John Lothrop Motley - "The Rise of the Dutch Republic, 1582 84"

J. Morris Slemons - "The Prospective Mother"

D. P. Thompson - "The Rangers"

John Lothrop Motley - "History of the United Netherlands, 1590(a)"

New Philadelphia Book Publisher Highlights Local Talent
Book and Publishing News from Publishers Newswire(tm)

Looking for Child to be on Cover of a New Book, 'The Model Child'
PHILADELPHIA, Pa. -- The Philadelphia literary world will celebrate the launch of two new players today, April 10th: Kay Square Press, a new publishing company focused on Philadelphia-area artists, their stories, and their art; and Kay Square's first release, 'With the Rich and Mighty: Emlen Etting of Philadelphia' (ISBN: 978-0-9815129-0-7), a critical biography by Kenneth C. Kaleta.

FlatSigned Press Alleges Don Imus Remarks Damage Legacy of President Gerald R. Ford
NEW YORK, N.Y. -- Nathan Yungerberg, an accomplished model scout and professional child photographer is launching a nation-wide casting call to find the cover model for his highly anticipated book release, 'The Model Child: A Parents Guide to the Child Modeling Industry' (ISBN: 978-0-9817018-0-6).

Books: Merton of the Movies

H >> Harry Leon Wilson >> Merton of the Movies




"Throw it high as you can over those tables and toward the bar,"
called Baird. The figure was thrown as directed.

"Fine work! Now look up, as if he was still in the air, now down,
now brush your left sleeve lightly with your right hand, now brush
your right sleeve lightly with your left hand.

"All right--cut. Great, Merton! If that don't get you a hand I don't
know what will. Now all outside for the horseback stuff!"

Outside, the faithful cowboys leaped into their saddles and urged
their beloved leader to do the same. But he lingered beside his own
horse, pleading with them to go ahead. He must remain in the place
of danger yet awhile for he had forgotten to bring out his old
mother. They besought him to let them bring her out, but he would
not listen. His alone was the task.

Reluctantly the cowboys galloped off. As he turned to re-enter the
dance-hall he was confronted by the detective, who held two frowning
weapons upon him. Benson was at last a prisoner.

The detective brutally ordered his quarry inside. Benson, seeing he
was beaten, made a manly plea that he might be let to bid his horse
good-by. The detective seemed moved. He relented. Benson went to his
good old pal.

"Here's your chance for a fine bit," called Baird. "Give it to us
now the way you did in that still. Broaden it all you want to. Go to
it."

Well did Merton Gill know that here was his chance for a fine bit.
The horse was strangely like Dexter upon whom he had so often
rehearsed this bit. He was a bony, drooping, sad horse with a thin
neck. "They're takin' ye frum me, old pal--takin' ye frum me. You
an' me has seen some tough times an' I sort o' figgered we'd keep on
together till the last--an' now they got me, old pal, takin' me far
away where ye won't see me no more--"

"Go to it, cowboy--take all the footage you want!" called Baird in a
curiously choked voice.

The actor took some more footage. "But we got to keep a stiff upper
lip, old pal, you and me both. No cryin', no bustin' down. We had
out last gallop together, an' we're at the forkin' of th' trail. So
we got to be brave--we got to stand the gaff."

Benson released his old pal, stood erect, dashed a bit of moisture
from his eyes, and turned to the waiting detective who, it seemed,
had also been strangely moved during this affecting farewell. Yet he
had not forgotten his duty. Benson was forced to march back into the
Come All Ye Dance Hall. As he went he was wishing that Baird would
have him escape and flee on his old pal.

And Baird was a man who seemed to think of everything, or perhaps he
had often seen the real Buck Benson's play, for it now appeared that
everything was going to be as Merton Gill wished. Baird had even
contrived an escape that was highly spectacular.

Locked by the detective in an upper room, the prisoner went to the
window and glanced out to find that his loyal horse was directly
beneath him. He would leap from the window, alight in the saddle
after a twenty-foot drop, and be off over the border. The window
scene was shot, including a flash of the horse below. The mechanics
of the leap itself required more time. Indeed, it took the better
part of a morning to satisfy Baird that this thrilling exploit had
been properly achieved. From a lower window, quite like the high
one, Merton leaped, but only to the ground a few feet below.

"That's where we get your take-off," Baird explained.

"Now we get you lighting in the saddle." This proved to be a more
delicate bit of work. From a platform built out just above the
faithful horse Merton precariously scrambled down into the saddle.
He glanced anxiously at Baird, fearing he had not alighted properly
after the supposed twenty-foot drop, but the manager appeared to be
delighted with his prowess after the one rehearsal, and the scene
was shot.

"It's all jake," Baird assured him. "Don't feel worried. Of course
we'll trick the bit where you hit the saddle; the camera'll look out
for that."

One detail only troubled Merton. After doing the leap from the high
window, and before doing its finish where he reached the saddle,
Baird directed certain changes in his costume. He was again to don
the false mustache, to put his hat on, and also a heavy jacket lined
with sheep's wool worn by one of the cowboys in the dance-hall.
Merton was pleased to believe he had caught the manager napping
here. "But Mr. Baird, if I leap from the window without the hat or
mustache or jacket and land on my horse in them, wouldn't it look as
if I had put them on as I was falling?"

Baird was instantly overcome with confusion. "Now, that's so! I
swear I never thought of that, Merton. I'm glad you spoke about it
in time. You sure have shown me up as a director. You see I wanted
you to disguise yourself again--I'll tell you; get the things on,
and after we shoot you lighting in the saddle we'll retake the
window scene. That'll fix it."

Not until long afterward, on a certain dread night when the earth
was to rock beneath him, did he recall that Baird had never retaken
that window scene. At present the young actor was too engrossed by
the details of his daring leap to remember small things. The leap
was achieved at last. He was in the saddle after a twenty-foot drop.
He gathered up the reins, the horse beneath him coughed plaintively,
and Merton rode him out of the picture. Baird took a load off his
mind as to this bit of riding.

"Will you want me to gallop?" he asked, recalling the unhappy
experience with Dexter.

"No; just walk him beyond the camera line. The camera'll trick it up
all right." So, safely, confidently, he had ridden his steed beyond
the lens range at a curious shuffling amble, and his work at the
Come All Ye Dance Hall was done.

Then came some adventurous days in the open. In motor cars the
company of artists was transported to a sunny nook in the foothills
beyond the city, and here in the wild, rough, open spaces, the drama
of mother-love, sacrifice, and thrills was further unfolded.

First to be done here was the continuation of the hero's escape from
the dance-hall. Upon his faithful horse he ambled along a quiet road
until he reached the shelter of an oak tree. Here he halted at the
roadside.

"You know the detective is following you," explained Baird, "and
you're going to get him. Take your nag over a little so the tree
won't mask him too much. That's it. Now, you look back, lean forward
in the saddle, listen! You hear him coming. Your face sets--look as
grim as you can. That's the stuff--the real Buck Benson stuff when
they're after him. That's fine. Now you get an idea. Unlash your
rope, let the noose out, give it a couple of whirls to see is
everything all right. That's it--only you still look grim--not so
worried about whether the rope is going to act right. We'll attend
to that. When the detective comes in sight give about three good
whirls and let her fly. Try it once. Good! Now coil her up again and
go through the whole thing. Never mind about whether you're going to
get him or not. Remember, Buck Benson never misses. We'll have a
later shot that shows the rope falling over his head."

Thereupon the grim-faced Benson, strong, silent man of the open,
while the cameras ground, waited the coming of one who hounded him
for a crime of which he was innocent. His iron face was relentless.
He leaned forward, listening. He uncoiled the rope, expertly ran out
the noose, and grimly waited. Far up the road appeared the detective
on a galloping horse. Benson twirled the rope as he sat in his
saddle. It left his hand, to sail gracefully in the general
direction of his pursuer.

"Cut!" called Baird. "That was bully. Now you got him. Ride out into
the road. You're dragging him off his horse, see? Keep on up the
road; you're still dragging the hound. Look back over your shoulder
and light your face up just a little--that's it, use Benson's other
expression. You got it fine. You're treating the skunk rough, but
look what he was doing to you, trying to pinch you for something you
never did. That's fine--go ahead. Don't look back any more."

Merton was chiefly troubled at this moment by the thought that
someone would have to double for him in the actual casting of the
rope that would settle upon the detective's shoulders. Well, he must
practise roping. Perhaps, by the next picture. he could do this
stuff himself. It was exciting work, though sometimes tedious. It
had required almost an entire morning to enact this one simple
scene, with the numerous close-ups that Baird demanded.

The afternoon was taken up largely in becoming accustomed to a pair
of old Spanish spurs that Baird now provided him with. Baird said
they were very rare old spurs which he had obtained at a fancy price
from an impoverished Spanish family who had treasured them as
heirlooms. He said he was sure that Buck Benson in all his vast
collection did not possess a pair of spurs like these. He would
doubtless, after seeing them worn by Merton Gill in this picture,
have a pair made like them.

The distinguishing feature of these spurs was their size. They were
enormous, and their rowels extended a good twelve inches from
Merton's heels after he had donned them.

"They may bother you a little at first," said Baird, "but you'll get
used to them, and they're worth a little trouble because they'll
stand out."

The first effort to walk in them proved bothersome indeed, for it
was made over ground covered with a low-growing vine and the spurs
caught in this. Baird was very earnest in supervising this progress,
and even demanded the presence of two cameras to record it.

"Of course I'm not using this stuff," he said, "but I want to make a
careful study of it. These are genuine hidalgo spurs. Mighty few men
in this line of parts could get away with them. I bet Benson himself
would have a lot of trouble. Now, try it once more."

Merton tried once more, stumbling as the spurs caught in the
undergrowth. The cameras closely recorded his efforts, and Baird
applauded them. "You're getting it--keep on. That's better. Now try
to run a few steps--go right toward that left-hand camera."

He ran the few steps, but fell headlong. He picked himself up, an
expression of chagrin on his face.

"Never mind," urged Baird. "Try it again. We must get this right."
He tried again to run; was again thrown. But he was determined to
please the manager, and he earnestly continued his efforts. Benson
himself would see the picture and probably marvel that a new man
should have mastered, apparently with ease, a pair of genuine
hidalgos.

"Maybe we better try smoother ground," Baird at last suggested after
repeated falls had shown that the undergrowth was difficult. So the
cameras were moved on to the front of a ranche house now in use for
the drama, and the spur lessons continued. But on smooth ground it
appeared that the spurs were still troublesome. After the first
mishap here Merton discovered the cause. The long shanks were curved
inward so that in walking their ends clashed. He pointed this out to
Baird, who was amazed at the discovery.

"Well, well, that's so! They're bound to interfere. I never knew
that about hidalgo spurs before."

"We might straighten them," suggested the actor.

"No, no," Baird insisted, "I wouldn't dare try that. They cost too
much money, and it might break 'em. I tell you what you do, stand up
and try this: just toe in a little when you walk--that'll bring the
points apart. There--that's it; that's fine."

The cameras were again recording so that Baird could later make his
study of the difficulties to be mastered by the wearer of genuine
hidalgos. By toeing in Merton now succeeded in walking without
disaster, though he could not feel that he was taking the free
stride of men out there in the open spaces.

"Now try running." directed Baird, and he tried running; but again
the spurs caught and he was thrown full in the eyes of the grinding
camera. He had forgotten to toe in. But he would not give up. His
face was set in Buck Benson grimness. Each time he picked himself up
and earnestly resumed the effort. The rowels were now catching in
the long hair of his chaps.

He worked on, directed and cheered by the patient Baird, while the
two camera men, with curiously strained faces, recorded his
failures. Baird had given strict orders that other members of the
company should remain at a distance during the spur lessons, but now
he seemed to believe that a few other people might encourage the
learner. Merton was directed to run to his old mother who, bucket at
her side and mop in hand, knelt on the ground at a little distance.
He was also directed to run toward the Montague girl, now in
frontier attire of fringed buckskin. He made earnest efforts to keep
his feet during these essays, but the spurs still proved
treacherous.

"Just pick yourself up and go on," ordered Baird, and had the
cameras secure close shots of Merton picking himself up and going
carefully on, toeing in now, to embrace his weeping old mother and
the breathless girl who had awaited him with open arms.

He was tired that night, but the actual contusions he had suffered
in his falls where forgotten in the fear that he might fail to
master the hidalgos. Baird himself seemed confident that his pupil
would yet excite the jealousy of Buck Benson in this hazardous
detail of the screen art. He seemed, indeed, to be curiously
satisfied with his afternoon's work. He said that he would study the
film carefully and try to discover just how the spurs could be
mastered.

"You'll show 'em yet how to take a joke," he declared when the
puzzling implements were at last doffed. The young actor felt repaid
for his earnest efforts. No one could put on a pair of genuine
hidalgos for the first time and expect to handle them correctly.

There were many days in the hills. Until this time the simple drama
had been fairly coherent in Merton Gill's mind. So consecutively
were the scenes shot that the story had not been hard to follow. But
now came rather a jumble of scenes, not only at times bewildering in
themselves, but apparently unrelated.

First it appeared that the Montague girl, as Miss Rebecca Hoffmeyer,
had tired of being a mere New York society butterfly, had come out
into the big open spaces to do something real, something worth
while. The ruin of her father, still unexplained, had seemed to call
out unsuspected reserves in the girl. She was stern and businesslike
in such scenes as Merton was permitted to observe. And she had not
only brought her ruined father out to the open spaces but the
dissipated brother, who was still seen to play at dice whenever
opportunity offered. He played with the jolly cowboys and invariably
won.

Off in the hills there were many scenes which Merton did not
overlook. "I want you to have just your own part in mind," Baird
told him. And, although he was puzzled later, he knew that Baird was
somehow making it right in the drama when he became again the
successful actor of that first scene, which he had almost forgotten.
He was no longer the Buck Benson of the open spaces, but the
foremost idol of the shadowed stage, and in Harold Parmalee's best
manner he informed the aspiring Montague girl that he could not
accept her as leading lady in his next picture because she lacked
experience. The wager of a kiss was laughingly made as she promised
that within ten days she would convince him of her talent.

Later she herself, in an effective scene, became the grimfaced Buck
Benson and held the actor up at the point of her two guns. Then,
when she had convinced him that she was Benson, she appeared after
an interval as her own father; the fiery beard, the derby hat with
its dents, the chaps, the bicycle, and golf bag. In this scene she
seemed to demand the actor's intentions toward the daughter, and
again overwhelmed him with confusion, as Parmalee had been
overwhelmed when she revealed her true self under the baffling
disguise. The wager of a kiss was prettily paid. This much of the
drama he knew. And there was an affecting final scene on a hillside.

The actor, arrayed in chaps, spurs, and boots below the waist was,
above this, in faultless evening dress. "You see, it's a masquerade
party at the ranche," Baird explained, "and you've thought up this
costume to sort of puzzle the little lady."

The girl herself was in the short, fringed buckskin skirt, with
knife and revolvers in her belt. Off in the hills day after day she
had worn this costume in those active scenes he had not witnessed.
Now she was merely coy. He followed her out on the hillside with
only a little trouble from the spurs--indeed he fell but once as he
approached her--and the little drama of the lovers, at last united,
was touchingly shown.

In the background, as they stood entwined, the poor demented old
mother was seen. With mop and bucket she was cleansing the side of a
cliff, but there was a happier look on the worn old face.

"Glance around and see her," railed Baird. "Then explain to the girl
that you will always protect your mother, no matter what happens.
That's it. Now the clench--kiss her--slow! That's it. Cut!"

Merton's part in the drama was ended. He knew that the company
worked in the hills another week and there were more close-ups to
take in the dance-hall, but he was not needed in these. Baird
congratulated him warmly.

"Fine work, my boy! You've done your first picture, and with Miss
Montague as your leading lady I feel that you're going to land ace-
high with your public. Now all you got to do for a couple of weeks
is to take it easy while we finish up some rough ends of this piece.
Then we'll be ready to start on the new one. It's pretty well doped
out, and there's a big part in it for you--big things to be done in
a big way, see what I mean."

"Well, I'm glad I suited you," Merton replied. "I tried to give the
best that was in me to a sincere interpretation of that fine part.
And it was a great surprise to me. I never thought I'd be working
for you, Mr. Baird, and of course I wouldn't have been if you had
kept on doing those comedies. I never would have wanted to work in
one of them." "Of course not," agreed Baird cordially. "I realized
that you were a serious artist, and you came in the nick of time,
just when I was wanting to be serious myself, to get away from that
slap-stick stuff into something better and finer. You came when I
needed you. And, look here, Merton, I signed you on at forty
a week--"

"Yes, sir: I was glad to get it."

"Well, I'm going to give you more. From the beginning of the new
picture you're on the payroll at seventy-five a week. No, no, not a
word--" as Merton would have thanked him. "You're earning the money.
And for the picture after that--well, if you keep on giving the best
that's in you, it will be a whole lot more. Now take a good rest
till we're ready for you."

At last he had won. Suffering and sacrifice had told. And Baird had
spoken of the Montague girl as his leading lady--quite as if he were
a star. And seventy-five dollars a week! A sum Gashwiler had made
him work five weeks for. Now he had something big to write to his
old friend, Tessie Kearns. She might spread the news in Simsbury, he
thought. He contrived a close-up of Gashwiler hearing it, of Mrs.
Gashwiler hearing it, of Metta Judson hearing it.

They would all be incredulous until a certain picture was shown at
the Bijou Palace, a gripping drama of mother-love, of a clean-limbed
young American type wrongfully accused of a crime and taking the
burden of it upon his own shoulders for the sake of the girl he had
come to love; of the tense play of elemental forces in the great
West, the regeneration of a shallow society girl when brought to
adversity by the ruin of her old father; of the lovers reunited in
that West they both loved.

And somehow--this was still a puzzle--the very effective weaving in
and out of the drama of the world's most popular screen idol, played
so expertly by Clifford Armytage who looked enough like him to be
his twin brother.

Fresh from joyous moments in the projection room, the Montague girl
gazed at Baird across the latter's desk, Baird spoke.

"Sis, he's a wonder."

"Jeff, you're a wonder. How'd you ever keep him from getting wise?"

Baird shrugged. "Easy! We caught him fresh."

"How'd you ever win him to do all those falls on the trick spurs,
and get the close-ups of them? Didn't he know you were shooting?"

"Oh!" Baird shrugged again. "A little talk made that all jake. But
what bothers me--how's he going to act when he's seen the picture?"

The girl became grave. "I'm scared stiff every time I think of it.
Maybe he'll murder you, Jeff."

"Maybe he'll murder both of us. You got him into it."

She did not smile, but considered gravely, absently.

"There's something else might happen," she said at last. "That boy's
got at least a couple of sides to him. I'd rather he'd be crazy mad
than be what I'm thinking of now, and that's that all this stuff
might just fairly break his heart. Think of it--to see his fine
honest acting turned into good old Buckeye slap-stick! Can't you get
that? How'd you like to think you were playing Romeo, and act your
heart out at it, and then find out they'd slipped in a cross-eyed
Juliet in a comedy make-up on you? Well, you can laugh, but maybe it
won't be funny to him. Honest, Jeff, that kid gets me under the ribs
kind of. I hope he takes it standing up, and goes good and crazy
mad."

"I'll know what to say to him if he does that. If he takes it the
other way, lying down, I'll be too ashamed ever to look him in the
eye again. Say, it'll be like going up to a friendly baby and
soaking it with a potato masher or something."

"Don't worry about it, Kid. Anyway, it won't be your fault so much
as mine. And you think there's only two ways for him to take it, mad
or heart broken? Well, let me tell you something about that lad--he
might fool you both ways. I don't know just how, but I tell you he's
an actor, a born one. What he did is going to get over big. And I
never yet saw a born actor that would take applause lying down, even
if it does come for what he didn't know he was doing. Maybe he'll be
mad--that's natural enough. But maybe he'll fool us both. So
cheerio, old Pippin! and let's fly into the new piece. I'll play
safe by shooting the most of that before the other one is released.
And he'll still be playing straight in a serious heart drama. Fancy
that, Armand!"




CHAPTER XV

A NEW TRAIL


One genial morning a few days later the sun shone in across the desk
of Baird while he talked to Merton Gill of the new piece. It was a
sun of fairest promise. Mr. Gill's late work was again lavishly
commended, and confidence was expressed that he would surpass
himself in the drama shortly to be produced.

Mr. Baird spoke in enthusiastic terms of this, declaring that if it
did not prove to be a knock-out--a clean-up picture--then he, Jeff
Baird, could safely be called a Chinaman. And during the time that
would elapse before shooting on the new piece could begin he
specified a certain study in which he wished his actor to engage.

"You've watched the Edgar Wayne pictures, haven't you?"

"Yes, I've seen a number of them."

"Like his work?--that honest country-boy-loving-his--mother-and-
little-sister stuff, wearing overalls and tousled hair in the first
part, and coming out in city clothes and eight dollar neckties at
the last, with his hair slicked back same as a seal?"

"Oh, yes, I like it. He's fine. He has a great appeal."

"Good! That's the kind of a part you're going to get in this new
piece. Lots of managers in my place would say 'No-he's a capable
young chap and has plenty of talent, but he lacks the experience to
play an Edgar Wayne part.' That's what a lot of these Wisenheimers
would say. But me--not so. I believe you can get away with this
part, and I'm going to give you your chance."

"I'm sure I don't know how to thank you, Mr. Baird, and I'll try to
give you the very best that is in me--"

"I'm sure of that, my boy; you needn't tell me. But now--what I want
you to do while you got this lay-off between pieces, chase out and
watch all the Edgar Wayne pictures you can find. There was one up on
the Boulevard last week I'd like you to watch half-a-dozen times. It
may be at another house down this way, or it may be out in one of
the suburbs. I'll have someone outside call up and find where it is
to-day and they'll let you know. It's called Happy Homestead or
something snappy like that, and it kind of suggests a layout for
this new piece of mine, see what I mean? It'll suggest things to
you.

"Edgar and his mother and little sister live on this farm and Edgar
mixes in with a swell dame down at the summer hotel, and a villain
tries to get his old mother's farm and another villain takes his
little sister off up to the wicked city, and Edgar has more trouble
than would patch Hell a mile, see? But it all comes right in the
end, and the city girl falls for him when she sees him in his
stepping-out clothes.