too. You can imagine the sequel. 

Clara Kimball Young, who can pose for 
the World Film Corporation as a queen 
an empress of an oriental princess or some 
magnificent dignitary of past or present, is 
an expert cook. And what do you suppose 
are the works of art she takes greatest pride 
in? Fluffy foods, like Charlotte Russe, 
and angel food cake, and chocolate cake 
filling, and Saratoga chips ! 

Here is how she savs she makes Char- 



Photoplay Magazine 

lotte Russe: Mix one pint of rich cream, 
one-half cup of powdered sugar, and one 
teaspoonful of vanilla. Have very cold and 
whip to stiff froth, turning under cream 
when it first rises. Line dish with sponge 
cake or ladyfingers and fill with the 
whipped cream. 

And Pearl White, who does the Perils 
of Pauline for the Pathe Freres Company, 
going through every devisable escapade 
for the making of thrills, can make French 
puddings and Welsh rarebits and other 
cosmopolitan dishes, all the way over to 
chocolate caramels. She insists that this 
is the best recipe to be found for spaghetti 
a la pauline. Break into very short 
lengths small sticks of spaghetti and boil. 
Let it be rather overdone. Dress this with 
butter and cheese after it has boiled. Work 
in one or two eggs. Butter and bread 
crumb a plain mold, and fill, pressing it 
well down and leaving a hollow in the 
center, into which place a well flavored 
mince of meat, poultry or game ; then fill 
up the mold with more spaghetti, pressed 
down well. Bake in a moderate heated 
oven and turn out and serve. 

And for chocolate caramels, boil one 
cupful of grated chocolate, two cupfuls of 
brown sugar, one cupful of West India 

molasses, one cupful of milk or 
cream, butter the size of an egg. 
Boil until thick, stirring constant- 
ly. Pour out on buttered plates 
and when it begins to harden, 
mark in small squares so that it 
will break easy when cold. 

Sally Crute, who was born and 
raised in Chattanooga, Tennessee, 
boasts of her chicken fried south- 
ern style. "As a youngster," she 
testifies, "I had an old black 
mammy who was an excellent cook. 
She taught me how to cook all the 
good things for which the negro 
mammies of the South are noted. 
I always prepare fried chicken just 
as my old black mamm y did. 

First, I unjoint the chicken, 

a 'veritable wash good in salt water, then let 
musical maid. ^^ fof ^^ ^ h()Ur fa 

fresh salt water. Then I dry the 

meat with a nice soft cloth, and 

after salting and peppering, roll 

it in flour. Next, I place the 

pieces in a frying pan which is 

half full of bacon fat, covering 

up and cooking slowly for about half an 

hour, turning the pieces over until all are 

well done and good and brown. 

Next, I make a gravy from the bacon 
fat in which the chicken has been fried, 
adding a pinch of salt, enough butter to 
suit, a tablespoon of flour, and stir until 
it becomes brown. Thin with cream or 
milk. Let this cook until it thickens, pour 
it over the fried chicken, and serve the 
whole with hot biscuits. 

Gertrude McCoy of the Edison isn't 
Spanish, but her best contribution to the 
table is a Spanish salad. Besides that, 
she can make an outing sandwich that pro- 
vides a picnic with luxury. She makes 
the salad thus : Place small leaves of let- 
tuce around a dish, then slice Spanish 
onions and place on top of the lettuce 
leaves. Cover the onions with sliced to- 
matoes, then cover the tomatoes with strips 
of green peppers. After letting stand for 
about ten minutes, pour a salad dressing 
of oil and vinegar over it. 

Cleo Madison, who has all the adven- 
tures in "The Trey of Hearts" with the 
Universal, also runs to the Spanish in cook- 
ery, specializing in ripe olive salad. Per- 
haps California is responsible for both. 
Miss Madison makes it this way: Take the 

Can She Bake a Cherry Pie, Billy Boy? 


inner stalks of a bunch of celery and 
put into cold water,- leaving until crisp, 
then drain and cut into small pieces. Seed 
and quarter some large, ripe olives, also 
have some English walnuts chopped, not 
too line. Mix all together and add some 
rather tart mayonnaise dressing. Let stand 
a few minutes, then serve very cold on 

Rose Tapley can make all sorts of food 
triumphs, being a wonder with roast beef 
and roast lamb. But in addition to her 
photoplay acting she lias an amazing repu- 
tation as a jellymaker. This is her secret 
of being a success as an artist in jellies : 
In making jelly I use absolutely no water, 
extracting the juice from the fruit by 
mashing it a little and heating it. being 
careful that it does not scorch. Then I 
put it through a collander and drain the 
juice. Next, I strain the whole through 
jelly bags, straining it several times, but 
trying to keep it as hot as possible, as it 
jellies better if it is never allowed to cool. 
I measure it and allow a cup of sugar to a 
cup of juice, placing the sugar in the oven 

to heat, stirring it frequently so that it 
will not caramel ; when the juice has boiled 
hard for about ten minutes. I add the hot 
sugar very slowly. Then 1 let it boil for 
about twenty minutes, trying a little of the 
jelly on a very cold saucer to see if it has 
been cooked sufficiently. If it jells quickly, 
I pour into jelly glasses. Pour melted 
parafin over the top and place in the sun 
for a few days, as this clarifies the jelly 
and gives it a lovely color. 

And among the ladies enters John 
Bunny ! 

John can make a punch. He says it is 
a good punch. So do all who have sam- 
pled the Bunny brand. John, being gener- 
ous, tells how he does it, vowing that 
the world needs more joy. Here's the 
ladder to John's joy cart: "To make John 
Bunny punch," says the contributor, "take 
six oranges, eight lemons, one and one-half 
pounds of sugar, one-half pint of good 
brandy or rum, six slices of canned pine- 
apple, halved, and one gallon of water. 
The result is a drink as delicious as is Mr. 
Bunny's gorgeous smile." 

Filming A Real Sea Story 
A three-masted bark rigged Norwegian vessel has been procured by the Vitagraph Company for the purpose of pro- 
ducing some of the stories of Morgan Robertson, spinner of sea yarns. Pictures will be taken out ivhere the ocean is 
truly king. The picture suggests many possible thrilling scenes thai may be filmed up in the air. 

Growing Up with the Movies 


By Florence Lawrence 

In collaboration with 

Monte M. Katterjohn 


MY motion picture public did not 
learn my real name until I be- 
came an Imp player. That was 
during the summer of 1909. 
(jpon leaving the Biograph Company I 
accepted a road engagement with Ezra 
Kendall, and for a little more than a 
month appeared before the footlights in- 
stead of the camera. While playing a 
one night stand in some little town out in 
the middle west I received a telegram from 
Mr. William V. Ranous, the man who had 
tweaked my ears for trying to steal into 
the projection room at the Vitagraph 
studio some two years previous. 

"I am helping to start a new moving 
picture company and want you for my 
leading lady. Come to New York at once," 
it commanded. And I went. 

So I listened to Mr. Ranous' offer. Carl 
Laemmle, the proprietor of a Chicago film 
exchange, had decided to embark in the 
business of manufacturing motion pictures. 
At that time his was a very nervy decision, 
and one that not only required a lot of 
determination, but many thousands of dol- 
lars. Associated with Mr. Laemmle were 
the Cochrane boys — Robert and Thomas — 
who were then conducting an advertising 
agency in Chicago, in addition to being in- 
terested in a song publishing house. The 
"plunging" spirit evidenced by Mr. 
Laemmle was natural with them, and the 
result was the organization of the Inde- 
pendent Moving Pictures Company of 
America. The name of the film brand — 
Imp — was coined by making a word out 
of the first letters of the words "Independ- 
ent Moving Pictures." 

That was Carl Laemmle's start as a 
manufacturer of motion picture films. To- 


day he is the active head of the Universal 
Film Manufacturing Company — the larg- 
est single producing corporation in the 
world. And when we Imp players began 
the production of the first Imp picture, a 
comedy drama called "Love's Stratagem," 
we did not have a studio, so we could not 
make any interior scenes ! 

Among the first players to be engaged 
by Mr. Ranous for the Imp Company were 
George Loane Tucker, now producing di- 
rector for the London P'ilm Company ; 
John Brownell, now with the Holland 
Film Company; Farrell MacDonald, the 
well known director now with the Tiffany 
Film Company; Harry Solter, my present 
director; Owen Moore, now with the 
Famous Players Film Company ; the late 
John Cumpson, who was the Mr. Jones 
of the Biograph "Jonesy" pictures; and 
King Baggot, who is still an Imp leading 

Owen Moore came to the Imp Company 
early in 1910 and remained until after I 
had left the Imp players. Although 
younger than Mr. Baggot, he played the 
heavy in nearly all the Imp pictures. I 
used to call him "the little villain" at 
that time, for he was of so slight a build 
and hardly more than a youngster. He 
was really funny wearing a desperate mus- 
tache and brandishing bowie knives and 
pistols. We all knew that he was better 
suited to playing juvenile leads, but there 
was a scarcity of good actors, and players 
with the natural ability possessed by Owen 
Moore were not to be had for the mere 
crooking of a finger. Owen made no com- 
plaint, for he was determined to get on as 
an actor, no matter what his parts might be. 

Imp pictures began to "take" with the 

Growing Up with the Movies 


public some 
i" o u r or five 
m o n t h s 


lose every dollar. This legal battle prevented him 
from tying up any great amount of money in 
Imp productions until they began to become 
popular with the public. It was just a matter 
^ of time, however, and pretty soon there 
""*>?**._ were two producing directors constantly 
at work — one producing farce comedy 
and the other producing dramas. 

During this time a number of spe- 
cial detectives were kept about the 
studio constantly to prevent the 
seizure of our cameras and to keep 
spies from coining among us and 
learning our plans, particularly 
whom we sold our films to. Those 
were perilous days for the inde- 
pendent film producer ! The Motion 
Picture Patents Company claimed 

"// was a relief to intersperse comedy with the 
sympathetic ami genuinely appealing roles that 
sometimes fell to my lot. 

Lawrence first 
became known by name to 
the public as the delightful 
leading lady of the Imp 
Comedies put out in 1910. 
This is a scene from "All 
for Love." 

th e i r appearance. 

At first our pho- 
tography was poor, 
and we experienced 
many difficulties in 
getting suitable set- 
tings. Our studio 
w a s inadequately 
equipped and new 
scenery and new 
pieces of property 
could not be built 
and painted with 
the speed of today. 
AVe borrowed fur- 
niture and the like 
from stores and 
factories and made 
out as best we could 
with our very lim- 
ited means. Mr. 
Laemmle was en- 
gaged in a bitter 
fight with the Mo- 
tion Picture Pat- 
ents Company and 
at times it looked 
as though he would 


Photoplay Magazine 

that all cameras used by the independent 
producers were infringements on their pat- 
ents, and every independent studio momen- 
tarily expected an officer and a score of 
deputies to swoop down upon them with 
some sort of court order and seize every- 
thing in sight. 

Even the players were subjected to 
espionage. We were forbidden to talk with 
the players of other companies. Instant 
discharge was the penalty for violating this 
rule. Our every action was watched while 
we were at the studio, and under no cir- 
cumstances were we permitted to go near 
the camera — the most treasured possession 
of all. When we went on trips to make 
exterior scenes a detective accompanied us, 
either to see that we were not molested by 
the spies of rival manufacturers or that we 
did not attempt to steal the camera secrets 
of our own company. 

It was about this time that I had the 
most astounding adventure of my life. On 
my way to the Imp studio on the morning 
of February 19, 1910, I chanced to buy a 
newspaper out of pity for the half -clothed 
little newsboy who accosted me with the 
plea that he was hungry. My mind was so 
absorbed with my plans for the day, for I 
had heaps of work to do, that I had no 
intention of reading the news. But half- 
consciously I glanced at the paper and was 
startled to see several likenesses of myself 
staring me in the face, topped by a flam- 
boyant headline announcing my tragic end 
beneath the wheels of a speeding motor 
car. To say that I was stunned would be 
putting it mildly. I screamed at the 
thought, and several passers-by turned to 
see what was wrong. Not caring to make 
a scene on the street I hurried away and 
to the studio, where I read the account in 
full. According to the story, there was no 
doubt about the matter — I was dead. I 
was angered and depressed. I did not 
know what to dp. 

Mr. Katterjohn takes up the story 

The report of Miss Lawrence's death, 
which originated in St. Louis, spread from 
coast to coast in a day, in spite of the fact 
that telegrams were being sent out of New 
York and Chicago by the hundreds to the 
effect that she was very much surprised to 
hear of her death. It was believed these 
telegrams would silence the report and re- 
store Miss Lawrence to her normal self 

once more. Every daily newspaper of any 
consequence throughout the United States 
received an emphatic denial of the report, 
as did all the exchange proprietors hand- 
ling Imp films and the hundreds of exhib- 
itors who had immediately telegraphed 
their exchanges. But the smaller papers 
copied the story from the city dailies. 

The matter became more aggravating to 
Miss Lawrence when it was charged that 
the whole story was a press agent frame-up. 
Several rival picture companies stooped to 
the charge, with the result that Miss Law- 
rence, already in an extremely nervous con- 
dition, broke down completely. 

As soon as the Imp actress was able to 
return to her work it was arranged for her 
to go to St. Louis where the story had 
originated and personally appear before the 
public to refute the statement — that she 
was dead. 

On March 21. 1910, "The. St. Louis 
Times" contained the following headlines : 


Florence Lawrence, with King Ba£got, 
St. Louis Actor, to Describe Work. 

An account of the arrival of Miss Law- 
rence in St. Louis, as seen through the eyes 
of a woman reporter of "The Times" reads 
as follows: 

"At five o'clock in the afternoon I 
reached Union Station. There was an im- 
mense crowd inside the depot — much larger 
than the crowd that had greeted President 
Taft upon his arrival here a few months 
ago, and akin to the reception accorded 
Dr. Cook, the North Pole discoverer. Sud- 
denly the throng broke into wild tumultu- 
ous shouts as a remarkably pretty young 
woman appeared at the gate marked 
'Track Eight,' on which a Pennsylvania 
train had just arrived. The crowd surged 
toward her like a wave, and for a moment 
it looked as if the young woman would be 
drowned in the human sea, it being neces- 
sary for policemen and station attaches to 
plunge to her rescue. When a way was 
cleared for her a tiny woman with a face 
like a wild flower nervously passed through 
the narrow aisle, hurriedly climbed into a 
waiting car and dashed to a hotel. It was 
Florence Lawrence, 'the Imp Girl,' who 
had come to St. Louis to refute the re- 
peated reports of her death." 

Phouignipli by Moody. New York, 

Florence Lawrence is as fair as a snow maiden but she can look as barbarically beautiful as any 

Eastern princess. 



Photoplay Magazine 

Miss Lawrence resumes the story 

I shall never forget that trip to St. 
Louis. It simply overwhelmed me. For 
two days and nights I made short talks — 
"clever little speeches," so the newspapers 
said — telling how I came to enter motion 
pictures. Events came so thick and fast 
that I was dazzled, but there is one thing 
I was convinced of, and still believe. The 
American public, when it loves its heroes 
and heroines, can love them with a better 
spirit than any people I know. 

Upon the termination of my contract 
with Mr. Laemmle I spent three months in 
Europe, recuperating, studying foreign cus- 
toms and types, and then returned to 
America to begin my fourth year as a mo- 
tion picture actress playing opposite Arthur 
Johnson in Lubin productions. 

Mr. Siegmund Lubin, the active head of 
the Lubin Manufacturing Company, is the 
most genial, democratic and interesting big 
man I have ever known. He is a veteran 
film man and began working on the prob- 
lem of motion pictures about the time my 
mother thought it necessary for me to learn 
my a, b, c's. It is he who has built up the 
mammoth Lubin business in which his 
cheerful philosophy has played so big a 
part. Mr. Lubin is one of those rare lovers 
of wisdom who follow the precepts "of 
Montaigne and practice what they preach. 
He is a man of peace, averse to strife of . 
any kind, and it was this happy disposition 
of his that won me away from the Imp 

"My pictures are pretty pictures," he ar- 
gued. "They are as clear as a bell, and 
beautiful to look at. You will be pretty 
in them. Florence Lawrence pictures will 
' be most beautiful." 

Throughout the year that I was a Lubin 
player Mr. Lubin called me his "pretty 
daughter." I liked him immensely for that, 
although no one could help liking him 
whether or no he said pretty things to 
them. He is known as "Pop" Lubin by 
all his acquaintances — an affectionate ap- 
pellation, and he, in turn, speaks of his 
employees as "my children." 

In February of 1913 I left the Lubin 
Company to take a long rest. My work 
had been very arduous and trying, and I 
was extremely nervous, so much so that I 
could not work to my. own satisfaction. I 
wanted to get away from motion pictures 

and motion picture studios for a while and 
made the great mistake of going to Europe. 
I found Europe a bad place for an Amer- 
ican to rest in, even in the days when the 
great war was undreamed of. I made a 
much longer trip than that of the previous 
year, taking many side trips into Palestine, 
Turkey, Italy, Greece, Germany, France, 
Sweden and Denmark — the very spots now 
drenched in the blood of war. At Luxor, 
Egypt, I met Miss Gene Gauntier and her 
Kalem players, and steamed up the Nile 
with them. In Italy I watched motion 
pictures which would never pass our cen- 
sorship in this country. 

Upon my return to the land of my birth 
( the reports that I am a native of Ireland 
are buncombe) with the aid of Messrs. 
Patrick A. Powers and Harry jj. Solter, I 
founded the Victor Motion Picture Com- 
pany, which later became the property 
of the Universal Film Manufacturing 
Company. After a year in Victor pictures, 
I gave up work and devoted my time to 
rose and garden culture at my country 
home at Westwood, New Jersey. But, as 
Mr. Katterjohn has already told you, I 
was unable to resist the desire to be back 
in the harness and at work, trying to do 
bigger and better things than ever before. 
Of my recent work, you are the judge. I 
have just completed my sixth year as a 
motion picture actress, and now I intend 
to devote several months of my time to 
resting at Westwood before yielding again 
to the desire to live amid the studio props, 
to hear the sputtering of the blazing lamps, 
the whirr of the camera and the commands 
of the director. These are the things that 
count to one who has grown up in their 
midst. 'Tis like the call of the sawdust 
ring to one who has always known and 
felt the pomp and display of the circus. 
And what are my plans, do you wonder? 
Dear readers, have I not told you that Fate 
shapes our destinies, leading the oldest and 
most experienced of us where she will? If 
you have enjoyed reading any part of this, 
my own story, I am more than repaid for 
the writing of it, and I hope to greet you 
anew on the silent drama screen. 

And now I say good-bye. I love you 
all — love you with all my heart and soul. 
When I look from my window at night I 
wonder if there is anything I have ever 
done to cause you pain. I hope not. So 
again, good-bye! 

"The Lens Squirrel" 


By Charles Murray 

TO BEGIN with, I can truthfully say 
that I was born at a very early age, 
from poor but honest parents, just 
as the sun was casting its gleaming 
rays over the White Water valley 
at Laurel, Indiana. I was pro- 
nounced a healthy, robust child, 
and I have proven this statement, 
as I've been with the Keystone 
Company seven months, and am 
still able to navigate. Being a 
good policeman, I have to fall for 

Before I started to cheat the 
camera and gained the name of 
"Lens Squirrel" I tried to gain 
fame as a clown with the old John 
Robinson Circus, in '81. I was 
successful for two circus seasons 
until I tried a triple somersault, 
which put me out of the arena 
with a badly sprained back. In '83 
I joined Prof. Crocker's Horse 
Show, where I acted as chamber- 
maid to a skating Shetland. I was 
eliminated from said duties at 
Columbus, Ohio, the latter part 
of that season, by the frisky Shet- 
land, who planted both skates on 
my weak chest. I never did like 
ponies anyhow and the glasses are 
so small in Columbus. I rode 
home in a paint car, and when I 
arrived in Cincinnati, my home 
town, I was arrested and sent to 
the House of Refuge for cheating 
a poor railroad out of $2.18. 
Then, after I emerged from this 
temple of peace, I decided to enter 
the medicine show business, with 
White Cloud, a long-haired In- 
dian doctor from Copenhagen, 
Denmark. We sold everything 

but the "license," and cured every ailment 
but premature burial and static. I per- 
formed everybody's act but the armless 
wonder, and I couldn't get my feet from 

/ go to the studio every morning with my dinner bucket and I come 
out with a lantern. 


148 Photoplay Magazine 

under the table, as I wore clog shoes — on stone bruises, but with the help of Dr. 

and off ; then fate threw Ollie Mack in my Sloan's Spavin Cure and a proper amount 

pathway and we joined as a team and of arnica, I still survive, 

played every State in the Union for over Yes, I like the picture game. It is dis- 

twenty years, under the team name of gustingly healthy. I go to the studio every 

Murray and Mack. A few of our sue- morning at 7 :30 with my dinner bucket, 

cesses were "Our Irish Neighbors," "Fin- and I come out with a lantern. My usual 

nigan's Ball," "Shooting the Chutes," role is that of an Irishman, but I don't 

"McKemas' Flirtation," "A Night on confine myself to that alone, as I have 

Broadway," "An English- Daisy." etc., played everything from a "Hail-fellow- 

etc. We separated in Grand Rapids, well-met" to a "Clinging Cactus." but I 

Mich.. January 30th. 1901. and I went do enjoy the work, and if they don't catch 

with Joe Weber's Alma Company. After me at it I hope to stay for the rest of my 

that season I joined the Biograph company professional life. 

as principal comedian, where I remained Now, if I have missed anything, don't 

two years. Then Mack Sennett of the think I am holding out, but I can't tell you 

Keystone Company offered me a place in the color of my eyes, as they are never the 

one of his companies, which I accepted. same when coming out of scenes. Just the 

I have received the usual amount of Key- same. America is a great country. 

Order Your Copy of Photo- 
play in Advance 

It's the only sure way to get it. Hundreds of 
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Tell your newsdealer to save you a copy. He will 
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Or, better still, send in your subscription for a year, 
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Speak to your newsdealer next time you see him. 
Just say "save me a copy of Photoplay.'' It 
comes out the 10th of every month. 

New Faces for Photo -Fans 

By Vanderheyden Fyles. 

AN D still they come ! New faces 
from the "legitimate" stage con- 
tinue to appear on the screen. 
And surely none could be pleas- 
anter to see there than May Irwin's. Her 
broad, genial, all-embracing smile is as 
potent there as in the flesh. I hope Miss 
Irwin takes no offense at the word flesh ! 
Frankly, I am not much afraid, because 
it is her way to make fun of her generous 
proportions before anyone else has the 
chance. And in her first appearance on 
the screen she finds a better chance than 
in all her years on the "boards." The best 
part of the four -reel adaptation of George 
V. Hobart's farce called "Mrs. Black Is 
Back," in which Miss Irwin appeared sev- 
eral seasons ago and which emerges now 
as peculiarly well filmed by the Famous 
Players Company, are the scenes of her 
efforts to reduce her weight. Mrs. Black 
is a widow with her eye on a possible sec- 
ond husband, and she is not going to lose 
him if losing some pounds of flesh will 
turn the trick. So one of the four reels 
is entirely devoted to her strenuous and 
varied methods of exercise. Yet in the 
end she tips the scales at 180 pounds in- 
stead of at her original 1 74 ! 

Better subtitles than are usual are among 
the merits of "Mrs. Black Is Back." Some 
of them are really funny. For instance, 
when the end of all the widow's efforts to 
reduce herself in order to ensnare a second 
husband is the gaining of six pounds, the 
phrase flashed on the screen is. "Love's 
labor's lost !" 

An extraneous interest is added to this 
delightful film by the fact that the out- 
door pictures were taken on Irwin Island, 
the Thousand Islands home of the actress. 
So much has been heard of that place that 
there would be interest in seeing it on the 
screen even without a rollicking farce 
turning it topsy turvy; and the pictures 
are clear and often beautiful. 

Vivian Martin is just the type of girl 
that is sure to win countless admirers 
among photo-fans. She is petite, demure, 
roguish, just a little too sweetly good for 
sophisticated folk. And "The Wishing 

Ring," the five-part play in which the 
World Film Corporation introduces her, is 
equally appealing to people who laugh and 
cry readily and who just love love. 

Miss Martin, who seems to have the 
makings of another Marguerite Clark or 
Mary Pickford in her little person, appears 
as the daughter of an English country par- 
son. Of course, he is very poor and she is 
a bundle of rags. She thinks it a shame 
that the altar vases have to go flowerless 
and, after brooding over it, she finally 
steals some roses from the garden of the 
rich man of the neighborhood. One morn- 
ing she is caught by the gardener, a very 
attractive gardener, who starts by scolding 
her, but very soon is bewitched. Now, we 
know something about that gardener, for 
the first reel has shown him at college. 
The boy was such a cut-up that finally he 
was expelled, and his angry father, who is 
no less than an earl, cut him off with a 
shilling. Nay, more ; he swore he never- 
would forgive his son until he had earned 
a shilling. 

The earl's son is not earning that shilling 
by his garden work, having simply been 
taken on without pay by the owner of the 
place, an old friend. Well, he and the 
parson's daughter take many a long walk, 
and we are glad to go with them, as their 
taste in scenery is irreproachable. One day 
they happen upon a gypsy camp, where a 
fortune teller foresees that the girl will 
marry a nobleman and where the pseudo- 
gardener buys her a wishing ring. In time, 
by accident, she discovers his true station. 
Then she sets about patching things up 
between him and the earl, and, of course, 
she eventually succeeds. 

The rose garden, the gypsies' camp, the 
mountain of the magic herb and the old 
earl's horseback trip, all these are reasons 
why this adaptation of Owen Davis's play 
is more effective on the screen than on the 

John Barrymore is the latest representa- 
tive of the numerous, distinguished Barry- 
more-Drew-Davenport-Rankin family to. 
appear on the screen. As an appropriate 
vehicle for him the Famous Players Film 


The production of "The 
Straight Road"' brings an 
especially charming recruit to 
screenland in the person of 
Gladys Hanson, who plays the 
role originally created by 
Blanche Walsh. 

Cecil Spooner makes her de- 
but in "The Dancer and the 
King." The play is a pretty, 
tawdry business, but her own 
work is by no means discredit- 

May Irwin makes her screen debut in "Mrs. Black is Back" and her broad, genial, 
all-embracing smile proves as potent in the films as in flesh. 

Vivian Martin is petite, demure and roguish. "The Wishing Ring," in which she 

appears, is equally appealing. 


"Mrs. Black is 

Back," adapted 

to the screen 

proves a more 


vehicle for 

May Irwin 

than was its 

stage version. 

The new six-reel 
production, "Damon 
and Pythias," is a 
wonderful and 
beautiful photoplay 
in which a series 
of the wonderful 
ruins at Athens is 
introduced to give 
a sense of 
remoteness and 


The Famous Players Company has chosen the farce " The Man from Mexico ' 

originally adapted from the French by H. A. DuSouchet for William 

Collier in which to star John Barrymore. 

Some of the funniest scenes are those on Blackwell's Island where the 

husband is a prisoner. 



Photoplay Magazine 

Company has chosen the farce adapted 
from the French by H. A. DuSouchet for 
William Collier called "The Man from 
Mexico." The point of it is that the man 
has never been to Mexico. He goes out 
one night, raises a rumpus in a restaurant, 
is arrested, is impertinent to the judge in 
the night-court and is sentenced to thirty 
days on the island. After great effort, he 
induces the officer in charge of him to let 
him go home for a couple of hours to 
put his affairs in order for his sudden 
absence. He tells his wife that he must 
be away for thirty days on a business trip 
to Mexico. She is ready to accept his ex- 
planation because she has a secret of her 
own. Overhearing her husband's plan for 
the previous evening, she had decided to 
follow him. . Escorted by her sister's, fiance, 
she had gone to the same restaurant which 
was raided just after her husband's arrest. 
So she too was dragged to a police court. 
The resulting complications are uproarious 
fun. Some of the most novel scenes are 
those on Blackwell's Island, where the 
husband is a prisoner, and where he is 
thrown into terror by the visit of his wife 
and sister-in-law. quite unconscious of his 
presence, with flowers to cheer the pris- 

John Barrymore has an expressive face 
that serves him well in a photoplay : and. 
of course, he has a large following of ad- 

Lionel Barrymore is only one of several 
stars to be seen in "The Seats of the 
Mighty," an elaborate and very interesting 
seven-part photoplay produced by the Colo- 
nial Motion Picture Corporation, under the 
direction of T. Hayes Hunter. Mr. Barry- 
more appears in the villainous but dom- 
inant role of Monsieur Doltaire. "created" 
on the dramatic stage by Sir Herbert Beer- 
bohm Tree : Thomas Jefferson is Louis XV 
of France, whose wicked agent Doltaire is ; 
and Grace Leigh and Marjorie Bonner are 
the king's rival favorites. La Pompadour 
and Du Barry. Glen White and Millicent 
Evans are the young lovers about whom 
the story revolves. 

The story gets under way rather slowly. 
It is questionable whether the entire first 
section, the scenes in France, might not 
be dropped entirely to the advantage of 
the whole. They concern the intrigues of 
Du Barry and La Pompadour for ascend- 
ency over the weak king and they offer 

almost boundless opportunities for opulent 
display, of which the producer has availed 
himself with extraordinary lavishness. But 
the action is quicker and less confused 
when the scene has shifted to Canada. 
Doltaire has been sent over by King Louis 
to recover the incriminating Du Barry let- 
ters, having been empowered by his sov- 
ereign with unlimited authority, the period 
being just before the American Revolution, 
when Canada was still a province of 
P'rance. Doltaire has come over only for 
the letters, which have fallen into the 
hands of an English adventurer, Captain 
Moray, realized as quite an ideal hero of 
romance by Glen White; but he soon de- 
velops a more personal hatred of Moray. 
They are rivals for Alixe Duvarney; and, 
I need hardly add, Moray is successful in 
the end. But before that happy outcome 
many trials are endured. 

Among the most animated scenes are 
those of the battle on the Plains of Abra- 
ham, where the English, under Wolfe, de- 
feated the French. A thousand men are 
said to take part in these scenes, and it is 
entirely credible. A few of these pictures 
are taken a little too close, but those of 
more sweeping space are excellent. How- 
ever, it is in its "atmosphere," in its re- 
creation of the Colonial spirit, that "The 
Seats of the Mighty" is most to be praised. 

Clyde Fitch wrote many better plays 
than "The Straight Road," but it is doubt- 
ful whether any of the others would come 
out so well as a photoplay. Then, too, the 
Famous Plays' production of it brings an 
especially charming recruit to screenland 
in the person of Gladys Hanson, who plays 
the role originally created by Blanche 
Walsh. That character is a New York 
tenement girl, who has inherited a taste for 
drink from a worthless mother, but who, 
we are authoritatively informed by a sub- 
title, has otherwise traveled the straight 
road. This road, by the way, is symbol- 
ically represented at the start of the play. 
When we get into actualities, they are 
rather sordid. Mary is almost ensnared by 
a young waster from up-town. who smokes 
cigarettes and has his shoes shined every 
day and is generally no good. Neverthe- 
less, a rich young settlement worker is go- 
ing to marry him. Without knowing of 
his attentions to Mary, this girl aids 
her, encourages her until she overcomes 
the drink habit and finally takes her to her 

New Faces for Photo -Fans 


own country place, on the Hudson. This 
happily gets us out of the slums and per- 
mits some beautiful views. 

The photoplay follows the original 
fairly closely. Several scenes have been 
added to it which show the saloon run 
by Mary's faithful suitor, to whom, we 
hope and trust, she is now happily married. 
In the Fitch play, he was more or less inci- 
dental, merely being on hand to bring the 
drama to a happy ending, that being (in 
fiction) marriage! 

A very good idea is carried out in "Da- 
mon and Pythias." the Universal Motion 
Picture Company's six-part photoplay, for 
carrying the spectators back through the 
centuries. Before the play proper, a series 
of motion pictures of the wonderful ruins 
of Athens gives one at once a sense of the 
remoteness and the actuality of the story 
of 400 years B. C. For this drama Gre- 
cian cities were constructed, villas reared, 
gardens and flower-covered pergolas laid 
out, a whole world it almost seems, 
brought into being at the $1,000,000 studio 
at Universal City, California. The result 
is extraordinarily beautiful. 

James Dayton and Ruth Ann Baldwin, 
scenario writers, and Otis Turner, pro- 
ducer, have beautifully embellished the fa- 
miliar story of those fastest of friends, 
Damon and Pythias; but the special value 
of the photoplay centers in the spectacular 
scenes, notably chariot races in the stadium. 

Cecil Spooner cannot be said to have 
made her debut on the screen very auspi- 
ciously, for "The Dancer and the King," 
the second of the Blaney "releases" to be 
shown by the World Film Corporation, is 
a pretty tawdry business. Her own work 
is by no means discreditable, and such 
favorites as Victor Southerland, as an un- 
believably noble young king, and Arthur 
Evans and Marquita Dwight, as equally 
incredible villains, a prime minister and a 
countess, offer attractions to photo-fans ; 
but the story is quite too silly, trite and 
unconvincing and the workmanship is 
hardly, on the whole, up to the World 
Film's high standard. 

The story rather hints at being the case 
of Lola Montez and her Bavarian king — 
some subtitles mention her as Lola and the 
scene as "Bavarre" — but historical facts 
are not allowed to get in the way of senti- 
mental or adventurous flights of fancy, and 
such invaluable modern inventions as the 

motor car and the carpet-sweeper bring the 
period up to our own enlightened time. 

There is nothing novel in "Across the 
Pacific," another Blaney feature released 
by the World Film Corporation, but it 
gives almost uninterrupted opportunities 
for outdoor scenes, and these are admir- 
ably met. 

The story starts some -time in the eiglit- 
een-seventies, when crossing the American 
continent still had some of the dangers of 
pioneer days. A man and his wife, and 
their little girl, are making their way to 
Montana in a wagon. While arranging to 
camp for the night, a band of Indians at- 
tacks them, kills them and sets fire to their 
wagon. Fortunately, little Elsie had wan- 
dered away to pick flowers, so she escapes. 
A lieutenant, Joe Lanier, attracted by the 
flames, rides up and takes charge of her, 
later entrusting her to the care of his 
mother. At that point, please jump twenty 

We are now in 1898. Joe has given up 
the army and become a successful miner 
and Elsie has grown into a very charming 
young woman. Joe loves her, but she has 
been fascinated by a bad boy from the 
city. (Are all city men wicked?) Elsie 
all but elopes with this one, but as she 
doesn't quite, we may pass over that mat- 
ter, and, indeed, embark for the Philip- 
pines. Elsie does no less. You see, Amer- 
ica is at war with Spain. Joe lias reenlisted 
and Elsie lias realized her love for him. 
So what more natural, that being the case, 
than that the girl should don a sack-coat 
and a pair of trousers.- Didn't Mary Oar- 
den do no less the other day, and weep 
bitterly when found out, and refused a 
gun by a French enlisting officer? Well, 
perhaps she did and perhaps she didn't — 
anyway, it made a good newspaper story; 
and Elsie went to war like a little man. 

The last scenes of "Across the Pacific" 
are laid in the Philippines. Quite the place 
to be, too, for the entire cast has moved 
there. For instance, the bad boy from the 
city is now Joe Lanier's superior officer. 
Nursing his grudge, he sends him through 
the enemy's lines to defend a fated block 
house. But he reckoned without Private 
Elsie. Where another might hesitate or 
fail, she leads a rescue party to the house, 
not forgetting to take a flag with her, so 
the drama ends with love united and the 
Stars and Stripes waving over all. 

"I'll look at them, " he said, as one large white hand swept a square of velvet in front of her 

on the showcase. 


Beauty to Burn 

By George Orcutt 

Synopsis of First Installment: Bernice Frothingham, an heiress to 
millions, who lives a lonely and secluded life with her step-father and her 
step-mother at their country -place, "Red House," at Lake Geneva, falls in 
love with young Robert MacCameron, the son of a farmer in the neighbor- 
hood. Colonel Frothingham, her step-father, violently opposes the proposed 
marriage. When Bernice defies him, reminding him that she is old enough 
to choose whom she shall marry, he informs her that she is dependent on him 
until she comes into her money, at the age of twenty-five. Colonel Frothing- 
ham persuades Robert MacCameron's father to send the young man to Argen- 
tine for three years. Bernice is thoroughly disillusioned by her lover's tame 
submission to this plan. She resolves to rim away from home. She has a few 
■ dollars and a rope of pearls that had belonged to her own mother. She is 
adventurously resolved to try living without some of the things that money 
can buy. . With the aid of Triggs, her groom, she sends a trunk on ahead. 
At midnight she rides twenty miles across country to a railway junction where 
she can get an early morning train to Chicago. ' .--•■ 

CHAPTER III— continued. 

BERNICE walked up and "down the 
platform of the little station, her 
heart thumping and every nerve in 
her body tingling. It was all she 
could do to restrain herself from running 
or dancing, from laughing aloud or cry- 
ing. Never in her life had she been so 
completely excited. Her state of mind was 
one which oscillated between extreme joy 
and extreme pain. It was for her one of 
those days on which every incident, how- 
ever trivial it might seem, was sharply re- 
corded in her memory. It seemed as if the 
train would never come. 

She was torn alike by her fear that she 
had not really escaped, by the memory of 
her love, which in this crisis came flooding 
back on her mind. But above all she was 
passionately eager definitely to be off on 
this, the great adventure of her life. 

All sorts of possibilities, extreme, im- 
probable, even incredible, occurred to her. 
What if her flight had been discovered? 
What if even now the big touring car was 
tearing down the road she had just trav- 
eled on horseback? She imagined it all so 
vividly that involuntarily she looked to- 

ward the street, as if expecting to see a 
pair of motor headlights swing round the 
corner: and jolt to a stop while Colonel 
Frothingham stepped out of the machine 
and seized her. But only the faint yellow 
gleam of an oil street lamp lit the corner. 
She felt the rope of pearls in her pocket 
and stuffed her handkerchief firmly down 
over them. If she should lose them she 
would indeed be helpless. 

Her glance rested, after a moment, on 
a card tacked to the bulletin board beside 
the waiting-room door. She moved for- 
ward to read the card. It was a notice is- 
sued by the Illinois Vigilance Association 
warning passengers against friendly stran- 

Bernice read the proclamation through. 
Then she Smiled. Perhaps if she had been 
familiar with the wild tales of daughters 
of powerful and wealthy families having 
been kidnaped she might have been a little 
frightened by the prospect of arriving in 
Chicago alone and unprotected and without 
a friend to call upon. But the only refer- 
ence to the subject that she had ever heard 
was one of contemptuous impatience with 
the people who believed such yarns. What- 



Photoplay Magazine 

ever danger Chicago might hold for her, 
this was not one of them, Bernice thought. 

The train whistled in the distance, and a 
moment later it came clanging and grind- 
ing into the station. Bernice ran up the 
steps and found herself in a car which 
was empty except for a single passenger, 
a young man with a bright red necktie who 
slept with his mouth open. Bernice smiled 
as she approached him. There is always 
something pathetic and touching in the 
spectacle of a human being asleep in the 
seat of a day-coach, even when it is also 
amusing or absurd. But as chance had it, 
the young man opened his eyes just as 
Bernice passed him, and caught the smile 
that was intended for no one but her own 
inner self. 

The effect was instantaneous. The young 
man straightened up in his seat, adjusted 
his tie, flicked a bit of lint from his coat, 
and turned his fascinated gaze toward Ber- 
nice. He was not a man to overlook the 
smallest invitation from a woman in the 
least attractive ; in this case the invitation 
seemed to him peculiarly frank and 
friendly and the woman the most attractive 
that he had seen in all his life. He was 
a little disconcerted to see that she was 
looking out of her window, her chin rest- 
ing on her hand, as if she had forgotten 
him. His impulse was to advance at once 
and ask permission to sit beside her, hut 
some vestige of discretion restrained him. 
She was so beautiful, so well-poised, that 
she frightened him, though, to his taste, 
she was very simply and plainly dressed. 
He turned over the seat ahead of him and 
sat down facing her. She continued to 
gaze out of the window for full five min- 
utes, the while the rumblings and crash- 
ings of milk cans, being loaded into the 
cars ahead, could be heard. But as the 
train started she turned., her face brighten- 
ing with relief— and .met the gaze of the 
young man. He looked so eager, his 
anxiety was so patently written on his face, 
that involuntarily Bernice smiled again, 
before she dropped her eyes. 

The young man did not hesitate. He 
jumped to his feet, and descended upon 
the astonished Bernice. 

He swept off his hat with a nourish and 
began boldly. 

"May I—," but something made him 
pause. He stammered out: "H-hayen't I 
seen you before somewhere, Miss?" . , 

Bernice's bewilderment vanished at once. 
It was the first time in her experience that 
a man who had not been properly intro- 
duced had ventured to address her, but she 
rose quickly to the situation. 

"I'm sure I don't know," she said coolly. 
"I am sure that I have never met you." 

The young man, a moment before so 
sure of his reception, colored. He did riot 
know whether to run away or to. beg her 
pardon. The result was__ disastrous. 

"Better late than never," he said, with 
what he believed to be an engaging em- 
phasis, and moved as if to sit down beside 

"I wouldn't if I were you," Bernice said 
coldly. "You will be much happier and I 
shall be much more comfortable if you will 
go back to your seat and to sleep. I do 
not wish to talk to anybody." 

The young man opened his mouth as if 
to speak, his face as red as his necktie, 
closed it and fled. Nor did he stop, at his 
seat. He went on through the door and 
into the smoker, there to reflect on the mys- 
tery of woman, and to wonder what he 
should have done or said, to have avoided 
this rebuff. 

Bernice forgot about him in two min- 
utes, but somehow the incident set her to 
thinking of Robert MacCameron and their 
rides together. She was no longer in love 
with him. She was quite sure of that. She 
did not believe she would ever be in love 
again. How could she trust any man com-, 
pletely again? And weren't love and trust 
the same thing? No, love was not for her. 
Henceforth she would devote herself to 
finding out what the world is really like, 
and to work. She wanted to "be some- 
body;" to be- somebody important; that 
ambition was more important than love ; 
and she could trust herself to it ; it would 
not betray her. The harder she worked 
the better she would get. on; whereas the 
more she had loved Robert the bitterer had 
been her disappointment when he had 
failed her, when he had meekly accepted 
his father's decision to send him to the 

She wondered how Colonel Frothingham 
had succeeded in making that arrange- 
ment; but of course money would do any- 
thing. Or almost anything. It had no 
power over her. He would discover that 
if he attempted to force her to return to 
"Red House." . What could he do? What 

Beauty to Burn 


would he do? Bernice pondered this ques- 
tion as the train hurried' along through the 
gradually lightening mists of morning. If 
her flight had remained undiscovered until 
now, and she saw no reason why it should 
not, it might be noon before there was any 
search for her. Or would Johnson report 
her absence at once? Of course the mo- 
ment her horse trotted into the stable yard 
a search would be begun. The whole coun- 
try-side would be .enlisted. There was 
little chance that any one would find the 
riding boots she had left in the hazel 
clump and Triggs would probably be able 
to manage so that no one discovered the 
fact that he had shipped a trunk to Ham- 
mond, Indiana, for her. On the whole, it 
seemed to her that she was safe for a week 
at least, unless some one chanced to recog- 
nize her on the street in Chicago. That 
risk she would have to run, for she had no 
intention of breaking into her limited cap- 
ital ' in order to travel farther. Chicago 
offered her as good an opportunity as any 
city and if Colonel Frothingham discovered 
her there he could only beg her to come 
home. He had no power to demand. 

But thoroughly as Bernice convinced 
herself of her independence of her step- 
father, there was a tear in each eye: She 
hated scenes, she abominated family rows, 
she wanted to be let alone. And she did 
not see any prospect of avoiding the most 
unpleasant row possible before the family 
decided to let her go her way. Why was 
it that a young woman who had done noth- 
ing of which she was ashamed, nothing, 
indeed, that anybody could call wrong was 
in such dread of her family? Bernice won- 
dered just how different everything would 
have been if her father and mother had 
lived. For one thing, they were fond of 
young people and "Red House" would 
have been no such lonesome place as she 
had found it. When Bernice reflected on 
this, and remembered that there was not a 
single girl of her own age in all the world 
whom she could call her friend, in whom 
she could confide, and that there never had 
been any, the tears stole down her cheeks. 
She stiffened herself, wiped her eyes, and 
forced a smile to her lips. This would 
never do, to weep at approaching freedom 
she had longed for! Once or twice, in 
the remaining half -hour of her journey, 
her lip quivered a little; but no more tears 
came. Her mind was made up. 


As Bernice walked briskly through the 
smoky, dirty ' train-shed into the smoky, 
dirty Union Station she caught the odor of 
coffee. It was not the odor of such coffee 
as she was accustomed to at "Red House;" 
indeed, it was the odor of the coffee then 
steaming in the great nickel urns of the 
station lunch-room — -a very different bever- 
age. But to Bernice it was on this occa- 
sion the odor simply of coffee, and for 
once the most delicious odor in the world. 
She went through the swinging doors with 
a light heart, and with a smile that re- 
quired no effort of the will, to a seat on a 
round stool at the lunch counter. 

The waiter in his white coat smiled back 
at her. 

"I want a Spanish omelette. May I have 

"Yes, indeed, Miss," he answered. 

"But I want coffee right away," Bernice 
continued. "A pot of coffee." 

"We don't serve coffee in pots, Miss," 
the' waiter said regretfully. "Only at the 
tables." ~ ; ' 

Bernice glanced scornfully at the tables. 
Was she to give up the fun of sitting on a 
stool at a lunch counter for the first time 
in her life for coffee served in a pot ? Not 
for a moment. „ 

"I'll have a cup, then," she said. 

And dexterously the waiter produced a 
great cup, a tiny jar of cream, and a nap- 
kin. As Bernice sipped, she looked about 
her. She was as curious and as interested 
as would have been the girl behind the 
cash register if she could have sat down 
in the breakfast room at "Red House." 
Bernice was the only woman at the counter 
but all the men were too busy with the 
supremely important matter of breakfast 
to glance at her — or almost too busy. She 
surprised a wide-eyed look over the rim of 
a coffee cup, and a gray-haired man in the 
blue uniform of a conductor smiled at her 
quizzically as he paid his cheek. Excited 
as she was, Bernice felt somehow at home. 
She was sure she was going to like Chicago. 
And the omelette was delicious, the rolls, 
too. It was true the butter was a little 
salty but then — what could one expect? 

Twenty minutes later Bernice walked 
out across the bridge and down Adams 
Street into the Loop. She had been 
through Chicago a dozen times but this 


Photoplay Magazine 

was the first time she had ever walked its 
streets. Always before she had been 
whirled in a motor from one station to an- 
other ; or she had stayed at a great hotel 
and visited only two or three exclusive 
shops, and a tailor, with Mrs. Frothing- 
ham. She had been to the theatre and a 
concert at Orchestra Hall, and she had 
made calls in Bellevue Place, but never 
had she walked more than the distance 
across the sidewalk, from the door of a 
building to the curb. Now she was to 
have a chance, she thought, to become ac- 
quainted with Chicago, and to make 
friends, and to establish herself. 

Straight across town to Michigan Ave- 
nue she walked, her eyes as eager for every 
new glimpse of a shop, window, as curious 
of this or that face, and as easily delighted 
as a child's. The vista of the Avenue 
stretching out before her seemed glorious, 
and she had seen the Champs Elysees and 
Unter den Linden! Gayly she walked — 
this girl who had had no sleep, who had 
run away from home, and who had not the 
least idea what she was going to do next. 

A blouse she saw in a window reminded 
her that the one she was wearing was 
hardly fresh and that she would not have 
another until she had recovered the trunk 
at Hammond. She went in, found a blouse 
she liked, put it on, and carried the old 
away in a bundle — to the scandal of the 
salesgirl. There was no address to which 
Bernice could order anything sent! That, 
she decided, was the first thing to do: — to 
secure an address. At the corner, she 
bought a paper and turned to the want-ad 
section. : 

As business-like as if she had done the 
thing a dozen times before, Bernice tore 
out the column containing notices of rooms 
to let and approached the policeman at the 
crossing to ask the way. 

"Ohio Street?" he said, as he waved 
back a solid line of motor cars. "What 

"Twenty-six East Ohio." 

"Walk two blocks west to State Street 
and take a North State street car. It's 
about a mile. And when you get off walk 
east- — toward the lake — until you find the 
number. It'll be in the first block." 

Thus Bernice found herself before a tall 
narrow house, forbiddingly ugly, with a 
sign "Furnished Rooms" in the window. 
An elderly and not too tidy woman opened 

the door in answer to Bernice's ring. She 
looked Bernice up and down. 
. "What do you want?" she asked flatly. 

"I am looking for a; room," Bernice an- 
swered, as if she were asking a great favor. 
- v "I rent rooms- only to anen," the woman 
vouchsafed and closed the door. 

Bernice was hurt. It was so different 
from what she expected of Chicago. But 
she smiled firmly and glanced again at her 
list. There was another Ohio Street ad-; 
dress, 56 East. She would try that. But 
when she saw the house- it was too awful. 
She could not bring herself to ring the bell. 

She wandered on- to the corner and 
turned north,, an eye out for signs in- the 
windows. It was a curious part of the city, 
compact of rooming houses, factories, and 
fine residences. Bernice wondered why it 
was so mixed, and she would have won- 
dered more if she had had any notion of 
how wonderfully and fearfully mixed it 
was. But she had not gone very far be- 
fore she saw a card in the window of an 
old brick house, newly painted red, that 
looked cleaner, if not less ugly, than the 
others. '" 

It was a man who came to the door this 
time, a friendly old man with a G. A. R. 
button in his coat lapel. 

"Yes," he said, "come in. We have one 
room vacant that I'll be glad to show you. 
'Tisn't often we have a room," he contin- 
ued, with obvious pride. 

He led Bernice up a long dark; stairway, 
with a handrail of dark walnut, and on 
up another, and still on to the fourth floor, 
and down a long dark hallway to a door 
at the back, which he threw opeh. -'■*'-■.:.' 

It was a tiny place, with old-fashioned 
furniture— -a dresser of walnut and maple, 
an iron bed, , and two chairs upholstered in 
worn red -plush. But there was a window 
through which a bit of afternoon sunlight 
came. Bernice's decision was made. 

"Hpw much is it?" she asked. 

"Four dollars a week," the old man an- 
swered. "In- — in advance." 

Bernice opened her purse. 

"I'll take it," she said, handing the old 
man his four dollars. 

She would have liked to stay and take a 
nap, but paying for the room had left her 
just sixty cents in change. She must go 
out and pawn the rope of pearls at once. 
Somehow or other that was an adventure 
which did not appeal to her. She realized 

"I am Miss Gale, " Bernice said. "I want a job. " Mr. Morgan 's smile broadened the merest trifle. 



Photoplay Magazine 

that she had been putting it off ever since 
she had crossed the Adams Street bridge 
and that now she could not put it off any 

"I'd like to stay here tonight," Bernice 
explained. "My trunk won't be here until 
tomorrow but I shall manage till then." 

"And the name?" 

Bernice hesitated just a perceptible frac- 
tion of a second. She had not been pre- 
pared for this question. But the thought 
shot through her mind that if she gave her 
real name it would only be a question of 
hours before Colonel Frothingham found 
her. And yet? 

"Miss Bernice Gale," she said. 

She was a little startled to see how gray 
her face looked in the mirror, and how 
dark were the circles under her eyes, but 
a dash of cold water made a great differ- 
ent. It is only Chicago after all, she 
thought, only soot and not fear. And she 
ran bravely down the stairs. 

The search for a pawnshop, was longer 
than she had anticipated. She had seen 
several in the morning, when, as she knew 
now, she did not want to find one but she 
could not remember where they were and 
she did not like to ask even a policeman 
the way to a pawnshop. Why is it that 
human beings object almost as much to 
going to a pawnshop as to a dentist? 

Bernice saw, at last, a window full of 
jewelry and revolvers — the fact that such 
were the windows of pawnshops had im- 
pressed itself on her that first morning in 
Chicago — and glanced upward for the gilt 
sign, with the three balls. It was there. 
Bernice wanted, then, to walk on by but 
she held herself to her purpose and 
walked in. 

An ingratiating person with large white 
hands approached. 

"I have some pearls I'd like to pawn," 
Bernice began. 

"Pearls?" the man answered, his eye- 
brows lifting. "We don't usually lend 
money on pearls." 

"Why not?" Bernice asked sharply. 

"Well, madam, to be quite frank, I will 
tell you. Pearls are not usually genuine." 

"But these are," Bernice replied, tugging 
at her pocket. 

"I'll look at them," he said, as one large 
white hand swept a square of velvet in 
front of her on the showcase. 

Bernice laid down the rope of pearls. 

He picked them up and looked at them 
casually, as if they did not interest him. 
Such a necklace was worth $5,000 or it was 
worth very little, and he was not in the 
habit of seeing jewels worth $5,000 tossed 
upon his counter. 

"How much would you like to borrow?" 
he asked. 

"Just as much as I can get," Bernice 

"I'll see," and the large white hand 
moved slowly off as its owner started to- 
ward the back of the shop. Bernice 
watched him, not knowing what she ought 
to do. Would the man steal her necklace? 
She waited, nervous as she had been that 
morning on the station platform. Minutes 
passed. She watched the time by the big 
clock on the wall. 

The man came slowly back. 

"We haven't anything to lend on this 
to-day, madam," he said. "You'd better 
try somebody else." 

Bernice did not know what to make of 
this decision but she was so anxious to get 
away that the full force of it did not reach 
her consciousness until she was once more 
outdoors. Then it occurred to her that if 
she could not borrow money on the pearls, 
or sell them, she could not get her trunk, 
she could buy only one more meal. After 
to-night she would not have so much as 
carfare. She would be helpless. She 
would be so helpless that she would be 
compelled to go back to "Red House" with 
Colonel Frothingham. Indeed, she would 
be lucky to. have the chance to go with 
him. She bit her lip to stop the tears. 

It was already dark. In a few moments 
the pawnshops would all be closed. But, 
as always, when she was most frightened 
she was most determined. And now she 
walked down the street searching eagerly 
for another gilt sign. 

This time she knew better what to say. 

To the young man with a big diamond 
in his tie, a supremely ugly young man 
with a pimply face, she said : 

"I have a pearl necklace that I'd like to 
borrow a hundred dollars on." 

"Let me see it." 

The young man glanced languidly at the 
pearls which Bernice produced and, like 
his predecessor in appraising them, de- 
parted for the back of the shop. He was 
gone only a minute. 

(Continued on page 168) 

The War Photog- 
rapher's Job 

By Parke Farley 

IT is doubtful if many people who enjoy the 
motion war pictures from the placid secur- 
ity of theatre seats realize the hardships 
that have been undergone to obtain them. 

Valor the war photographer must possess in 
a degree equal, or even superior, to that of 
the common soldier, whose lot he shares and 
whose risks lie runs with surprising intrepidity. 

The soldier has a single aim ; to obey the 
commands of his officer, to charge the enemy 
and take his position with no thought of 
personal safety. His thoughts have a 
single groove. Indeed, death may over- 
take him before he has time to think, 
but in the contagious enthusiasm of his 
comrades he is upborne to 
whatever fate awaits him. 
If he escapes, he has the 
soldier's award of 
glory. The w-ar 
photographer is 
usually alone, 
carried like a 
leaf on the cur- 
rent, obliged to 
make his o w n 
quick decisions, 

realizing that on these decisions his fate 
will depend. He knows that the success 
of his mission depends upon his personal 
safety and on the safety of his camera ; 
and even while these two conditions must 
be continuously uppermost in his mind, he 
must yet take chances for which there is 
no iron cross, no decoration of the legion 
of honor to reward him. 

A number of war photographers who 
have just returned from the front have 
thrilling stories to tell, not only of the 
risks they have run. but also of the verita- 
ble endurance tests which they have had 
to undergo. A war photographer shares 
the fate of the army to which he happens 
to be attached. If ordered to march he 
must march : if halted in the trenches, he 
must halt; and if. in the face of fire, he 

Photos © 
Im. Not'l News 

Edwin F. Weigle of the Chicago Tribune, taking pictures among the ruins of 

Termonde. Mr. Weigle was caught between the retreating Belgian army and 

the advancing Germans. 

wishes to get pictures, he must expose him- 
self bodily as a target; for he can not get 
war pictures lying down. Instead he must 
set his camera up on its tripod and grind 
ahead, oblivious of the rain of shells. 

It was not a particularly enviable posi- 
tion that Mr. Edwin F. Weigle of The 
Chicago Tribune found himself in when 
he and Mr. Joseph Medill Patterson, after 
"covering" the action around Termonde. 
were caught between the retreating Belgian 
army and the advancing Germans ! Yet 
Mr. Weigle clung to his camera and 
stayed, taking motion pictures until the 
Germans, as he says, were too close for 
safety, although as a matter of fact they 
had been too close for safety long before 
he decided to take up his forty-pound equip- 
ment and follow after the Belgians. Mr. 



Photoplay Magazine 

Weigle was in Antwerp during 
the bombardment of that city by 
the Germans, and the story of his 
night-long imprisonment with 
three others in the basement of a 
house that was shelled above their 
heads, as told in his booklet, "My 
Experiences on the Belgian Bat- 
tlefields," carries a thrill of terror 
even to one safely removed by 
many thousand 
miles from the 
scene of danger. 

"The next 
thing that hap- 
pened was the 
falling of a 
mass of debris. 
which we knew 
represented the 
top of our building crumbling in. It fol- 
lowed immediately after a volley of shot. 
We could hear brick and other material 
pounding on the door of our sub-cellar. 
Pieces of the debris forced their way 
through the door and imbedded themselves 
in the mattresses. We did not dare to get 
out. We only could stay there and wait 
until death came. 

"We waited and waited. The hours 
passed slowly. W'e watched the minutes 
pass. Suddenly, at 3 :30 in the afternoon. 

/. M. Downic is a Universal photographer ivho scoured the battle 
fields of France securing tear films. 

a shell struck our house with 
deadly crash. The entire build- 
ing crumbled. Debris poured in. 
The dust and smoke, from the 
burning matter above, were suffo- 
cating. The air was clouded with 
smoke. We felt sure that we 
would smother or burn to death if 
we did not get out. We decided 
to get out instead of being burned 

Mr. Weigle not 
only got out 
alive, but 
brought his 
camera with 
him ! If there 
is one thought 
that the war 
photographer has in mind even beyond that 
of personal safety, it is the thought of his 
camera. Even while lie accepts every 
hazard as regards personal safety, the 
camera must also be protected at all cost. 
Sometimes, as in a severe rain storm, the 
photographer will cheerfully expose him- 
self to the drenching elements while he 
uses his coat as a shield to protect his 
camera from the weather. Not only has 
the war photographer to be agile-minded 
and acrile-limbed. but he has to be as stout 

A Group of Belgian soldiers operating machine guns near Maliens. 

The War Photographer's Job 


One of the German aeroplanes which returned safely from Paris in spite of the devastating effects 

of French shells. 

as a pack-horse as well. In Belgium the or conveyances requisitioned for ambulance 
photographers have labored under the con- service or red cross work in caring for the 
stant difficulty of having tjieir automobiles wounded. The result is that the photog- 

The Belgian Firing Line near Antwerp 


Photoplay Magazine 

raphers have had to make long marches, 
fatiguing enough in themselves, under the 
additional heavy burden of their equip- 
ment. To add to these little pleasantries 
in the war photographer's life, he has to 
face the constant suspicion that he is a 
spy. Mr. J. C. Bee Mason, who was in 
Holland and Belgium for the Hearst-Selig 
Company, says that this suspicion is even 
greater in Holland, which is neutral, and 
therefore extremely watchful and punc- 
tilious lest it endanger its neutrality, than 
in Belgium, which is actively engaged in 
war. In Croningen, on the German bor- 
der where the English prisoners are in de- 
tention, Mr. Mason was shadowed by a 
gendarme mounted on a bicycle. The 
gendarme placed himself on guard out- 
side a cafe into which Mr. Mason went 
ostensibly for refreshment. Before satis- 
fying his hunger, however, Mr. Mason 
perched his camera on the ledge of an 
upper window and got a reel of the British 
soldiers marching in the square below. 

Mr. Mason also tells an amusing story 
of conditions under which he secured pic- 
turs of British prisoners in the detention 
barracks in the same town in Holland. 

The officer in charge would not permit him 
to take pictures. Mr. Mason set his camera 
on the ground, tilting it up in front with 
a stone underneath it. He then sat on the 
camera, and while pretending to be talking 
with the soldiers, he proceeded to turn the 
handle, taking a motion picture of a squad 
of sailors who were running about the bar- 
rack yard for exercise. 

Some of the war photographers have 
been wounded and some of the French 
moving picture men at the front with the 
French forces, it is said, have been killed. 
Yet the war photographer remains an un- 
sung and unheralded hero. Some enter- 
prising scenario writer should give us a 
film romance with the war photographer 
as hero. Or, failing that, the film firms 
should send out a second man with each 
photographer to take the pictures of the 
war photographer eating black bread, 
shivering in the rain, sleeping in hayricks 
or lofts, or marching laden down with his 
heavy equipment through the mud. The 
war photographer photographed would 
have as much human interest as a great 
many of the pictures brought back from 
the field of battle. 


1V4 ORAL questions are best handled by public opinion. They are bungled 
AV1 by politicians. A vast new art, with direct appeal to millions, must 
involve moral influences. The moving picture is the most amazing art-form 
of our time. In impress upon national life, the movies are comparable to the 
school and the newspaper. 

How little the National Board of Censorship, after five years of coop- 
eration, now needs to interfere with the manufacturers is shown by the fig- 
ures for October. "Eliminations" are nearly always comparatively slight 
and changes inexpensive. 

Number of subjects viewed 571 

Number of reels viewed 915 

Number of pictures in which eliminations were made 71 

Number of eliminations made 175 

Number of subjects condemned 3 

Number of reels condemned 10 

In other words, the big national manufacturers try to act on the principles 
already worked out and clearly written down. They realize that they need, 
nevertheless, a certain supervision. All they dread is the substitution of 
arbitrary political ignorance for well-informed, tolerant, careful and disin- 
terested criticism. . . . — Harper'^ Weekly. 

Photoplay Magazine 


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Photoplay Magazine 

Beauty to Burn 

(Continued from page 162) 

"You can have it," he said and made out 
the ticket and handed Bernice ten $10 

She stuffed these into her purse, feeling 
nervously afraid that she would lose them, 
far more afraid than she had felt about 
the immensely more valuable necklace. So 
it is with money: a hundred dollars is se- 
curity for a couple of months, if one does 
not demand too much. 

Bernice had to fight for standing room 
in a car. and it was then that she realized 
how tired she was. She hated the pushing 
crowd. Her head ached with the nervous 
strain of the long day ; indeed she ached 
from head to foot. She had lost a night's 
sleep and she had eaten nothing since 
breakfast. She wished she could cry. She 
got off the car at Ohio Street, although the 
place in which she had found a room was 
a block or two farther north, because the 
corner was familiar. She did not notice a 
man standing on the corner who glanced 
quickly at her. 

It was only after she had gone a block 
and stood hesitant a moment while she 
realized that she must go north that she 
saw him. He stepped forward quickly. 

"Hello sister," he said, and took her arm. 

Bernice was too much frightened to 
break away from him. 

"I'm going your way." he continued and 
Bernice mechanically walked on. "Had 
your dinner?" he asked. 

"No," Bernice cried fiercely at him, and. 
as he started back, she slapped him with 
all the force she could manage and ran. 
She ran desperately for two blocks, to the 
brick house on the corner. Only when she 
was at the top of the steps, her hand on 
the bell, did she look around. The man 
was nowhere in sight. 

The door opened slowly, and the old 
man with the G. A. R. button in his lapel 

"I forgot to give you a latch-key," he 
began gently. 

"Never mind, get it in the morning," 
Bernice panted and flew up the long stair- 
way. Sobbing for breath, she slammed her 
door, locked it, threw herself on the bed. 
and burst into tears. They came in floods 

now, after being held back all day. All 
the piled up fears and anxieties of the day 
swept through her and spent themselves in 
sobs. And when the fierceness of her fright 
and her grief had spent itself and she 
crawled into bed, her purse under her 
pillow, she was lost to pity of herself. 
Had any girl ever had so hard a time? 
She had lost her love, and been driven 
away from home, that was the way she put 
it now, and suffered insult and vile pur- 
suit at the hands of men — all in one week. 
She went sadly over the summer, her first 
meetings with Robert MacCameron, the 
rides together, his look when she teased 
him, the swing of his body when he gal- 
loped the big black horse, his first kiss, the 
furious ride in which he had caught her 
and kissed her again — and, sweeter and 
sadder than any of these, the last meeting 
in the wood when she had said good-bye to 
him forever and refused her lips to him. 
At the memory of that hour fresh tears 
came, and so she went off to sleep. 


It was a very different Bernice who 
studied the want-ads of a morning paper 
over her breakfast two days later. With 
sleep her courage had come back, and the 
color that gave life to her finely-chiseled 
beauty. There were, she decided, three 
advertisements that interested her. One 
was that of a photographer who wanted 
a model, and the other two were those of 
department stores. 

After some trouble, she found the door 
of the former, on the top floor of an old 
building in State Street. The room she 
entered was empty except for a frowsy boy. 

"Answering the ad?" he asked. 


"Nothin' doin'," the boy replied. "Boss 
has more'n he c'n use now." 

Bernice turned to go, but as she reached 
the elevator the boy came running after 

"Here, come back a minute," he said 

Bernice followed him. A young man 
whose hands were stained a deep yellow, 
shading into brown on his fingers, stood in 
the doorway. 

"I think I might be able to use you," 
he remarked. "Ever pose before?" 

Photoplay Magazine 


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Photoplay Magazine 

"No. Not regularly." 

The man looked her up and down with 
an eye that seemed to Bernice to penetrate 
her clothes. 

"You are a little slim," he observed. 
"But you might do. Altogether, or just 
head and shoulders?" 

"I don't understand," Bernice answered, 
feeling thoroughly uncomfortable and yet 
unwilling not to see the thing through. 

"I mean," the man' explained irritably, 
"do you pose in the nude or only for the 
head and shoulders?" As he spoke he put 
his hand on her shoulder, as if to satisfy 
himself that it was well rounded. 

Bernice shrank away from the touch of 
that yellow hand. She did not know that 
the stain was due to the pyro developer in 
which the man constantly worked, but she 
knew perfectly the meaning of his gesture. 
It was so precisely like that which she had 
often made in looking over a new saddle 
horse ! 

"I don't believe I care to pose," Bernice 
said quickly, and walked out. 

"I'll make it worth your while," he 
called after her. But Bernice had had 
enough. She would try the department 

On the top floor of one of the great 
buildings in State Street she found a line 
of girls waiting to see the manager, and 
others busily filling out application blanks. 
Two young men distributed the blanks and 
kept the line straight. 

One of them glanced at Bernice. 

"You're looking for the fitting room, 
madam, aren't you," he offered politely. 
"It's over on the Wabash Avenue side. 
This is the manager's office, where appli- 
cations for employment are received." 

"Then this is the room I want," Bernice 
said. "May I have a blank please?" 

"0, certainly," the polite young man 
gasped. He knew the difference between 
a tailored suit at fifteen dollars and one 
that had cost more than ten times as much, 
and he was frankly astonished. 

Bernice studied the blank. It demanded 
a fairly complete history of her life, with 
emphasis on the working part of it. What 
answer could she make to the question 
why she left the place "where last em- 
ployed?" And how could she fill the 
spaces left for references as to her charac- 
ter, when she was living under an assumed 
name? She decided boldly to use the 

names of people who knew her as Bernice 
Frothingham, trusting to luck that the firm 
would make no inquiry. 

But the manager was not simple. 

"I see," he commented, when Bernice's 
turn to be interviewed came, "that you give 
Mrs. Norman Cochrane of 11 Bellevue 
Place as a reference, Miss Gale. Is Mrs. 
Cochrane a former employer of yours?" 

"A — an acquaintance," Bernice stam- 

The manager continued to study her ap- 
plication blank for a couple of minutes. 
Then he looked at her, taking in the cut 
of her suit, noting her gloves, her purse, 
her blouse, her hat. He smiled quizzically 
at her. 

"Tell me," he said, "are you doing this 
on a bet or is it a practical joke, or what?" 

"I am doing it because I want to earn 
my own living," Bernice answered. 

"It's a poor way," the manager observed 
solemnly. "A very poor way for you. I'd 
go back home if I were you and forget 
about it. You don't belong here." 

Bernice realized as she passed the still 
accumulating line of girls seeking work 
that she didn't belong there, that her 
clothes announced to all who had eyes that 
she did not belong. Where did she belong? 
For she was equally sure that she did not 
belong at "Red House." Bernice was not 
seriously discouraged. She had money 
enough to last for a time and she believed 
that something would turn up. But what? 
She wished she knew somebody to talk to. 
She was tempted to go to Mrs. Cochrane 
and tell her the whole story. Mrs. Coch- 
rane might feel bound to report Bernice's 
whereabouts to Colonel Frothingham. 
What if she did? Sooner or later her 
step-father would find her. The scene 
that Bernice had so far taken so much 
trouble to avoid was bound to come. Or 
was it? Perhaps her step-father had given 
her up. There had been nothing in the 
papers about her disappearance. For all 
Bernice knew "Red House" had accepted 
her absence without the slightest interest. 
But she knew "Red House" had done 
nothing of the sort. What the Colonel was 
doing she could not guess ; that he was not 
idle she knew. 

That night Bernice sat writing letters 
and tearing them up when there was a 
knock at her door. When she opened it 
she saw a pleasant-faced girl, three or four 

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Photoplay Magazine 

years older than herself, who extended her 
hand like a man. 

"I'm Sarah Wilbur. Who are you?" 

"I'm Bernice Gale," Bernice answered, 
>miling in spite of herself. "Won't you 
:ome in?" 

"That's why I knocked — because I 
wanted to come in," Sarah Wilbur ob- 
served, as she took one of the red plush 

Bernice was a little disconcerted. 

"Won't you have some tea?" she asked, 
desiring to be hospitable and not knowing 
what to say. 

"Yes— tea and talk." 

Bernice lit the alcohol lamp under the 
little tea-kettle she had stowed away in her 
trunk when she left "Red House" and took 
some cups from a drawer. 

"There isn't any cream." 

"Cream is superfluous," Sarah Wilbur 
said. "What are you doing in Chicago?" 

"Looking for a job." 

"So are we all. But why did you leave 

Bernice bent over her tea-kettle and ad- 
justed the flame of the lamp. Her impulse 
was to answer this question frankly. Why 
not trust this girl? Could there be any 
danger in trusting a person who so directly 
spoke her own mind. She wanted desper- 
ately to talk to somebody. She looked up 
at Sarah Wilbur. 

"I ran away from home." 

"I thought so," Sarah responded cheer- 
fully. "So did I." 

"What are you doing now ?" 

"I'm a trained nurse," Sarah answered. 
"Twenty-five dollars a week when you 
work — and you do work, believe me. Just 
now I am resting after six weeks with a 
pneumonia case." 

"Do you like it?" Bernice asked eagerly. 

"More or less. It takes two to four 
years to prepare yourself for it. What 
kind of a job are you trying for?" 

Bernice told Sarah Wilbur of the 
photographer who advertised for a model 
and of her talk with the manager at the 
department store. That led to explana- 
tions ; and before she realized what she 
was doing she had told Sarah Wilbur her 
whole story. 

Sarah looked at Bernice with new inter- 
est as she paused. 

"You have been having a run of it, 
haven't vou?" 

Bernice was relieved that Sarah Wilbur 
made no criticism of her conduct. She had 
felt a little foolish in telling of how she 
had defied Colonel Frothingham, and of 
her ride across country at midnight. But 
evidently Sarah Wilbur was an understand- 
ing person. 

"And now," Bernice concluded, "I don't 
know what to do. I spose the first thing 
to do is to get references." 

"I can manage the references easily 
enough," Sarah Wilbur assured her. "But 
why don't you try the movies ? They won't 
ask for any references when they've had a 
look at you. If I had a profile like a 
Greek goddess and hair that came down to 
my knees I'd be haunting the studios and 
I don't believe I'd be haunting very long." 

"I hadn't thought of it," Bernice an- 
swered slowly. And then, with an access 
of frankness, she added, "I had thought of 
the stage." 

It was the first time she had ever freely 
admitted this ambition. 

"It's harder to get on the stage than 
into the movies just now," Sarah Wilbur 
explained. "You don't do one-night stands 
in the movies, either. Try the movies. If 
they like your looks as much as I do they'll 
take you on and teach you how to act." 

Bernice went to sleep that night dream- 
ing of the movies and of Sarah Wilbur. 
She liked Sarah Wilbur better than any 
other woman she had ever known. She 
wanted to be her friend. And she was ex- 
cited about the prospect of calling on the 
directors of all the moving picture studios 
in Chicago to ask for a chance. 


Bernice's first call was at the studio of 
the Pontifex Producing Company. But 
the inevitable office boy informed her that 
"they're not hiring nobody this week." 
The second place on her list of three was 
more promising. A dozen young women 
and girls were seated about the ante-room 
into which she was shown and one by one 
they were permitted to pass through a door 
into the assistant director's office. Bernice 
waited an hour for her turn, listening 
meanwhile to a chatter about movie stars 
and movie directors which was almost un- 
intelligible to her because she knew so 
little of what the names meant. 

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After a long hour's wait Bernice's turn 
came. She knew the moment she looked at 
the man that he would give her nothing. 

"What experience?" he asked. 

"None," Bernice answered shortly. 

"None! Why ask for a job, then?" he 

"One has to begin," Bernice said coldly. 
"People aren't born with experience." 

"No, but they generally begin when 
they're several years younger than you 

"You have nothing for me, then?" 

"No. We aren't hiring amateurs." 

A little nettled and a good deal hurt, 
Bernice was not sure that she wanted to 
try the third place. She thought of put- 
ting it off until tomorrow. But she did not 
want to report to Sarah Wilbur that she 
had failed to try every chance that offered 
and so she took a car for the office of the 
Transcript Company. She had learned 
enough from the gossip she had heard to 
ask for Mr. Morgan, the director. 

The office boy seemed impressed. He 
offered to "see." 

A moment later a young man with heavy- 
eyebrows, thick black hair, and an engag- 
ing, crooked smile, appeared. 

"I'm Miss Gale," Bernice said. "I 
want a job." 

Mr. Morgan's smile broadened the 
merest trifle. 

"I'm glad to meet you, Miss Gale. 
What can you do?" 

"I can ride. I can really ride well. 
And I can swim, I can do many things." 

"But you've never done any acting?" 

"No, I haven't," Bernice admitted, "but 
I can learn, I know I can learn. I am 
willing to try hard." 

"I see you are," Tom Morgan observed. 
"And I am willing to give vou a trv-out." 

"You are?" Bernice cried'. "When?" 

"I said a 'try-out,' not an engagement, 
you know." 

"But how soon?" Bernice's face was 
flushed with triumph. 

"Is tomorrow soon enough ?" 

"Of course," Bernice answered. 

"Tomorrow at nine o'clock, then. Nine 
sharp, Miss Gale." 

"O, thank you," Bernice cried, but Tom 
Morgan had already turned his back. 

Bernice walked out of the building with 
shining eyes. It seemed as if her dreams 
were beginning to come true. How pleased 
Sarah would be ! She could hardly wait to 
get home to tell her about it. "Home!" 
Already the hall bed-room on the top floor 
was "home." 

Up the long stairway Bernice ran as she 
had run the night the man in East Ohio 
street had so frightened her — but with a 
difference. This time she ran gayly, joy- 
ously, happily, up the next flight, and the 
last flight, and down the long dark hall- 

"Sarah! O, Sarah!" she cried. But 
Sarah did not answer. 

Bernice threw open the door of her room. 

There in one of the red plush chairs, 
his hat and stick beside him, sat Colonel 

(To be continued next month.) 

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Photoplay Magazine 





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IT IS futile for the beginner to attempt to 
adapt books and magazine stories, yet 
many of the studios are receiving adapted 
stories from amateur writers, with the re- 
sult that they are immediately returned. 
It is practically impossible for a new writer 
to put into satisfactory scenario form the 
copyrighted material of a professional. 
Nothing but experience in this sort of 
scenario writing will equip the average 
amateur sufficiently to be able to turn his 
time profitably to adaptation. Every book 
is not adaptable for picture purposes, neither 
is every magazine story filmable. The film 
success of an adapted book depends on its 
possessive features that give the players and 
the camera man the action to produce a 
story that is easily comprehensible and in- 
teresting to picture play house patrons, for 
what may be immediately grasped in fiction 
may be unrecognized on the screen. It may 
be possible to put into picture almost any- 
thing that may be said in words, but it is 
impracticable to make the attempt when the 
thing told in words does not lend itself to 
being acted out before the camera. 


ALL the incidents of a dramatic photo- 
play that lead up to a crisis — a point 
of interest — but go beyond it because 
of the writer's inability to discern when to 
stop to make the crisis felt by the spectator 
— lose their value. Often for want of the 
expressive sense in the writer such a point 
is permitted to pass after the story, in its 
unraveling, has prepared for it. "But first, 
what is a crisis, and when do I know when 
it presents itself?" some one ventures to ask. 
As an illustration, let us imagine a story in 
which a young girl is in love with a police 
captain. The mother of the officer has never 
seen the girl, and for the sake of invention, 
we will have the captain called out of the 
city. During the interval, the girl takes 
a position in the captain's home and as a 
matter of plotting, she is accused of steal- 
ing certain papers. The girl is discharged 
and procures a position as usher in a theater. 
The captain returns and learns of the theft 
of the papers, .but he does not know his 


sweetheart is accused. Later, the officer's 
mother attends the theater and is ushered to 
a seat by — the girl. Now, the crisis appears. 
The woman and the girl recognize each 
other. Will the woman have the girl ar- 
rested? That is the point of suspense — 
the crisis — and we must leave the situation 
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has lost its value. Such a situation must 
not come too soon ; the story must lead grad- 
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must be used. 


PLAYERS may superbly resist all ten- 
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the window with movable shade, to be raised 
on signal ; a note, delivered to the woman, 
was "flashed" on the screen: "Meet me 
under the old linden tree at 9:00." She 
telephoned her acquiescence; the same 

Photoplay Magazine 



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Has your scenario come back? Or have you another? I will type- 
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Photoplay Magazine 

chairs, parlor screen and lady's desk were 
there; a little child ran into the scene — to 
her mamma — and the woman was brought 
to realize that she must not leave her home — 
the intent of the story. The same conven- 
tional ending was the result. The players 
had handled their parts well, the settings 
were really beautiful, the plays were 
"staged" properly and well produced, but 
because of the conventional devices used 
and the conventional action of the story 
these plays were uninteresting. The play 
that calls for something new in effects is 
the play for which the biggest price will be 
paid. Conventionality lessens a play's sell- 
ing value, and never establishes a firm 
foothold for the author. 


IT IS unquestionably easier for the aver- 
age writer to obscure his story with an 
avalanche of detail than it is to condense 
action and scenes to what the average studio 
editor admires — brevity. A photoplay is 
simply a story told in action, without words. 
But it needs to be told well. One way to 
do it well is to condense it, to explain scenes 
and action in the least number of words so 
that the scenario editor can see its essentials 
almost at a glance. Then it may be the 
kind of play that will interest an audi- 
ence. In Russell E. Smith's Majestic story, 
"A Mother's Trust," is found such brevity 
as most writers are unable to secure. True, 
many of the scenes are cut-backs, but it is 
the unusual condensation that is notably in- 
teresting. The first ten scenes of this story 
will show how a play may be condensed 
and yet be understood readily by editor and 

Scene 1 — Poor Room. 

Mother working — sewing. Boy 
in, demands money ; mother 
refuses. Boy angry; mother 
counts out few coins. Boy hur- 
ries off. 
Scene 2 — Street. 

Boy on and off. 
Scene 3 — Room. 

Mother sewing. 
Scene 4 — Saloon, Exterior. 

Boy on and in. 
Scene 5 — Saloon, Interior. • 

Boy in — drinks, etc., with boys 
at table. 

Scene 6 — As in 4. 

Well-dressed man, drunk, on, 
rambles in. 
Scene 7 — As in 5. 

Drunk in — gets drink — displays 
bills, etc. 
Scene 8 — Close-up of boy, et al. 

Boy and gang see roll — intent to 
rob, etc. 
Scene 9 — As in 5. 

Drunk staggers, rolls out — boy 
and gang follow. 
Scene 10 — As in 4. 

Drunk on — down alley— boy and 
gang after. 

These scenes "tell the story" — no more 
is necessary. The shorter the scene the 
less confusing. Put nothing in it that can 
not be quickly understood and developed. 
Time is the essence of the photoplay, and it 
means much to the writer — even as it does 
to the editor who reads the scenario and the 
director who produces it. 


PREFERENCE of story rather than 
preference of author is one of the 
marked features of photoplay writ- 
ing, though it is a difficult matter to make 
"outside" writers believe it. . Yet, were 
there to be a struggle between new talent 
and old for studio script-writing supremacy, 
undoubtedly, the old would win. Why? 
Because the old writers know the public's 
preference, the studios' requirements, the 
editors' wants — and most of all, they can 
distinguish between what is plot and what 
is not. As in writing for the legitimate 
stage, "A name will not save a failure." 
If a scenario is poor in plot, action, and 
value, it stands no better chance of pur- 
chase if it has the mark of a known writer 
than if it had come from Lizzie Jones, of 
the Kentucky hills. Every studio is look- 
ing, searching, longing for new material, 
new writers, and new ideas, regardless of 
whence they come. There are many reasons 
why the producers turn to novels and maga- 
zines for photoplay material, but it is chiefly 
because of their inability to keep up with 
the public's demand for new subjects — in- 
asmuch as the few good photoplaywrights 
are unable to supply the demand, and the 
amateurs are wholly unfitted for the work. 
Kay-Bee, Majestic, Reliance, Selig, Edison, 

Photoplay Magazine 



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Photoplay Magazine 





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Write today. Address Mrs. Mary K. Chapman, Suite 912F, 
Banigan Bldg., Providence, R. I. 

Universal, Holland, Eclair, American, 
Lubin, Rochester and Frontier editors are 
calling for stories, but they qualify the call 
by saying : "We want photoplay scenarios 
that we do not have to reconstruct, that 
are written in proper technical form, and 
most of all we want — we demand — stories 
with new life, new ideas and originality 
that mark such scenarios as worthy of our 
time and consideration." Nothing could 
be more emphatic. These editors are sin- 
cere — their market is good (better than it 
has been for some time), but the only play- 
scripts salable are those containing ideas. 


TEN leaders of ten words each in a 
full-reel story means that the author 
has asked the producer to permit the 
use of 100 feet of film to allow him to 
express what he has been unable to put into 
action. Thus one-tenth of the story is read- 
ing matter instead of performance. Every 
word in a leader or cut-in requires one foot 
of film to keep it before the audience long 
enough to be read and understood. Action 
is always more interesting than words, even 
though the author resorts to "fades" and 
"visions" to make his points and cover 
lapses of time or use the "cut-back" to 
save explanations in words. The expense 
of production should be considered when 
the story is written, and one of the expense 
items to be watched is that of film for 
leaders, especially as this use of film does 
not, generally, strengthen the subject. 


WHILE the film industry perhaps has 
not been affected by the war as much 
as some other lines of business, there 
has been a lesser number of stories pur- 
chased during the past few months. The 
producers have yielded to a desire to dis- 
pose of a large number of old prints and 
to use up scenarios purchased months and 
even years ago. But the scenario market 
is bound to improve. Serials are not as 
popular as heretofore, and book and dra- 
matic productions are no longer the draw- 
ing cards they were last year. The time 
is not far distant when the author with an 
original story — one totally different — will 
come into his own. 

Photoplay Magazine 


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How I Cured My 
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A Friendly Scientist Showed Me 
How to Cure It Forever 


For a lonR- time I was sorely troubled by a hideous frrowth 
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Where to Send Your Scripts 

The names, addresses and scenario wants of the film companies tnat are in 
the market for photoplays. All manuscripts must be typewritten. They should 
be folded, not rolled and addressed to Scenario Editor, with the address 
of the company following. A stamped, self-addressed envelope should 
always be enclosed to be used in case of rejection. 

American Film Mfg. Co., Santa Barbara, Cal. 
F. A. Wall, editor. Novel subjects with big, fresh 
ideas running from 500 to 8,000 feet. Exceptional 
one and two-reel dramas and comedies especially 
desired. This company also reads for "Beauty ' 
and desires small cast, heart-interest dramas and 
comedies for Margarita Fischer. 

Balboa Amusement Producing Company, Long 
Beach, Cal. F. Wiltcrmood, editor. Big Ameri- 
can dramas wanted : three, four and six-reel plays 
that show good romance and plot of intrigue. 

Beauty — See American Film Mfg. Company. 

Biograph Company, 807 East 175th street, New 
York City. Strong one and two-reel scenarios of 
their own style. Also farce comedies and bur- 
lesques of half-reel length. 

Bison 101 — Sec Universal Film Mfg. Company. 

Eaco Films, 110 W. 40th street, New York City. 
Three-reel dramas with a "punch." which may lx> 
used to feature Edwin August. One-reel westerns 
and comedies. 

Thomas A. Edison, Inc., 2820 Decatur avenue. 
Bronx. New York. One and two-reel plays. Mod- 
ern settings desired and action must embrace 
incidents with which the average person is fa- 

Essanay Film Mfg. Co.. 1333 Argylc street. 
Chicago, III. Slap-stick and straight comedies. 
Buying very little at present. 

Famous Players Film Company, 213-27 West 
2Gth street, New York, N. Y. B. P. Schulberg. 
editor. An almost impossible market for any but 
experienced scenario writers. For stories in four 
reels without a single flaw in plot or theme, this 
is a splendid market, but they must be strong 
enough to compete with popular novel adaptations. 

St. Louis Motion Picture Company, Santa 
Paula, Cal. Strong western and Spanish dramatic 
and light comedy scripts in one reel. 

Gold Seal — See Universal Film Mfg. Company. 

Historical — Historical Feature Film Company, 
105 W. Monroe street, Chicago, 111. One-reel 

Holland Film Mfg. Company. 105 Lawrence 
avenue, Dorchester, Mass. One and two-reel 
comedies and comedy-dramas. Three, four and 
five-reel dramas with New England settings. 
Plenty of action. Send to scenario editor. 

Imp — Sec Universal Film Mfg. Company. 

Joker — Sec Universal Film Mfg. Company. 

Kalcm Company, 235 W. 23rd street. New York. 
Phil Lang, editor. Single-reel, farce comedies and 
two-reel dramas. Underworld and crime stories 
not desired. Address all scripts to the scenario 

Kevstone Film Co., 1712-19 Allesandro street 
(Edendalet. Los Angeles, Cal. Craig Hutchinson, 
editor. Farce comedies, fast and logical action 
and plot; will read good synopsis only. 

Komic — See Majestic-Reliance. 

L-KO — See Universal Film Mfg. Company. 

Lubln Manufacturing Company. Indiana avenue 
and 20th street. Philadelphia. Pa. Lawrence Mc- 
Closkev. editor. One-reel light comedies, unique 
in character and incident : strong multiple-reel 
dramas replete with novelty of plot and climax. 

Miller Brothers. 101 Ranch. Bliss. Okla. Three- 
reel melodramatic westerns with Indians figuring 
prominently. Only high-grade scripts of this class 


Majestic-Reliance Studios, 4500 Sunset boule- 
vard. Los Angeles, Cal. Frank E. Woods, editor. 
Reads scripts for Reliance, Majestic and Komic. 
Novel stories in one and two-reels, filled with 
dramatic action desired for first two companies 
and one-reel comedies of farcical nature for the 
other two. Stories submitted in synopsis form 
only will be considered. Stories must have the 
"vitally different twist."' 

Majestic — See Mutual Film Corporation. 

Xestor— Sec Universal Film Mfg. Company. 

North American Film Corporation, 111 Broad- 
way, New York. Mrs. Catherine Carr, editor. 
Strong, one. two and three-reel dramas and one 
and two-reel legitimate comedies without objec- 
tionable features. 

Powers — See Universal Film Mfg. Company. 

The Photoplay Entertainment Company, 7311 
Greenwood street, Pittsburgh, Pa. Short and 
snappy original comedies of about 10 scenes, 200 
feet of film, or less for Animated Jokes, a 1.000- 
foot reel to be issued weekly and consisting of 
about five short comedies. Pay 2 1 /. to 5 cents 
per foot of film. 

Reliance — Sec Majestic-Reliance. 
Rolfe. B. A.. Photoplays Inc., 1403 Broadway. 
New York City. One and two-reel comedies. 
Rex — See Universal Film Mfg. Company. 

Selig Polyscope Company. 20 East Randolph 
street, Chicago. 111. J. F. I'ribyl, editor. In the 
market for everything from split-reel comedies to 
five-reel dramas. Former must be lively and hu- 
morous and latter big and gripping. This is one 
of the few firms buying single-reel scenarios at 
the present time, and they demand the hest. 

Smallwood Film Corporation, 1303 Flatiron 
Bids.. N. Y. In the market for one and two-reel 
comedy dramas suitable for featuring Miss Ethel 
Grandin, an ingenue lead. Prefer small cast 

Sterling Motion Picture Company. Hollywood, 
Cal. Fred Balshofcr, editor. One and two-reel 
farces that will fit Ford Sterling. They must be 
along novel lines, compelling in action 'and virile 
in plot. 

Universal Film Manufacturing Company, East- 
ern office. 1000 Broadway. New York. Jack Bryne, 
editor. Uses modern and society scripts princi- 
pally and reads for Imp, Powers and Victor. 
Stories fitting Ben Wilson, Mary Fuller, Harry 
Meyers and Rosemary Theby especially desired. 
Western office. Hollywood, Cal. James Dayton, 
editor. Not buying much at present, but con- 
siders all novel plots suitable for production in 
California. Reads for Gold Seal, Rex. Nestor, 
Bison, Universal Ike, L-KO. and Joker. Pays 
good prices for available stories and gives credit 
on screen to the author. 

Universal Ike — See Universal Film Mfg. Com- 

Victor—' Sec Universal Film Mfg. Company. 

Vitagraph Company of America, East 15th 
street and Locust avenue. Brooklyn, N. Y. Mar- 
guerite Bertsch, editor. Are well stocked with 
scripts on account of recent prize contest, but 
will buy any scenario or plot that is novel. 
Whether it be good comedy, strong drama or 
melodrama, the prime requisite is that it shall be 
different, uncommon. 

Photoplay Magazine 




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home ; in band or orchestra ; in church 
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mai 1 , lend you a solo cornet or any other 
brassinstrumentand present it to you 
absolutely free of cost at the end of your course of 
30 lessons which you pay for weekly as you take them. 
Five graduates are playing 1 in a leading- band in Massa- 
chusetts. Many are soloists and directors of bands OV 
orchestras. They unanimously praise the simplicity 
and thoroughness of our practical, easy instruction. 
We'll send a specimen lesson FREE. Our testimo- 
nials will astonish you. WE HAVE TAUGHT BY 
MAIF, FOR 10 YEARS. Nomatterwhereyou live or 
whether you have had any musical training", WRITE. 

International Cornet School, 44D Federal St., Boston, Mass. 

Hotel Cumberland 

Broadway, at 54th Street - NEW YORK 
Near 50th St. Subway Station and 53d St. Elevated 

" Broadway" Cars 

from Grand Central 


7th Ave. Cars from 
Penna. Station. 

New and Fireproof* 

Best Hotel Accom- 
modations in New 
York at Reasonable 

$2.50 with Bath 
and up 

European plan. 

All Hardwood 

Floors and Oriental 


Ten minutes' walk 
to 40 Theaters 

Prices Moderate. 
Send for Booklet 

HARRY P. STIMSON, Formerly with Hotel Imperial 

Only New York Hotel Window-Screened Throughout. 

Hundreds of good positions now open. No experience 
required to get one of them. Write today for list of 
openings offering opportunities to earn Big Money 
Sfcihng goods while you learn and testimonials from 
hundreds of our students who are earning S100 to $500 
a month. Address nearest office. Dept.523 
Chieaco. Now York, Kansas City, San Francisco 

Don't You Like ,Wc» 

You can have the same 
I ACIHICCII ohair food, applied once 
LAonnCCn each day, will absolutely 
produce thick and long eyebrows and eye- 
lashes. Easy to apply — sure in results. 
I ACUIICCftl is an Oriental formulae. 
LAOfinCCn Oneboxisnllyou will need. 
Not sold at druggists. Mailed on receipt of 
25c coin, or Canadian money order. 

Rider Agents Wanted 

in each town to ride andexhibit sample 1915 model" Ranger" 
Bicycle furnished by us. Write for special offer. 

We Ship on Approval without a cent deposit, prepay 
* freight am i allow 30 DAYS FREE TRIAL, acfual riding test. 
LOWEST PRICES on bicycles, tires and sundries. Do 
not buy until you receive our catalogs and learn our un- 
heard of prices and marvelous special offer. Tires, 
coasters, wheels, lamps, sundries, half usual prices. 
MEAD CYCLE CO., Department A-118, CHICAGO, ILL. 


Write for My Free Book 
" How to Become a Good Penman '* 

and beautiful specimens. Your nume 
elegantly written on acard if you enclose stump. Wrile today. (414) 


Learn by mail. Cartooning 1 , Newspaper, Magazine and Com- 
mercial Illustrating, Water Color and Oil Painting. Free 
Scholarship Award. Writo for illustrated Art Annual. 
FINE ARTS INSTITUTE, Studio 992. Omaha, Neb. 

Big Entertainer jffifijla 

Games, 310 Jokes and Riddles, 73 
Toasts, IS Card Tricks, 4 Oomio 
Recitations, 3 Monologues, Check- 
ers. Chess, Dominoes, Fox and 

Geese, 9 Men Morris. All 10 CENTS POST PAID. 

J. C. DORN, 709 So. Dearborn St., Depl. 78, Chicago, III. 


Story-Writing Taught by Mail 

MSS. criticised, revised, and typed; also, sold 
on commission. Our students sell stories to 
best magazines. Free booklet. "WRITING 
FOR PROFIT." tells how, gives proof. 
National Pi-ess Association, Wept. •!-, IndlunapullH, laid. 


from your band writing. Mind you get a really GOOD read- 
ing 1 that will help you in love, health, business and domes- 
tic affairs. Price 10c. Sore to please you. Monoyback if 
dissatistled. G.D.BEAUCHAMP&>83 8tli Ave. Now York City 


I j3 A course of forty lessons in the history, form, structure and writing 
A^jf of the Short-Story taujrlit by Dr. J. Berg Esenwein, for years 
^7v Editor of Uppincotts. ZSO-paze cata/»i?lte free Please address 


Dr.EscnwofD Dept. 129. Springfield, Mass. 

DC IJ AMTYdfilV/IF Superfluous hair on your face 
DLi rif\.lVLsJ\Jlvln-i an< j arms can be removed 
to stay removed quickly and safely. Guaranteed. Mail 50c, 
cash or money order, for preparation and directions to 
The Monongalia Specialty Co., Drawer 846, Morgantown, W.Va. 

Please Mention Photoplay Muguziue 


Photoplay Magazine 

Your Complexion 
Makes or Mars 
Your Appearance 

I Will Tell Every Reader of 
This Paper How FREE 

Remove Blemishes in 10 Days 



former actress, who now offers to tell women of the most 
remarkable complexion treatment ever known. 

This (treat henuty marvel has instantly produced a sensation. 
Stubborn eases have been overcome that battled physicians anil 
beauty specialists. You have never used or heard of anything like 
it. Mil My complexious. red spots, pimples, blackheads, have been 
made to vanish iilmn*t Hke manic. No cream, lotion, enamel, 
salve, plaster, bandage, mask, massage, diet or apparatus, nothing 
to swallow. It doesn't matter whether or not your complexion is a 
"fright." whether your face is full of embarrassing pimples and 
eruptions, or whether your skin isrough or ** pore?, andyou have 
tried almoet everything under the sun to get rid of them. This 
wonderful method in just ten days positively removes blemishes 
and beautifies the si. i n in a marvelous way. It gives the skin the 
healthy bloom of youth. You can be the subject of admiration of 
your friends. There is nothing to wear, nothing to take internally. 
The face, even arms, hands, shoulders, are benefited beyond one a 
fondest dreams. Prove it yourself before your own eyes in your 
mirror in ten days. This method is absolutely harmless to 
the most delicate Bkin. and very pleasant to use. No change in 
your mode of living necessary. A few minutes every day does it. 

To every reader of this magazine I will send full information 
regarding this renlly astonishing method. Let me show you. Send 
me no money— just send your name and address on. the coupon 
below, and the information will reach you by return mail. 



PEARL LA SAGE, Suite 10 

2120 Michigan Ave., Chicago, III. 

Please send me information regarding your harmless scien- 
tific method of beautifying the complexion and removing 
blemishes in ten days. There is no obligation whatever on my 
part for this information. 

■ Nume , 


! Street ; 

,5 City State.. 





27th Street, West of Broadway 


C] A Step from Broadway. 

<J Absolutely Fireproof. 

*I Quiet as a Village at Night. 

*j Your Comfort Our Aim Always. 

Parlor, Bedroom and Bath, front 
of house, one person, $2.50; two 
people, $3.50. 

Why pay more when our service is 
equalled only by the best? 


E. W. WARFIELD, Manager 

Vaudeville Sketch- P^ l f| \M ^* Entertainments, 
es. Mono-logs, Dia- W^^—MA W ^% Pantomimes, 
logs, Recitations, ■ ^ mm ■ ■ ^^ Tableaux.Drills, 
Musical Pieces. Mimtrel Material, Make-up Goods. Large Catalog Free. 
T. S. DENISON jfe CO. Dept. 7« CHICAGO 


I lonff your life. No more stomach trouble,] 

■ Yon ean conquer It 
cosily In 8 day*, Im- 
prove your health, pro- 
lone your life. No more stomach trouble, no foul breath, do heart 
weakness. Regain manly vlffor, calm nerve*, clear eyes and super- 
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ars, get mr Interesting Tobacco Book. Worth its weight in gold. Mailed 

free. EDW. J.W00DS, 1346 A, Station E, NewYork.N.Y. 



Hay Fever 

Send for Free Trial Bottle of 
HIMALYA, the valuable 
remedy for Hay Fever and 
Asthma. We have hundreds 
of reliable testimonials show- 
ing positive and permanent 

cures to persons who have suf- 
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remedies and change of cli- 
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70 Warren Ave., W. 

Photoplay Magazine 


This Wonderful 


Tea Pot 

Beautiful Rochingham ware 
with genuine German silver and 
aluminum fittings. A remarkable invention 


It brews perfect, delicious tea; brings out 
all the fragrant natural qualities, with none 
of the bitterness of the harmful tannic acid. 

Our "Educated Tea Pot" requires no 
attention. You merely drop the tea into the pot, 
pour in the boiling water, put on the cover, and 
forget it. When it is brewed just enough — not 
too strong and not too weak — the leaves are auto- 
matically removed from the fragrant liquid. 
Comes in two sizes — 8-cup or Family size; also 
2-cup or Individual. Don't fail to state which 
you prefer when sending order. 

Saves V£ Your Tea 


Approved by Food Experts of this Country and Abroad 
Boil the same quantity of water that you wish to 
make of tea, place the tea in the perforated cylin- 
der, place the time cup in the aluminum cylinder 
and pour in the boiling water. Tea will be scien- 
tifically brewed by infusion. No other Tea Pot 
offers this approved method. At the instant of 
perfect infusion the time cup is empty, the leaves 
are automatically lifted out of the liquid, and the 
tea is ready to serve. 

Tea Pot 


NOW $0 50 
Only ^— 

This very special, limited offer, 

is made to introduce this won- 
derful invention into every community. 

You will not have another 
opportunity to secure this mag- 
nificent automatic Tea Pot at 

our special introductory price of $2.50. 

Special Offer! 

10 Days' FREE Trial 

To prove to your own satisfaction 

that this new invention is all we claim for 
it, we make this very special offer of 
$2.50, and allow you 10 days' free 
trial. Use the Tea Pot for 10 days in 
your own home and if you are not perfectly 
satisfied that it does all we claim for it, we 
will refund your money promptly. 

ORDER TODAY! Po "'* delay-bonder Now! 

Send us TODAY money order or check 
for $2.50 and we will ship you, EXPRESS PRE- 
PAID, one of these wonderful new Automatic 
Tea Pots. If you are not entirely delighted with 
it, return it to us and your money will be promptly 
refunded without question. The supply in this 
country is limited. Order Today — Don't delay. 




Dept. 1 2 

1 330 Morse Ave., CHICACO, ILL. 

MORSE SALES CO.. Dept. 12 

1330 Morse Ave., CHICAGO, ILL. 

Enclosed find (money order) (check) for $2.50 for which 
please ship mc, express prepaid, one of your new "educated" 
Tea Pots, with the understanding that it can be returned within 
ten days and my money refunded in full if I am ot entirely sat- 


Street : 

Town State. 

- 186 

Photoplay Magazine 

Fb r M ot i oh Pi ct u r e R I ofs 

New Ideas By New Writers Wanted 

Previous Experience or Special Education Not Necessary 

YOUR chance to win a big cash payment is as | JJoW Xo 

good as anybody's. If you attend the "movies" you know the ' 
kind of ideas they want. One of your "happy thoughts" may bring you $10 
to $200 cash, and become one of the movie sensations of the year. Begin- 
ners are wanted and encouraged. 


This Book Is Free To You 

j Photoplays 

Simply mail me free coupon below, and you will get this most interesting 
book and full particulars of the big cash offers, free. Act at once, before time limit \ 

Learn At Home In Spare Time 

The winner of a recent $1000 prize contest was practically a beginner. 
Not necessarily any more talented than you. You have doubtless been to 
moving picture shows and seen photoplays which you yourself could easily improve 
on. With 30,000 theatres changing program daily, and with the supply of photoplays 
from Europe cut off, the demand for new idea* has become tremendous. The American 
producers are making every effort to interest new writers 
in this work by offering prizes. Read these paragraphs 
clipped from a recent number of the Saturday Evening Post: 

The Balboa Amuse- 

Snent Producing Company, of Los Angeles, began by 

offering a prize of two hundred and fifty dollars for 

the best picture story sent them. The Italian Society 

Cines, of Rome, offers five thousand dollars for the best 

moving-picture play submitted to it. The second-best 

•writer is to receive one thousand dollars; the third- 
best, five hundred dollars; the fourth-best, two hundred 

dollars; and there are five consolation prizes of ono 

hundred dollars each. 
Through the New Yorlf Evening Sun, the Vttagraph 

Company of America is conducting at this writing a 

prize photoplay contest. Thefirstprizeisonethousind 

dollars: the second, two hundred and fifty dollars; and 

there fire consolation prizes of one hundred dollars each. 

These prize contests have greatly encouraged and stimu- 
lated the amateur photoplay writers throughout the counr 


Elbert Moore 

former Scenario Editor el en 
of World's largest companies. 





Box 772 FA, Chicago 

Send free booklet, "How to Write Photoplays" and all 
facts about guarantee and $500 cash offer. 



Address \ 

I Guarantee $ 1 for Your First Photoplay 

So great is the demand that I am able 
to guarantee you at least $10 for the first photoplay 
you write by my method. This means you. 1 
believe that every person with sufficient imagination 
and intelligence to be interested in this advertise- 
ment should possess material for at least one 
successful photoplay. And in order to make it worth 
your while to write to me I make you this remark- 
able guarantee. Many persona should be able to 
write as much as one successful photoplay each 
week. Such a record is by no means uncommon, 
and those who are doing this can earn from $100 to $300 a 
month simply for spare time work done in their own home. 
Writing photoplays enables those who lack the experience 
necessary for writing novels and stage plays to express the 
strong and original ideas which many of them possess. 

Save $5 By Acting Now 

I show you how to turn your ideas into correct 
photoplay form by a simple, easy method which is 
endorsed by the Balboa Amusement Company, 
mentioned above, and by many others. As former Scenario 
Editor of one of the largest companies, I speak with author, 
ity. Use the coupon to obtain the free booklet anc" r all par- 
ticulars. If you act at once you will obtain the benefit of a 
$5 reduction which I am now allowing for advertising pur- 
poses, to those who will start taking my lessons within 20 
days. This cuts the cost to very low figures. Do not throw 
away $5 by delaying, when it cost* nothing to investigate. 

Use free coupon at once, before you turn 
the page. 

ELBERT MOORE (s»u n?&utoi) 772 fa Chicago 


Become An Expert Advertising Man, 
Correspondent, Bookkeeper or Private Secretary 


Fill in the Coupon below and get particulars Th 'S is one of the Remington models 

at once. This offer may never appear we piacein the handsofeach student 

again. Write today and find out all about 
our remarkable 



Each machine warranted perfect 

and fully guaranteed. Dust cover 

and supplies included 

If you are willing to pay a nominal fee to cover text- 
books, lessons, pamphlets, printed matter, supplies, etc., 
needed in the course, we will make no charge for tuition 
QUALIFIED to hold any of the positions named in the 
coupon. Everybody should have a business training. 
Everybody today should know how to operate a type- 
writer. All our graduates are proficient typists. We 
send you a high-grade, fully guaranteed typewriter as 
soon as you are enrolled. Each student granted one of 

these FREE TUITION SCHOLARSHIPS is taught everything there is to know about the expert, 
all-finger (touch) method of typewriter operation. 

We Train You By Mail 
And Supply Choice of Fully Guaranteed Standard Typewriters 

The Remington shown in this advertisement is only one of the several models supplied our 
students. If you act promptly we can send you practically any machine you wish — Remington, 
Oliver, Monarch, Underwood, L. C. Smith. Remember, there is no charge for tuiti6n no matter how 
long a time you may require to complete the course. A few cents a day will pay for your text books 
and supplies. If you cannot pay cash in full we will trust you ; we will allow you to make easy 
monthly payments. Can you ever say now that you never had an opportunity to get a good business 
training and be independent? If you are honest, if you 'are ambitious, if you are able to lay aside a 
few pennies a day to meet a small monthly payment for books and materials gmmm ■■■■ ^n ™ 
needed, then MAIL THE COUPON RIGHT AWAY. We will send full and / FREE TUITION 
complete information. You can be started upon the training of your choice » COUPON |-'fe 

without further delay. Our handsome illustrated catalog is free and will give # Chicago Univi of c.'i 
you full information regarding the position for which you wish to qualify. In ' i wish to qualify for uosi- 
a few short months you should be ready for a good salary. We assist grad- i x',°" toSeoffae [Ht^S 
uates to desirable positions. The use of our employment department will / tM"»t. Please umSuJ puttcu. 

,.,• t% ili i. • ^nr. mr-n * larsof >our offer to alye me 

be free to you. Positions are open everywhere — many paying $25 to $50 a » tuition Bee and accept small 
week. The demand for well-trained employees always exceeds the supply. / s l", l , ! l ,Ti','.". ts ,.t f " r ovri'te^mlue'of 
The competent always have employment and good pay. » inaoMneyoo prefer in margin of 

M coupon.) 

Act Quickly— Send the Coupon NOW / *sr z&zssxr 

Don't wait until to-morrow, next week, or next month. Send the coupon right 
now. Investigate this startling scholarship offer. Get that training, that position, 
that salary you so long have wanted. This is your opportunity— grasp it. If you 
want one of these scholarships you must hurry. Only a limited number will be 
given out. When these scholarships are gone there will be no more. We are m 
making this great offer to advertise our courses and learn which typewriter is # 
in-greatest demand. No matter where you live we can train you thoroughly • I — I 
and quickly by mail. We have trained hundreds. We can train you. I \ 


□ Stenographer and 
Private Secretary 

Bookkeeper and 

Office Manager 

□ Stenographer and 
Advertising Writer, Manager, 


Dept. 1442, 800 North Clark St., Chicago, Illinois 





Pay As You Wish 

The greatest jewelry offer of the age ! Select one of the dazzling, gorgeous 

.Lachnite Gems and cot it for 10 days' free trial. Test it every way that you ever heard about. Put it 
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Free Book Coupon 


12 N. Michigan Ave., Dept. 1462, Chicago. 
Gentlemen-: — Please send me absolutely free and prepaid your 
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Yes, we want you to wear a genuine Lachnite Gem for 
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For New Jewelry Book 

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Harold Lachman Co. 'u^T^'S"