Books: Merton of the Movies

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The big hose again drew water from the pool to the tank, whence, at
a sudden release, it would issue in billows. The big lights at last
seemed to be adjusted to the director's whim. The aeroplane
propeller whirred and the gale was found acceptable. The men at the
rope tugged the boat into grave danger. The moon lighted the mist
that overhung the scene.

Then at last Merton started, peering eagerly forward across the
length of the pool. At the far end, half illumined by the big
lights, stood the familiar figure of his wonder--woman, the slim
little girl with the wistful eyes. Plainly he could see her now as
the mist lifted. She was chatting with one of the pirates who had
stepped ashore from the boat. The wonderful golden hair shone
resplendent under the glancing rays of the arcs. A cloak was about
her shoulders, but at a word of command from the director she threw
it off and stepped to the boat's deck. She was dressed in a short
skirt, her trim feet and ankles lightly shod and silken clad. The
sole maritime touch in her garb was a figured kerchief at her throat
similar to those worn by the piratical crew.

"All ready, Hortense--all ready Jose and Gaston, get your places."

Miss Baxter acknowledged the command with that characteristic little
wave of a hand that he recalled from so many of her pictures, a
half-humorous, half-mocking little defiance. She used it often when
escaping her pursuers, as if to say that she would see them in the
next installment.

The star and the two men were now in the cabin, hidden from view.
Merton Gill was no seaman, but it occurred to him that at least one
of the crew would be at the wheel in this emergency. Probably the
director knew no better. Indeed the boat, so far as could be
discerned, had no wheel. Apparently when a storm came up all hands
went down into the cabin to get away from it.

The storm did come up at this moment, with no one on deck. It struck
with the full force of a tropic hurricane. The boat rocked, the wind
blew, and billows swept the deck. At the height of the tempest
Beulah Baxter sprang from the cabin to the deck, clutching wildly at
a stanchion. Buffeted by the billows she groped a painful way along
the side, at risk of being swept off to her death.

She was followed by one of the crew who held a murderous knife in
his hand, then by the other sailor who also held a knife. They, too,
were swept by the billows, but seemed grimly determined upon the
death of the heroine. Then, when she reached midships and the
foremost fiend was almost upon her, the mightiest of all the billows
descended and swept her off into the cruel waters. Her pursuers,
saving themselves only by great effort, held to the rigging and
stared after the girl. They leaned far over the ship's rocking side
and each looked from under a spread hand.

For a distressing interval the heroine battled with the waves, but
her frail strength availed her little. She raised a despairing face
for an instant to the camera and its agony was illumined. Then the
dread waters closed above her. The director's whistle blew, the
waves were stilled, the tumult ceased. The head of Beulah Baxter
appeared halfway down the tank. She was swimming toward the end
where Merton stood.

He had been thrilled beyond words at this actual sight of his
heroine in action, but now it seemed that a new emotion might
overcome him. He felt faint. Beulah Baxter would issue from the pool
there at his feet. He might speak to her, might even help her to
climb out. At least no one else had appeared to do this. Seemingly
no one now cared where Miss Baxter swam to or whether she were
offered any assistance in landing. She swam with an admirable crawl
stroke, reached the wall, and put up a hand to it. He stepped
forward, but she was out before he reached her side. His awe had
delayed him. He drew back then, for the star, after vigorously
shaking herself, went to a tall brazier in which glowed a charcoal
fire.

Here he now noticed for the first time the prop-boy Jimmie, he who
had almost certainly defaulted with an excellent razor. Jimmie threw
a blanket about the star's shoulders as she hovered above the
glowing coals. Merton had waited for her voice. He might still
venture to speak to her--to tell her of his long and profound
admiration for her art. Her voice came as she shivered over the
fire:

"Murder! That water's cold. Rosenblatt swore he'd have it warmed but
I'm here to say it wouldn't boil an egg in four minutes."

He could not at first identify this voice with the remembered tones
of Beulah Baxter. But of course she was now hoarse with the cold.
Under the circumstances he could hardly expect his heroine's own
musical clearness. Then as the girl spoke again something stirred
among his more recent memories. The voice was still hoarse, but he
placed it now. He approached the brazier. It was undoubtedly the
Montague girl. She recognized him, even as she squeezed water from
the hair of wondrous gold.

"Hello, again, Kid. You're everywhere, ain't you? Say, wha'd you
think of that Rosenblatt man? Swore he'd put the steam into that
water and take off the chill. And he never." She threw aside the
blanket and squeezed water from her garments, then began to slap her
legs, arms, and chest.

"Well, I'm getting a gentle glow, anyhow. Wha'd you think of the
scene?"

"It was good--very well done, indeed." He hoped it didn't sound
patronizing, though that was how he felt. He believed now that Miss
Baxter would have done it much better. He ventured a question. "But
how about Miss Baxter--when does she do something? Is she going to
be swept off the boat, too?"

"Baxter? Into that water? Quit your kidding!"

"But isn't she here at all--won't she do anything here?"

"Listen here, Kid; why should she loaf around on the set when she's
paying me good money to double for her?"

"You--double for Beulah Baxter?" It was some more of the girl's
nonsense, and a blasphemy for which he could not easily forgive her.

"Why not? Ain't I a good stunt actress? I'll tell the lot she hasn't
found any one yet that can get away with her stuff better than what
I do."

"But she--I heard her say herself she never allowed any one to
double for her--she wouldn't do such a thing."

Here sounded a scornful laugh from Jimmie, the prop--boy. "Bunk!"
said he at the laugh's end. "How long you been doublin' for her,
Miss Montague? Two years, ain't it?--I know it was before I come
here, and I been on the lot a year and a half. Say, he ought to see
some the stuff you done for her out on location, like jumpin' into
the locomotive engine from your auto and catchin' the brake beams
when the train's movin', and goin' across that quarry on the cable,
and ridin' down that lumber flume sixty miles per hour and ridin'
some them outlaw buckjumpers--he'd ought to seen some that stuff,
hey, Miss Montague?"

"That's right, Jimmie, you tell him all about me. I hate to talk of
myself." Very wonderfully Merton Gill divined that this was said
with a humorous intention. Jimmy was less sensitive to values. He
began to obey.

"Well, I dunno--there's that motorcycle stuff. Purty good, I'll say.
I wouldn't try that, no, sir, not for a cool million dollars. And
that chase stuff on the roofs down town where you jumped across that
court that wasn't any too darned narrow, an' say, I wisht I could
skin up a tree the way you can. An' there was that time--"

"All right, all right, Jimmie. I can tell him the rest sometime. I
don't really hate to talk about myself--that's on the level. And
say, listen here, Jimmie, you're my favourite sweetheart, ain't
you?"

"Yes, ma'am," assented Jimmie, warmly. "All right. Beat it up and
get me about two quarts of that hot coffee and about four ham
sandwiches, two for you and two for me. That's a good kid."

"Sure!" exclaimed Jimmie, and was off.

Merton Gill had been dazed by these revelations, by the swift and
utter destruction of his loftiest ideal. He hardly cared to know,
now, if Beulah Baxter were married. It was the Montague girl who had
most thrilled him for two years. Yet, almost as if from habit, he
heard himself asking, "Is--do you happen to know if Beulah Baxter is
married?"

"Baxter married? Sure! I should think you'd know it from the way
that Sig Rosenblatt bawls everybody out."

"Who is he?"

"Who is he? Why, he's her husband, of course--he's Mr. Beulah
Baxter."

"That little director up on the platform that yells so?" This
unspeakable person to be actually the husband of the wonder-woman,
the man he had supposed she must find intolerable even as a
director. It was unthinkable, more horrible, somehow, than her
employment of a double. In time he might have forgiven that--but
this!

"Sure, that's her honest-to-God husband. And he's the best one out
of three that I know she's had. Sig's a good scout even if he don't
look like Buffalo Bill. In fact, he's all right in spite of his
rough ways. He'd go farther for you than most of the men on this
lot. If I wanted a favour I'd go to Sig before a lot of Christians I
happen to know. And he's a bully director if he is noisy. Baxter's
crazy about him, too. Don't make any mistake there."

"I won't," he answered, not knowing what he said.

She shot him a new look. "Say, Kid, as long as we're talking, you
seem kind of up against it. Where's your overcoat a night like this,
and when did you last--"

"Miss Montague! Miss Montague!" The director was calling.

"Excuse me," she said. "I got to go entertain the white folks
again." She tucked up the folds of her blanket and sped around the
pool to disappear in the mazes of the scaffolding. He remained a
moment staring dully into the now quiet water. Then he walked
swiftly away.

Beulah Baxter, his wonder-woman, had deceived her public in Peoria,
Illinois, by word of mouth. She employed a double at critical
junctures. "She'd be a fool not to," the Montague girl had said. And
in private life, having been unhappily wed twice before, she was
Mrs. Sigmund Rosenblatt. And crazy about her husband!

A little while ago he had felt glad he was not to die of starvation
before seeing his wonder-woman. Reeling under the first shock of his
discoveries he was now sorry. Beulah Baxter was no longer his
wonder-woman. She was Mr. Rosenblatt's. He would have preferred
death, he thought, before this heart-withering revelation.

CHAPTER XI

THE MONTAGUE GIRL INTERVENES

He came to life the next morning, shivering under his blankets. It
must be cold outside. He glanced at his watch and reached for
another blanket, throwing it over himself and tucking it in at the
foot. Then he lay down again to screen a tense bit of action that
had occurred late the night before. He had plunged through the
streets for an hour, after leaving the pool, striving to recover
from the twin shocks he had suffered. Then, returning to his hotel,
he became aware that The Hazards of Hortense were still on. He could
hear the roar of the aeroplane propeller and see the lights over the
low buildings that lined his street.

Miserably he was drawn back to the spot where the most important of
all his visions had been rent to tatters. He went to the end of the
pool where he had stood before. Mr. Rosenblatt-hardly could he bring
his mind to utter the hideous syllables-was still dissatisfied with
the sea's might. He wanted bigger billows and meant to have them if
the company stayed on the set all night. He was saying as much with
peevish inflections. Merton stood warming himself over the fire that
still glowed in the brazier.

To him from somewhere beyond the scaffold came now the Montague girl
and Jimmie. The girl was in her blanket, and Jimmie bore a pitcher,
two tin cups, and a package of sandwiches. They came to the fire and
Jimmie poured coffee for the girl. He produced sugar from a pocket.

"Help yourself, James," said the girl, and Jimmie poured coffee for
himself. They ate sandwiches as they drank. Merton drew a little
back from the fire. The scent of the hot coffee threatened to make
him forget he was not only a successful screen actor but a
gentleman.

"Did you have to do it again?" he asked.

"I had to do it twice again," said the girl from over her tin cup.
"They're developing the strips now, then they'll run them in the
projection room, and they won't suit Sig one little bit, and I'll
have to do it some more. I'll be swimming here till daylight doth
appear."

She now shot that familiar glance of appraisal at Merton. "Have a
sandwich and some coffee, Kid-give him your cup, Jimmie."

It was Merton Gill's great moment, a heart-gripping climax to a two-
days' drama that had at no time lacked tension. Superbly he arose to
it. Consecrated to his art, Clifford Armytage gave the public
something better and finer. He drew himself up and spoke lightly,
clearly, with careless ease:

"No, thanks-I couldn't eat a mouthful." The smile with which he
accompanied the simple words might be enigmatic, it might hint of
secret sorrows, but it was plain enough that these could not ever so
distantly relate to a need for food.

Having achieved this sensational triumph, with all the quietness of
method that should distinguish the true artist, he became seized
with stage fright amounting almost to panic. He was moved to snatch
the sandwich that Jimmie now proffered, the cup that he had refilled
with coffee. Yet there was but a moment of confusion. Again he
wielded an iron restraint. But he must leave the stage. He could not
tarry there after his big scene, especially under that piercing
glance of the girl. Somehow there was incredulity in it.

"Well, I guess I'll have to be going," he remarked jauntily, and
turned for his exit.

"Say, Kid." The girl halted him a dozen feet away.

"Say, listen here. This is on the level. I want to have a talk with
you to-morrow. You'll be on the lot, won't you?"

He seemed to debate this momentarily, then replied, "Oh, yes. I'll
be around here somewhere." "Well, remember, now. If I don't run into
you, you come down to that set where I was working to-day. See? I
got something to say to you."

"All right. I'll probably see you sometime during the day."

He had gone on to his hotel. But he had no intention of seeing the
Montague girl on the morrow, nor of being seen by her. He would keep
out of that girl's way whatever else he did. She would ask him if
everything was jake, and where was his overcoat, and a lot of silly
questions about matters that should not concern her.

He was in two minds about the girl now. Beneath an unreasonable but
very genuine resentment that she should have doubled for Beulah
Baxter-as if she had basely cheated him of his most cherished ideal-
there ran an undercurrent of reluctant but very profound admiration
for her prowess. She had done some thrilling things and seemed to
make nothing of it. Through this admiration there ran also a thread
of hostility because he, himself, would undoubtedly be afraid to
attempt her lightest exploit. Not even the trifling feat he had just
witnessed, for he had never learned to swim. But he clearly knew,
despite this confusion, that he was through with the girl. He must
take more pains to avoid her. If met by chance, she must be snubbed-
up-staged, as she would put it.

Under his blankets now, after many appealing close-ups of the
sandwich which Jimmie had held out to him, he felt almost sorry that
he had not taken the girl's food. All his being, save that part
consecrated to his art, had cried out for it. Art, had triumphed,
and now he was near to regretting that it had not been beaten down.
No good thinking about it, though.

He reached again for his watch. It was seven-thirty and time to be
abroad. Once more he folded his blankets and placed them on the
pile, keeping an alert glance, the while, for another possible bit
of the delicious bread. He found nothing of this sort. The Crystal
Palace Hotel was bare of provender. Achieving a discreet retirement
from the hostelry he stood irresolute in the street. This morning
there was no genial sun to warm him. A high fog overcast the sky,
and the air was chill. At intervals he shivered violently. For no
reason, except that he had there last beheld actual food, he went
back to the pool.

Evidently Mr. Rosenblatt had finally been appeased. The place was
deserted and lay bare and ugly in the dull light. The gallant ship
of the night before was seen to be a poor, flimsy make-shift. No
wonder Mr. Rosenblatt had wished billows to engulf it and mist to
shroud it. He sat on a beam lying at the ship end of the pool and
stared moodily at the pitiful make-believe.

He rounded his shoulders and pulled up the collar of his coat. He
knew he should be walking, but doubted his strength. The little walk
to the pool had made him strangely breathless. He wondered how long
people were in starving to death. He had read of fasters who went
for weeks without food, but he knew he was not of this class. He
lacked talent for it. Doubtless another day would finish him. He had
no heart now for visions of the Gashwiler table. He descended
tragically to recalling that last meal at the drug store-the bowl of
soup with its gracious burden of rich, nourishing catsup.

He began to alter the scenario of his own life. Suppose he had
worked two more weeks for Gashwiler. That would have given him
thirty dollars. Suppose he had worked a month. He could have existed
a long time on sixty dollars. Suppose he had even stuck it out for
one week more-fifteen dollars at this moment! He began to see a
breakfast, the sort of meal to be ordered by a hungry man with
fifteen dollars to squander.

The shivering seized him again and he heard his teeth rattle. He
must move from this spot, forever now to be associated with black
disillusion. He arose from his seat and was dismayed to hear a hail
from the Montague girl. Was he never to be free from her? She was
poised at a little distance, one hand raised to him, no longer the
drenched victim of a capricious Rosenblatt, but the beaming, joyous
figure of one who had triumphed over wind and wave. He went almost
sullenly to her while she waited. No good trying to escape her for a
minute or so.

"Hello, old Trouper! You're just in time to help me hunt for
something." She was in the familiar street suit now, a skirt and
jacket of some rough brown goods and a cloth hat that kept close to
her small head above hair that seemed of no known shade whatever,
though it was lighter than dark. She flashed a smile at him from her
broad mouth as he came up, though her knowing gray eyes did not join
in this smile. He knew instantly that she was taking him in.

This girl was wise beyond her years, he thought, but one even far
less knowing could hardly have been in two minds about his present
abject condition. The pushed-up collar of his coat did not entirely
hide the once-white collar beneath it, the beard had reached its
perhaps most distressing stage of development, and the suit was
rumpled out of all the nattiness for which it had been advertised.
Even the plush hat had lost its smart air.

Then he plainly saw that the girl would, for the moment at least,
ignore these phenomena. She laughed again, and this time the eyes
laughed, too. "C'mon over and help me hunt for that bar pin I lost.
It must be at this end, because I know I had it on when I went into
the drink. Maybe it's in the pool, but maybe I lost it after I got
out. It's one of Baxter's that she wore in the scene just ahead of
last night, and she'll have to have it again to-day. Now--" She
began to search the ground around the cold brazier. "It might be
along here." He helped her look. Pretty soon he would remember an
engagement and get away. The search at the end of the pool proved
fruitless. The girl continued to chatter. They had worked until one-
thirty before that grouch of a Rosenblatt would call it a day. At
that she'd rather do water stuff than animal stuff-especially lions.
"Lions? I should think so!" He replied to this. "Dangerous, isn't
it?"

"Oh, it ain't that. They're nothing to be afraid of if you know 'em,
but they're so hot and smelly when you have to get close to 'em.
Anything I really hate, it's having to get up against a big, hot,
hairy, smelly lion."

He murmured a sympathetic phrase and extended his search for the
lost pin to the side of the pool. Almost under the scaffold he saw
the shine of precious stones and called to her as he picked up the
pin, a bar pin splendidly set with diamonds. He was glad that he had
found it for her. It must have cost a great deal of money and she
would doubtless be held responsible for its safe-keeping.

She came dancing to him. "Say, that's fine-your eyes are working,
ain't they? I might 'a' been set back a good six dollars if you
hadn't found that." She took the bauble and fastened it inside her
jacket. So the pin, too, had been a tawdry makeshift. Nothing was
real any more. As she adjusted the pin he saw his moment for escape.
With a gallant striving for the true Clifford Armytage manner he
raised the plush hat.

"Well, I'm glad you found Mrs. Rosenblatt's pin-and I guess I'll be
getting on."

The manner must have been defective. She looked through him and said
with great firmness, "Nothing like that, old pippin." Again he was
taken with a violent fit of shivering. He could not meet her eyes.
He was turning away when she seized him by the wrist. Her grip was
amazingly forceful. He doubted if he could break away even with his
stoutest effort. He stood miserably staring at the ground. Suddenly
the girl reached up to pat his shoulder. He shivered again and she
continued to pat it. When his teeth had ceased to be castanets she
spoke:

"Listen here, old Kid, you can't fool any one, so quit trying. Don't
you s'pose I've seen 'em like you before? Say, boy, I was trouping
while you played with marbles. You're up against it. Now, c'mon"--
with the arm at his shoulder she pulled him about to face her-"c'mon
and be nice-tell mother all about it."

The late Clifford Armytage was momentarily menaced by a complete
emotional overthrow. Another paroxysm of shivering perhaps averted
this humiliation. The girl dropped his wrist, turned, stooped, and
did something. He recalled the scene in the gambling hell, only this
time she fronted away from the camera. When she faced him again he
was not surprised to see bills in her hand. It could only have been
the chill he suffered that kept him from blushing. She forced the
bills into his numb fingers and he stared at them blankly. "I can't
take these," he muttered.

"There, now, there, now! Be easy. Naturally I know you're all right
or I wouldn't give up this way. You're just having a run of hard
luck. The Lord knows, I've been helped out often enough in my time.
Say, listen, I'll never forget when I went out as a kid with Her
First False Step-they had lions in that show. It was a frost from
the start. No salaries, no nothing. I got a big laugh one day when I
was late at rehearsal. The manager says: 'You're fined two dollars,
Miss Montague.' I says, 'All right, Mr. Gratz, but you'll have to
wait till I can write home for the money.' Even Gratz had to laugh.
Anyway, the show went bust and I never would 'a' got any place if
two or three parties hadn't of helped me out here and there, just
the same as I'm doing with you this minute. So don't be foolish."

"Well-you see-I don't--" He broke off from nervous weakness. In his
mind was a jumble of incongruous sentences and he seemed unable to
manage any of them.

The girl now sent a clean shot through his armour. "When'd you eat
last?"

He looked at the ground again in painful embarrassment. Even in the
chill air he was beginning to feel hot. "I don't remember," he said
at last quite honestly.

"That's what I thought. You go eat. Go to Mother Haggin's, that
cafeteria just outside the gate. She has better breakfast things
than the place on the lot." Against his will the vision of a
breakfast enthralled him, yet even under this exaltation an instinct
of the wariest caution survived.

"I'll go to the one on the lot, I guess. If I went out to the other
one I couldn't get in again."

She smiled suddenly, with puzzling lights in her eyes. "Well, of all
things! You want to get in again, do you? Say, wouldn't that beat
the hot place a mile? You want to get in again? All right, Old-
timer, I'll go out with you and after you've fed I'll cue you on to
the lot again."

"Well-if it ain't taking you out of your way." He knew that the girl
was somehow humouring him, as if he were a sick child. She knew, and
he knew, that the lot was no longer any place for him until he could
be rightly there.

"No, c'mon, I'll stay by you." They walked up the street of the
Western village. The girl had started at a brisk pace and he was
presently breathless.

"I guess I'll have to rest a minute," he said. They were now before
the Crystal Palace Hotel and he sat on the steps.

"All in, are you? Well, take it easy."

He was not only all in, but his mind still played with incongruous
sentences. He heard himself saying things that must sound foolish.

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