Books: Merton of the Movies
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Harry Leon Wilson >> Merton of the Movies
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26 This etext was produced by Charles Franks, Ralph Zimmermann and
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MERTON OF THE MOVIES
by Harry Leon Wilson
To
George Ade
CONTENTS
I. DIRTY WORK AT THE BORDER
II. THAT NIGHT--THE APARTMENTS OF CLIFFORD ARMYTAGE
III. WESTERN STUFF
IV. THE WATCHER AT THE GATE
V. A BREACH IN THE CITY WALLS
VI. UNDER THE GLASS TOPS
VII. "NOTHING TO-DAY, DEAR!"
VIII. CLIFFORD ARMYTAGE, THE OUTLAW
IX. MORE WAYS THAN ONE
X. OF SHATTERED ILLUSIONS
XI. THE MONTAGUE GIRL INTERVENES
XII. ALIAS HAROLD PARMALEE
XIII. GENIUS COMES INTO ITS OWN
XIV. OUT THERE WHERE MEN ARE MEN
XV. A NEW TRAIL
XVI. OF SARAH NEVADA MONTAGUE
XVII. MISS MONTAGUE USES HER OWN FACE
XVIII. "FIVE REELS--500 LAUGHS"
XIX. THE TRAGIC COMEDIAN
XX. ONWARD AND UPWARD
CHAPTER I
DIRTY WORK AT THE BORDER
At the very beginning of the tale there comes a moment of puzzled
hesitation. One way of approach is set beside another for choice,
and a third contrived for better choice. Still the puzzle persists,
all because the one precisely right way might seem--shall we say
intense, high keyed, clamorous? Yet if one way is the only right
way, why pause? Courage! Slightly dazed, though certain, let us be
on, into the shrill thick of it. So, then--
Out there in the great open spaces where men are men, a clash of
primitive hearts and the coming of young love into its own! Well had
it been for Estelle St. Clair if she had not wandered from the
Fordyce ranch. A moment's delay in the arrival of Buck Benson, a
second of fear in that brave heart, and hers would have been a fate
worse than death.
Had she not been warned of Snake le Vasquez, the outlaw--his base
threat to win her by fair means or foul? Had not Buck Benson
himself, that strong, silent man of the open, begged her to beware
of the half-breed? Perhaps she had resented the hint of mastery in
Benson's cool, quiet tones as he said, "Miss St. Clair, ma'am, I beg
you not to endanger your welfare by permitting the advances of this
viper. He bodes no good to such as you."
Perhaps--who knows?--Estelle St. Clair had even thought to trifle
with the feelings of Snake le Vasquez, then to scorn him for his
presumption. Although the beautiful New York society girl had
remained unsullied in the midst of a city's profligacy, she still
liked "to play with fire," as she laughingly said, and at the quiet
words of Benson--Two-Gun Benson his comrades of the border called
him--she had drawn herself to her full height, facing him in all her
blond young beauty, and pouted adorably as she replied, "Thank you!
But I can look out for myself."
Yet she had wandered on her pony farther than she meant to, and was
not without trepidation at the sudden appearance of the picturesque
halfbreed, his teeth flashing in an evil smile as he swept off his
broad sombrero to her. Above her suddenly beating heart she sought
to chat gayly, while the quick eyes of the outlaw took in the
details of the smart riding costume that revealed every line of her
lithe young figure. But suddenly she chilled under his hot glance
that now spoke all too plainly.
"I must return to my friends," she faltered. "They will be anxious."
But the fellow laughed with a sinister leer. "No--ah, no, the lovely
senorita will come with me," he replied; but there was the temper of
steel in his words. For Snake le Vasquez, on the border, where human
life was lightly held, was known as the Slimy Viper. Of all the evil
men in that inferno, Snake was the foulest. Steeped in vice, he
feared neither God nor man, and respected no woman. And now, Estelle
St. Clair, drawing-room pet, pampered darling of New York society,
which she ruled with an iron hand from her father's Fifth Avenue
mansion, regretted bitterly that she had not given heed to honest
Buck Benson. Her prayers, threats, entreaties, were in vain. Despite
her struggles, the blows her small fists rained upon the scoundrel's
taunting face, she was borne across the border, on over the mesa,
toward the lair of the outlaw.
"Have you no mercy?" she cried again and again. "Can you not see
that I loathe and despise you, foul fiend that you are? Ah. God in
heaven, is there no help at hand?" The outlaw remained deaf to these
words that should have melted a heart of stone. At last over the
burning plain was seen the ruined hovel to which the scoundrel was
dragging his fair burden. It was but the work of a moment to
dismount and bear her half-fainting form within the den. There he
faced her, repellent with evil intentions.
"Ha, senorita, you are a beautiful wildcat, yes? But Snake le
Vasquez will tame you! Ha, ha!" laughed he carelessly.
With a swift movement the beautiful girl sought to withdraw the
small silver-mounted revolver without which she never left the
ranch. But Snake le Vasquez, with a muttered oath, was too quick for
her. He seized the toy and contemptuously hurled it across his vile
den.
"Have a care, my proud beauty!" he snarled, and the next moment she
was writhing in his grasp.
Little availed her puny strength. Helpless as an infant was the fair
New York society girl as Snake le Vasquez, foulest of the viper
breed, began to force his attention upon her. The creature's hot
kisses seared her defenseless cheek. "Listen!" he hissed. "You are
mine, mine at last. Here you shall remain a prisoner until you have
consented to be my wife." All seemed, indeed, lost.
"Am I too late, Miss St. Clair?"
Snake le Vasquez started at the quiet, grim voice.
"Sapristi!" he snarled. "You!"
"Me!" replied Buck Benson, for it was, indeed, no other.
"Thank God, at last!" murmured Estelle St. Clair, freeing herself
from the foul arms that had enfolded her slim young beauty and
staggering back from him who would so basely have forced her into a
distasteful marriage. In an instant she had recovered the St. Clair
poise, had become every inch the New York society leader, as she
replied, "Not too late, Mr. Benson! Just in time, rather. Ha, ha!
This--this gentleman has become annoying. You are just in time to
mete out the punishment he so justly deserves, for which I shall
pray that heaven reward you."
She pointed an accusing finger at the craven wretch who had shrunk
from her and now cowered at the far side of the wretched den. At
that moment she was strangely thrilled. What was his power, this
strong, silent man of the open with his deep reverence for pure
American womanhood? True, her culture demanded a gentleman, but her
heart demanded a man. Her eyes softened and fell before his cool,
keen gaze, and a blush mantled her fair cheek. Could he but have
known it, she stood then in meek surrender before this soft-voiced
master. A tremor swept the honest rugged face of Buck Benson as
heart thus called to heart. But his keen eyes flitted to Snake le
Vasquez.
"Now, curse you, viper that you are, you shall fight me, by heaven!
in American fashion, man to man, for, foul though you be, I hesitate
to put a bullet through your craven heart."
The beautiful girl shivered with new apprehension, the eyes of Snake
le Vasquez glittered with new hope. He faced his steely eyed
opponent for an instant only, then with a snarl like that of an
angry beast sprang upon him. Benson met the cowardly attack with the
flash of a powerful fist, and the outlaw fell to the floor with a
hoarse cry of rage and pain. But he was quickly upon his feet again,
muttering curses, and again he attacked his grim-faced antagonist.
Quick blows rained upon his defenseless face, for the strong, silent
man was now fairly aroused. He fought like a demon, perhaps divining
that here strong men battled for a good woman's love. The outlaw was
proving to be no match for his opponent. Arising from the ground
where a mighty blow had sent him, he made a lightning-like effort to
recover the knife which Benson had taken from him.
"Have a care!" cried the girl in quick alarm. "That fiend in human
form would murder you!"
But Buck Benson's cool eye had seen the treachery in ample time.
With a muttered "Curse you, fiend that you are!" he seized the form
of the outlaw in a powerful grasp, raised him high aloft as if he
had been but a child, and was about to dash him to the ground when a
new voice from the doorway froze him to immobility. Statute-like he
stood there, holding aloft the now still form of Snake le Vasquez.
The voice from the doorway betrayed deep amazement and the
profoundest irritation:
"Merton Gill, what in the sacred name of Time are you meanin' to do
with that dummy? For the good land's sake! Have you gone plumb
crazy, or what? Put that thing down!"
The newcomer was a portly man of middle age dressed in ill-fitting
black. His gray hair grew low upon his brow and he wore a parted
beard.
The conqueror of Snake le Vasquez was still frozen, though he had
instantly ceased to be Buck Benson, the strong, silent, two-gun man
of the open spaces. The irritated voice came again:
"Put that dummy down, you idiot! What you think you're doin',
anyway? And say, what you got that other one in here for, when it
ought to be out front of the store showin' that new line of gingham
house frocks? Put that down and handle it careful! Mebbe you think I
got them things down from Chicago just for you to play horse with.
Not so! Not so at all! They're to help show off goods, and that's
what I want 'em doin' right now. And for Time's sake, what's that
revolver lyin' on the floor for? Is it loaded? Say, are you really
out of your senses, or ain't you? What's got into you lately? Will
you tell me that? Skyhootin' around in here, leavin' the front of
the store unpertected for an hour or two, like your time was your
own. And don't tell me you only been foolin' in here for three
minutes, either, because when I come back from lunch just now there
was Mis' Leffingwell up at the notions counter wanting some hooks
and eyes, and she tells me she's waited there a good thutty minutes
if she's waited one. Nice goin's on, I must say, for a boy drawin'
down the money you be! Now you git busy! Take that one with the
gingham frock out and stand her in front where she belongs, and then
put one them new raincoats on the other and stand him out where he
belongs, and then look after a few customers. I declare, sometimes I
git clean out of patience with you! Now, for gosh's sake, stir your
stumps!"
"Oh, all right--yes, sir," replied Merton Gill, though but half
respectfully. The "Oh, all right" had been tainted with a trace of
sullenness. He was tired of this continual nagging and fussing over
small matters; some day he would tell the old grouch so.
And now, gone the vivid tale of the great out-of-doors, the wide
plains of the West, the clash of primitive-hearted men for a good
woman's love. Gone, perhaps, the greatest heart picture of a
generation, the picture at which you laugh with a lump in your
throat and smile with a tear in your eye, the story of plausible
punches, a big, vital theme masterfully handled--thrills, action,
beauty, excitement--carried to a sensational finish by the genius of
that sterling star of the shadowed world, Clifford Armytage--once
known as Merton Gill in the little hamlet of Simsbury, Illinois,
where for a time, ere yet he was called to screen triumphs, he
served as a humble clerk in the so-called emporium of Amos G.
Gashwiler--Everything For The Home. Our Prices Always Right.
Merton Gill--so for a little time he must still be known--moodily
seized the late Estelle St. Clair under his arm and "withdrew from
the dingy back storeroom. Down between the counters of the emporium
he went with his fair burden and left her outside its portals,
staring from her very definitely lashed eyes across the slumbering
street at the Simsbury post office. She was tastefully arrayed in
one of those new checked gingham house frocks so heatedly mentioned
a moment since by her lawful owner, and across her chest Merton Gill
now imposed, with no tenderness of manner, the appealing legend,
"Our Latest for Milady; only $6.98." He returned for Snake le
Vasquez. That outlaw's face, even out of the picture, was evil. He
had been picked for the part because of this face--plump, pinkly
tinted cheeks, lustrous, curling hair of some repellent composition,
eyes with a hard glitter, each lash distinct in blue-black lines,
and a small, tip-curled black mustache that lent the whole an
offensive smirk. Garbed now in a raincoat, he, too, was posed before
the emporium front, labelled "Rainproof or You Get Back Your Money."
So frankly evil was his mien that Merton Gill, pausing to regard
him, suffered a brief relapse into artistry.
"You fiend!" he muttered, and contemptuously smote the cynical face
with an open hand.
Snake le Vasquez remained indifferent to the affront, smirking
insufferably across the slumbering street at the wooden Indian
proffering cigars before the establishment of Selby Brothers,
Confectionery and Tobaccos.
Within the emporium the proprietor now purveyed hooks and eyes to an
impatient Mrs. Leffingwell. Merton Gill, behind the opposite
counter, waited upon a little girl sent for two and a quarter yards
of stuff to match the sample crumpled in her damp hand. Over the
suave amenities of this merchandising Amos Gashwiler glared
suspiciously across the store at his employee. Their relations were
still strained. Merton also glared at Amos, but discreetly, at
moments when the other's back was turned or when he was blandly
wishing to know of Mrs. Leffingwell if there would be something else
to-day. Other customers entered. Trade was on.
Both Merton and Amos wore airs of cheerful briskness that deceived
the public. No one could have thought that Amos was fearing his
undoubtedly crazed clerk might become uncontrollable at any moment,
or that the clerk was mentally parting from Amos forever in a scene
of tense dramatic value in which his few dignified but scathing
words would burn themselves unforgettably into the old man's brain.
Merton, to himself, had often told Amos these things. Some day he'd
say them right out, leaving his victim not only in the utmost
confusion but in black despair of ever finding another clerk one
half as efficient as Merton Gill.
The afternoon wore to closing time in a flurry of trade, during
which, as Merton continued to behave sanely, the apprehension of his
employer in a measure subsided. The last customer had departed from
the emporium. The dummies were brought inside. The dust curtains
were hung along the shelves of dry goods. There remained for Merton
only the task of delivering a few groceries. He gathered these and
took them out to the wagon in front. Then he changed from his store
coat to his street coat and donned a rakish plush hat.
Amos was also changing from his store coat to his street coat and
donning his frayed straw hat.
"See if you can't keep from actin' crazy while you make them
deliveries," said Amos, not uncordially, as he lighted a choice
cigar from the box which he kept hidden under a counter.
Merton wished to reply: "See here, Mr. Gashwiler, I've stood this
abuse long enough! The time has come to say a few words to you--"
But aloud he merely responded, "Yes, sir!"
The circumstance that he also had a cigar from the same box, hidden
not so well as Amos thought, may have subdued his resentment. He
would light the cigar after the first turn in the road had carried
him beyond the eagle eye of its owner.
The delivery wagon outside was drawn by an elderly horse devoid of
ambition or ideals. His head was sunk in dejection. He was gray at
the temples, and slouched in the shafts in a loafing attitude, one
forefoot negligently crossed in front of the other. He aroused
himself reluctantly and with apparent difficulty when Merton Gill
seized the reins and called in commanding tones, "Get on there, you
old skate!" The equipage moved off under the gaze of Amos, who was
locking the doors of his establishment.
Turning the first corner into a dusty side street, Merton dropped
the reins and lighted the filched cigar. Other Gashwiler property
was sacred to him. From all the emporium's choice stock he would
have abstracted not so much as a pin; but the Gashwiler cigars, said
to be "The World's Best 10c Smoke," with the picture of a dissipated
clubman in evening dress on the box cover, were different, in that
they were pointedly hidden from Merton. He cared little for cigars,
but this was a challenge; the old boy couldn't get away with
anything like that. If he didn't want his cigars touched let him
leave the box out in the open like a man. Merton drew upon the
lighted trophy, moistened and pasted back the wrapper that had
broken when the end was bitten off, and took from the bottom of the
delivery wagon the remains of a buggy whip that had been worn to
half its length. With this he now tickled the bony ridges of the
horse. Blows meant nothing to Dexter, but he could still be tickled
into brief spurts of activity. He trotted with swaying head, sending
up an effective dust screen between the wagon and a still possibly
observing Gashwiler.
His deliveries made, Merton again tickled the horse to a frantic
pace which continued until they neared the alley on which fronted
the Gashwiler barn; there the speed was moderated to a mild amble,
for Gashwiler believed his horse should be driven with tenderness,
and his equally watchful wife believed it would run away if given
the chance.
Merton drove into the barnyard, unhitched the horse, watered it at
the half of a barrel before the iron pump, and led it into the barn,
where he removed the harness. The old horse sighed noisily and shook
himself with relief as the bridle was removed and a halter slipped
over his venerable brow.
Ascertaining that the barnyard was vacant, Merton immediately became
attentive to his charge. Throughout the late drive his attitude had
been one of mild but contemptuous abuse. More than once he had
uttered the words "old skate" in tones of earnest conviction, and
with the worn end of the whip he had cruelly tickled the still
absurdly sensitive sides. Had beating availed he would with no
compunction have beaten the drooping wreck. But now, all at once, he
was curiously tender. He patted the shoulder softly, put both arms
around the bony neck, and pressed his face against the face of
Dexter. A moment he stood thus, then spoke in a tear-choked voice:
"Good-by, old pal--the best, the truest pal a man ever had. You and
me has seen some tough times, old pard; but you've allus brought me
through without a scratch; allus brought me through." There was a
sob in the speaker's voice, but he manfully recovered a clear tone
of pathos. "And now, old pal, they're a-takin' ye from me--yes, we
got to part, you an' me. I'm never goin' to set eyes on ye agin. But
we got to be brave, old pal; we got to keep a stiff upper lip--no
cryin' now; no bustin' down."
The speaker unclasped his arms and stood with head bowed, his face
working curiously, striving to hold back the sobs.
For Merton Gill was once more Clifford Armytage, popular idol of the
screen, in his great role of Buck Benson bidding the accustomed
farewell to his four-footed pal that had brought him safely through
countless dangers. How are we to know that in another couple of
hundred feet of the reel Buck will escape the officers of the law
who have him for that hold-up of the Wallahoola stage--of which he
was innocent--leap from a second-story window of the sheriff's
office onto the back of his old pal, and be carried safely over the
border where the hellhounds can't touch him until his innocence is
proved by Estelle St. Clair, the New York society girl, whose
culture demanded a gentleman but whose heart demanded a man. How are
we to know this? We only know that Buck Benson always has to kiss
his horse good-by at this spot in the drama.
Merton Gill is impressively Buck Benson. His sobs are choking him.
And though Gashwiler's delivery horse is not a pinto, and could
hardly get over the border ahead of a sheriff's posse, the scene is
affecting.
"Good-by, again, old pal, and God bless ye!" sobs Merton.
CHAPTER II
THAT NIGHT--THE APARTMENTS OF CLIFFORD ARMYTAGE
Merton Gill mealed at the Gashwiler home. He ate his supper in moody
silence, holding himself above the small gossip of the day that
engaged Amos and his wife. What to him meant the announcement that
Amos expected a new line of white goods on the morrow, or Mrs.
Gashwiler's version of a regrettable incident occurring at that
afternoon's meeting of the Entre Nous Five Hundred Club, in which
the score had been juggled adversely to Mrs. Gashwiler, resulting in
the loss of the first prize, a handsome fern dish, and concerning
which Mrs. Gashwiler had thought it best to speak her mind? What
importance could he attach to the disclosure of Metta Judson, the
Gashwiler hired girl, who chatted freely during her appearances with
food, that Doc Cummins had said old Grandma Foutz couldn't last out
another day; that the Peter Swansons were sending clear to Chicago
for Tilda's trousseau; and that Jeff Murdock had arrested one of the
Giddings boys, but she couldn't learn if it was Ferd or Gus, for
being drunk as a fool and busting up a bazaar out at the Oak Grove
schoolhouse, and the fighting was something terrible.
Scarcely did he listen to these petty recitals. He ate in silence,
and when he had finished the simple meal he begged to be excused. He
begged this in a lofty, detached, somewhat weary manner, as a man of
the world, excessively bored at the dull chatter but still the
fastidious gentleman, might have begged it, breaking into one of the
many repetitions by his hostess of just what she had said to Mrs.
Judge Ellis. He was again Clifford Armytage, enacting a polished
society man among yokels. He was so impressive, after rising, in his
bow to Mrs. Gashwiler that Amos regarded him with a kindling
suspicion.
"Say!" he called, as Merton in the hallway plucked his rakish plush
hat from the mirrored rack. "You remember, now, no more o' that
skylarkin' with them dummies! Them things cost money."
Merton paused. He wished to laugh sarcastically, a laugh of
withering scorn. He wished to reply in polished tones, "Skylarkin'!
You poor, dull clod, what do you know of my ambitions, my ideals?
You, with your petty life devoted to gaining a few paltry dollars!"
But he did not say this, or even register the emotion that would
justly accompany such a subtitle. He merely rejoined, "All right,
sir, I'm not going to touch them," and went quickly out. "Darned old
grouch!" he muttered as he went down the concrete walk to the
Gashwiler front gate.
Here he turned to regard the two-story brick house and the square of
lawn with a concrete deer on one side of the walk, balanced by a
concrete deer on the other. Before the gate was the cast-iron effigy
of a small Negro in fantastic uniform, holding an iron ring aloft.
The Gashwiler carriage horse had been tethered to this in the days
before the Gashwiler touring car had been acquired.
"Dwelling of a country storekeeper!" muttered Merton. "That's all
you are!"
This was intended to be scornful. Merton meant that on the screen it
would be recognized as this and nothing more. It could not be taken
for the mansion of a rich banker, or the country home of a Wall
Street magnate. He felt that he had been keen in his dispraise,
especially as old Gashwiler would never get the sting of it. Clod!
Three blocks brought him to the heart of the town, still throbbing
faintly. He stood, irresolute, before the Giddings House. Chairs in
front of this hostelry were now vacant of loafers, and a clatter of
dishes came through the open windows of the dining room, where
supper was on. Farther down the street Selby Brothers, Cigars and
Confectionery, would be open; lights shone from the windows of the
Fashion Pool Parlour across the way; the City Drug Store could still
be entered; and the post office would stay open until after the mail
from No. 4 was distributed. With these exceptions the shops along
this mart of trade were tightly closed, including the Gashwiler
Emporium, at the blind front of which Merton now glanced with the
utmost distaste.
Such citizens as were yet abroad would be over at the depot to watch
No. 4 go through. Merton debated joining these sight-seers. Simsbury
was too small to be noticed by many trains. It sprawled along the
track as if it had been an afterthought of the railroad. Trains like
No. 4 were apt to dash relentlessly by it without slackening speed,
the mail bag being flung to the depot platform. But sometimes there
would be a passenger for Simsbury, and the proud train would slow
down and halt reluctantly, with a grinding of brakes, while the
passenger alighted. Then a good view of the train could be had; a
line of beautiful sleepers terminating in an observation car, its
rear platform guarded by a brass-topped railing behind which the
privileged lolled at ease; and up ahead a wonderful dining car,
where dinner was being served; flitting white-clad waiters, the
glitter of silver and crystal and damask, and favoured beings
feasting at their lordly ease, perhaps denying even a careless
glance at the pitiful hamlet outside, or at most looking out
impatient at the halt, or merely staring with incurious eyes while
awaiting their choice foods.
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