LIFE IS REEL!
The nation is bein' flooded these days with advertisements claimin'
that any white man which works for less than forty thousand bucks a
year is a sucker. The best of 'em is wrote by a friend of mine, Joe
Higgins, who gets all of twenty bucks every Saturday at six--one-thirty
in July, August and September.
The ads that Joe tears off deals with inventions. He shows that Edison
prob'ly wouldn't of made a nickel over a million, if he hadn't
discovered everything but America, and that Bell, Marconi, Fulton and
that gang, wouldn't of been any better known to-day than ham and eggs,
if they hadn't used their brains for purposes of thinkin' and invented
somethin'. There's fortunes which would make the Vanderbilts and
Astors look like public charges, explains Joe, awaitin' the bird which
will quit playin' Kelly pool some night and invent a new way to do
_anything_.
The ad winds up with the important information that the people which
Joe works for is so close to the patent office gang that they could get
French fried potatoes copyrighted. For the sum of "write for
particulars," they'll rush madly from Washington papers that'll protect
any idea you got, before some snake-in-the-grass friend plies you with
strawberry sundaes and steals your secret. At the bottom of this
there's a long list of things sadly needed by a sufferin' public, which
will willin'ly shower their inventor with medals and money,--things
like non-playable ukaleles, doctors which can guess what's the matter
with _you_ instead of your bankroll, grape fruit that won't hit back
while you're eatin' it, non-refillable jails and so forth. All you got
to do is stake yourself to a couple of test tubes, a white apron and a
laboratory, hire Edison, Marconi, Maxim and Hennery Ford as
assistants--with the U. S. Mint in back of you in case expenses come
up--and you'll wake up some mornin' to find yourself the talk of Fall
River.
I been lookin' over these ads for a long time, but there's three names
I never seen on the list of famous inventors. They are to wit: the guy
that discovered the only absolute cure for rheumatism, the one that
invented the dope book on the female race and the bird that holds a
patent on the complete understandin' of human nature. I guess the
reason I never seen _their_ names is because the thing ain't really
been decided yet--there seems to be some difference of opinion. But if
you wanna find out how many guys there are that swear they invented
_all_ them things, look up the population of the world. The figures is
exactly the same.
I ain't met nobody yet which didn't admit they had the only correct
dope on women, rheumatism and human nature, but I'm still waitin' to be
introduced to the guy which really knows anything at all about _any_ of
'em, when it gets right down to the box score!
The nearest I ever come to knowin' the original patentee to two of 'em
was Eddie Duke. Eddie is one of the best men in the movable picture
game, accordin' to everybody but himself. _He_ concedes he's _the_
best. He's a little, aggressive guy which would of prob'ly been a
lightweight champion, for instance, if it hadn't been for his parents.
They killed off his chances of makin' _big_ money, by slippin' him a
medium dose of education when he was too young to fight back. Eddie's
like a million other guys I know, all Half-way Henrys, you might call
'em. Too much brains to dig streets and not enough to own 'em!
Unhappy mediums that always calls _somebody_ boss!
We're sittin' in Duke's office one mornin', when without even
knockin'--a remarkable thing for a movie star--in walks Edmund De
Vronde. Edmund has caused more salesladies to take their pens in hand
than any other actor in the world. His boudoir is hung with pictures
of dames from eight to eighty and from Flatbush to Florida. If some of
'em was actual reproductions, them dames was foolish for sellin'
shirtwaists, believe me! Edmund is as beautiful as five hundred a week
and built like Jack Dempsey. Off the screen he's as rough and ready as
a chorus man.
"Hello, Cutey!" says the Kid, who liked De Vronde and carbolic acid the
same way.
"I've come to ask a favor," says De Vronde.
"Well," Duke tells him, lightin' a cigarette and lookin' straight at
the end of it, "we ain't gonna pay for no more autographed photos, we
won't fire the press agent, you gotta finish this picture with Miss
Hart and both them camera men that's shootin' this movie is high-class
mechanics and stays! Outside of that, I'm open to reason."
"What I want will cost you nothing," says De Vronde. "That
is--practically nothing. My dresser,--the silly idiot!--tendered me
his resignation this morning!"
"Well, what's all this gotta do with me?" he asks De Vronde. "I can't
be bothered diggin' up valets to see that you got plenty of fresh
vanilla cold cream every morning and that they's ample talcum powder on
the chiffonier! I got--"
"I have already secured a man," interrupts De Vronde. "He happens to
be a--a--friend of mine. The poor fellow is desperately in need of
work. He's in Denver at present, and I'd like to have him on as soon
as possible. If we're to begin that big feature on Monday, I'm sure I
can't be bothered thinking about where this shirt and that cravat is,
and just what color combinations will be best for my costume in the
gypsy cave."
"That's right!" grins the Kid. "Figure for yourself what would happen,
if Cutey forgot his mustache curler, for instance. The whole country
would be, now, aghast, and he'd be a nervous wreck in five minutes!"
"So if you'll kindly telegraph the fare to this address," goes on De
Vronde, ignorin' the Kid, "I'll be obliged."
With that he blows.
"And the tough part of it is," moans Duke, reachin' for a 'phone, "I'll
have to do just that! It'll cost about sixty bucks to import this bird
here and when he gets here, it's nothin' but another mouth to feed. If
I had half the nerve of that big stiff De Vronde, I'd take a German
quartette over to London and make 'em sing the 'Wacht Am Rhein' in
front of Buckin'ham Palace!"
"He claims this valet's a friend of his, too," says the Kid. "I'll bet
he'll turn out to be another one of them sweet spirits of nitre boys,
eh?"
"If he is," growls Duke, "it won't be two days before he'll be sick and
tired of the movie game, you can bet two green certificates on that!"
A week later, me and the Kid is standin' near the entrance to Film City
talkin' to Miss Vincent, when a young feller blows in through the gates
and walks up to us. He's one of them tall birds, as thin as a dime,
and his clothes has been brushed right into the grain. When the light
hit him, I seen they was places where even the grain had quit. His
shoes is so run over at the heels that they'd of fit nice and snug into
a car track and he'd just gone and shaved himself raw.
One good look and this bird checked up as a member in good standin' of
one of the oldest lodges in the world. They got a branch in every
city, and they was organized around the time that Adam and Eve quit the
Garden of Eden for a steam-heated flat. The name of this order is "The
Shabby Genteels."
But what transfixed the eye and held the attention, as we remark in the
workhouse, was this guy's face. I might say he had the most
inconsistent set of features I ever seen off the screen. He ain't a
thousand miles from bein' good-looking and his chin is well cut and
square, like at one time he'd been willin' to hustle for his wants and
fight for 'em once he got 'em, but that time ain't _now_! His eyes is
the tip-off. They don't look straight into yours when he talks--the
liar's best bet!--or they don't look at the ground, but they stare off
over your shoulder into the air, like he's seein' somethin' _you_
can't, and it ain't pleasant to look at.
I've seen that look on beaten fighters, when the winner is settin'
himself for the knockout, and I've seen it on the faces of other guys,
when some smug-jowled judge has reached into their lives and took ten
or twenty years as a deposit on what they'll do with the rest. It's a
look you don't forget right away, take it from me!
Well, this feller that's walkin' up to us had that look. If a director
had yelled "Register despair!" at him, he could of just looked natural
and they'd of thought he was another Mansfield.
And he's _young_! Get that?
"Pardon me!" he says, takin' off his hat. "Where can I find Mister De
Vronde?"
The Kid puts his hand on his arm and swings him around,
"You'll pro'bly find him over behind the Street Scene in Venice," he
tells him. "If he ain't there, look around the Sahara Desert for
him--know him when you see him?"
The other guy looks at us for a minute like he thinks he's bein'
kidded. Then he pulls a slow, tired grin.
"I think so," he says. "Thanks!"
When he walks away, I turns to Miss Vincent.
"That's prob'ly Cutey De Vronde's new guardeen," I says. "I guess he--"
"You and the Kaiser is the same kind of guessers!" butts in the Kid.
"He guessed we wouldn't scrap! If that guy we was just talkin' to is a
lady's maid for Cutey, I can sing like Caruso!"
"He doesn't look like a valet," says Miss Vincent, kinda doubtful.
"I don't blame him!" says the Kid. "And lemme tell you, he never got
them muscles from brushin' clothes and buttonin' vests. I felt his arm
when I swung him around that time, and this guy is just about as soft
as the Rock of Gibraltar!"
"I can't understand," says Miss Vincent, "how a strong, healthy man can
be a valet--ugh!" she winds up, with a little shiver.
"That's easy," sneers the Kid. "A _man_ can't!"
Well, a man _did_! Gimme your ears, as the deaf guy said.
The next mornin' it turns out that I can guess like a rabbit can run.
The new entry on the payroll borrehs a match from me, and durin' the
tete-a-tete that folleyed, I find out that his name is John R. Adams
and, as far as the world in general and America in particular is
concerned, it could of been George Q. Mud. Durin' the lifetime of
twenty-nine years he's been on earth, he's tried his hand at everything
from bankin' to bartenderin', and so far the only thing he's been a
success at is bein' a failure. At that he leads the league. And now,
to top it all off, he's a valet for a movie hero!
"It's all a matter of luck!" he says, bitterly. "A man who tries these
days is not an ambitious hustler, but a _pest_ to the powers above him!
I defy a man to stand on his own feet and make good without influence.
It's not _what_ do you know any more, but _who_ do you know! I've been
a bookkeeper, a printer, a salesman, a chauffeur, a bank clerk, and,
yes, even a chorus man. At every one of those things I gave the best I
had in stock to get to the front. Did I get there? Not quite!" he
throws away the cigarette he's hardly had a puff of. "Why?" he asks
me. "Because in every trade or profession there's somebody with half
the sand and ability, who don't know the job's requirements but knows
the boss's son! I'm not a quitter or I wouldn't be here, but I'm sick
and disgusted with this thing called life and--"
"And that's why you never got nowhere!" breaks in a voice behind
us--and there's Eddie Duke. Adams flushes up and starts away, but
Eddie pulls him back.
"Listen to me, young feller!" he says. "I happened to hear your moan
just now and your dope is all wrong. There ain't no such thing as
luck; if there was, a blacksmith is the luckiest guy in the world and
oughta make a million a minute, because he's handlin' nothin' but
horseshoes all day long, ain't he? Forget about that luck stuff!
Makin' good is all in the way you look at it, anyways. A bricklayer
makin' thirty bucks a week, raisin' a family and bringin' home his pay
every Saturday night in his pocket instead of on his breath, is makin'
good as big as J. P. Morgan is--d'ye get me? Yes, sir, that bird can
say he's got over! Makin' good is like religion, every other guy has a
different idea of what it means, but there's many a feller swingin' a
pick that's makin' good just as much as the bird that owns the
ditch--in his own way! You claim a guy's got to know somebody these
days to get over, eh? Well, you got that one right, I'll admit it!"
"Of course!" says Adams, brightenin' up. "That's my argument and--"
"That ain't no argument, that's a whine!" sneers Duke, cuttin' him off
short. "Listen to me--you bet you gotta know somebody to get
anywheres, _you gotta know yourself_! That's all! Just lay off
thinkin' how lucky the other guy is, and give Stephen X. You a minute's
attention. You may be the biggest guy in the world at _somethin'_, if
you'll only check up on yourself and see what that somethin' is!
Remember Whosthis says, 'Full many a rose is born to blush unseen--'
Well, don't be one of them desert flowers; come into the city and let
'em all watch you blush. Get me? How did you happen to meet this big
stiff De Vronde?"
Adams gets pale for a second and clears his throat.
"I'm working for him," he says slowly, like he's thinkin' over each
word before lettin' it go, "and I don't care to discuss him."
At just that minute, De Vronde, Miss Vincent, the Kid and another dame
come rollin' up in Miss Vincent's twelve-cylinder garage-mechanic's
friend. De Vronde hops out and walks over to us, wavin' his cane and
frownin'.
"Look here!" he bawls at Adams. "I thought I told you to be at the
east gate with my duster and goggles? You've kept me waiting half an
hour, while you're gossiping around! Really, if you're going to start
this way, I shall have to get another man. Look sharp now, no excuses!"
The Kid winks at me, noddin' to Adams who's lookin' at De Vronde with a
very peculiar gaze. I couldn't quite get what he's registerin'. Miss
Vincent looks interested and sits up. The other dame opens the door of
the car and stands on the runnin' board.
"Here's where the fair Edmund gets his and gets it good!" hisses Duke
in my ear, lookin' at Adams.
"I'm very sorry," says Adams, suddenly. "I should have remembered."
And without another word or look, he exits.
"Yellah!" snorts the Kid.
"No spine!" sneers Miss Vincent.
"Nick-looking boy--who is he?" asks the other dame, lookin' after him.
Duke slaps his hands together all of a sudden and gazes at her like a
guy gettin' his first flash at his hour-old son. Then he looks after
Adams, grins and claps his hands again.
"Who is he?" repeats the dame.
De Vronde sneers.
"Really," he says, "your interest is surprising. That fellow is my--"
"Shut up!" roars Duke, springin' to the runnin'-board. "Here!" he goes
on, talkin' fast. "I'm gonna shoot them two interiors in half a hour,
so you better call this joy ride off!" He turns to the strange dame
and speaks very polite, "Miss Vincent will show you everything; if you
want anything, just 'phone the office."
When they're gone, Duke turns to me and grins.
"I often heard you say you made Scanlan welterweight champ," he says,
"by _pickin'_ the guys he was to fight till he got where he could lick
'em _all_. Well, I'm gonna do the same thing for our friend Mister
Jack Adams, valet for Edmund De Vronde, the salesladies' joy. I'm
goin' in that boy's corner from this day on, and, when I get through,
he'll be a champ!"
"What?" I says. "Train a guy like that for the ring? Why--"
"I see you don't make me," he interrupts, "which is just as well,
because you'd be liable to ball the whole thing up, if you did. This
kid Adams has got symptoms of bein' a he-man in his face. He's hit the
bumps good and hard and right now he's down, takin' a long count. Now
whether he needs to be helped or kicked to his feet, I don't know, but
I'm the baby that's gonna stand him up!"
"Well," I tells him, "go to it! But the thing I can't figure, is what
d'you care if he gets over or not--who pays _you_ off on it?"
He looks me over for a minute, registerin' deep thought.
"I'm gonna give you the works!" he says finally. "And if you ever
mention a word of this to anybody, they'll have to identify your body
afterwards by that green vest you got!"
"Rockefeller's three dollars short of havin' enough money to make me
tell!" I says.
"Fair enough!" says Duke. "Did you notice that strange dame which was
with Miss Vincent in the car just now?"
"The blonde that would of made Marc Anthony throw away Cleopatra's
'phone number?" I asks. "Yeh--I noticed her. Easily that!"
"Well," he says, "this dame, which was such a knockout to you, is Miss
Dorothy Devine. When her father died last year, she become a orphan."
"Well, that's tough," I says. "Me and the Kid will kick in with any
amount in reason and--"
"Halt!" said Eddie. "Her dear old father only left her a pittance of
fifty thousand a year and two-thirds control of the company we're all
workin' for out here. Now besides bein' several jumps ahead of the
average dame in looks, Dorothy is a few centuries ahead of the movies
in ideas. She claims we're all wrong, and she's gonna revolutionize
the watch-'em-move photo industry. That's what she's here for now!"
"Well," I says after a bit, "what d'ye expect _me_ to do--bust out
cryin'?"
"Not yet!" he says. "I'll tell you when. Accordin' to Dorothy, all
the pictures we put out are rotten. Our heroes and villains are
plucked alive from dime novels and is everything but true to life. Our
heroines belong in fairy tales and oughta be let stay there. _She_
claims that no beautiful girl with more money than the U. S. Mint would
fall for the handsome lumberjack, and that no guy who couldn't do
nothin' better than punch cows would become boss of the ranch through
love of the owner's daughter. All that stuff's the bunk, she says.
Her dope is that a real man would boost himself to the top, girl or no
girl, and the woman never lived which could put a man over, if he
didn't have the pep himself. As a finish, she tells me that no
healthy, intelligent girl would stand for the typical movie hero. A
bird which would go out and ride roughshod over all the villains like
they do in the films would nauseate her, she says, and we have no right
to encourage this bunk by feedin' it to an innocent public!"
"Eddie," I says, "she ain't a mile off the track, at that! This--"
"Oh, she ain't, eh?" he snarls. "Well that shows that you and her
knows as much about human nature as I do about makin' a watch! Miss
Devine wants us to put on a movie that she committed herself, and, if
we do, we'll be the laughin' stock of the world and Big Bend. It's got
everything in it but a hero, a heroine, a villain, action and love
interest. It's about as hot as one of them educational thrillers like
'Natives Makin' Panama Hats in Peoria' would be. A couple of these
would put the company on the blink, and I lose a ten-year contract at
ample money a year!"
"Well," I says, "what are you gonna do--quit?"
"Your mind must be as clean as a baby's," he says, "because you got
your first time to use it! No, I ain't gonna quit! I'm gonna show
Miss Dorothy Devine that as a judge of movin' pictures, she's a
swell-lookin' girl. I like these tough games, a guy feels so good all
over when he wins 'em. She's startin' with all the cards--money, looks
and, what counts more, she's just about the Big Boss here now. All I
got is one good card and that's only a jack--Jack Adams, to be
exact--and I'm gonna beat her with him!"
"I'll fall!" I says. "How?"
"Well," he tells me, "my argument is that all these thrillers we put on
are sad, weary and slow compared to some of the things that happen in
real life every day that we never hear about. They's many a telephone
girl, for instance, makin' a man outa a millionaire's no-good son and
many a sure-enough heiress bein' responsible for the first mate on a
whaler becomin' her kind and a director in the firm! I claim it does
_good_ and not harm, to feed this stuff to a trustin' public by way of
the screen. Why? Because every shippin'-clerk that's sittin' out in
front puts himself in the hero's place and every salesgirl dreams that
she's the heroine. Without thinkin', they both get to pickin' up the
virtues we pin on our stars, and it can't _help_ but do 'em good! I
don't know who started the shimmy, but I know women and I know human
nature, and knowin' 'em both, I'm gonna make a sportin' proposition to
Miss Dorothy Devine!"
"What's the bet?" I says. "I may take some of it myself."
"The bet is this," he tells me. "Here's this boy Adams, who, bein' De
Vronde's valet, is undisputed low man in Film City. He's disgusted
with life, he ain't got the ambition of a sleepin' alligator, or nerve
enough to speak harshly to _himself_. All right! If Miss Devine will
follow my orders for a couple of weeks without Adams knowin' who or
what she is, I claim that bird will make good! All that guy needs is a
reason for tryin', and she can make herself it!"
"You don't expect a dame like that to make love to a guy that cleans De
Vronde's shoes, do you?" I asks him.
"You must of been a terrible trial to teacher when you went to school!"
he snorts. "No!--I don't want her to make love to him. I want to
prove to her that the things we put in the movies is happenin' all the
time in real life, only more so! I want her to make Adams _feel_ just
how far back he's gone. I want her to cut him dead, because he's a
valet, and let him know that's the reason. Then nature and him will do
the rest, or I'll pay off! Who put Adam over? Eve! All right, I'm
gonna wind this thing up and let it go. I'll take the best scenes from
the last six pictures we put out, and make Adams and Miss Devine play
'em out, without either of 'em knowin' it. They oughta be a villain,
and I'm shy one just now, but I'll lay six to five that one will turn
up!"
"Look here!" I says. "Suppose Miss Devine should fall for this Adams
guy for _real_! Did you ever figure that?"
"Yes!" he snorts. "And suppose the Pacific Ocean is made outa root
beer!"
I guess Miss Devine must of been a sport, because Duke starts his
stunts off the next day. She promised to give Adams a month to show
signs of life and to do exactly as Duke tells her. Adams ain't to be
told a thing about it, and Miss Devine giggles herself sick over how
she's gonna show Duke the difference between real life and the movies.
They put up a thousand bucks apiece.
The first action come off when Miss Devine and Adams meets in the
"Sahara Desert" set.
"Good morning!" pipes Adams, bowin' and raisin' his hat.
"I beg your pardon!" comes back Miss. Devine, drawin' herself up and
presentin' him with a glance that's colder than a dollar's worth of ice.
"I--I--said good morning!" stammers Adams, kinda flustered.
"You have made a mistake, my man!" she says, each word bein' about
twenty below zero. "A mistake I shall report to your master. I--"
"But--," begins Adams, gettin' red. "You--"
"That will do!" she cuts him off. "I'm not in the habit of arguing
with servants. You may go!"
Sweet cookie!
The poor kid looks like he'd stopped one with his chin and for the
first time since I'd seen him, he straightens up with his hard, white
face fairly quiverin'. I thought he was ready for a peach of a
come-back, but he fooled me. He walks off without a word.
Miss Devine laughs like a kid with a new rattle and snaps her fingers
after him.
The next day, Duke is directin' a scene in a big thriller they're
puttin' on and Miss Devine is appearin' in it as a super at his orders.
She's wearin' enough jewels to free Ireland and she looked better than
1912 would look to Germany. Adams is standin' on one side with his
arms full of De Vronde's different changes.
Duke looks at Miss Devine for a minute and then raises his voice.
"Say--you!" he bawls at her. "What's the matter, can't you hear? You
made that exit wrong four times runnin', d'ye think we get this film
for nothin'? What d'ye mean by comin' here and ruinin' this scene on
me, eh? You wanna be a movie star, they tell me--well, you got the
same chance that I have of bein' made Sultan of Turkey! If you can
act, I'm King of Shantung! Why--"
Miss Devine gasps and looks more than ever like a rose, by turnin' a
deep and becomin' shade of red. Nobody pays any attention to the
thing. They'd all heard it a million times before, when Duke was
rehearsin' supers.
Nobody but Adams!
He drops all of De Vronde's clothes right on the floor, and I thought
the fair Edmund would faint away dead! Adams walks right through the
camera men up to Duke and swings him around while he's still bawlin'
out Miss Devine.
"That's enough!" he snarls, white to the ears. "One more word to this
lady, and I'll knock you down! You hound--you wouldn't dare use that
language to a man!"
Duke's eyes sparkle, but he looks Adams over coolly and sneers.
"Curse you, Jack Dalton!" he says. "Unhand that woman, or you shall
feel my power, eh?" He sticks his chin close to Adams's face. "Take
the air!" he growls. "Where d'ye get that leadin' man stuff? If I see
you around here any more this afternoon, I'll fire you and you'll walk
home for all the money you'll draw from this man's firm. Now, beat it!"
Adams hesitates a minute, and then he looks like on second thought he's
scared at what he's done. He mumbles somethin' and walks right outa
the picture, nor even turnin' when De Vronde squawks at him for walkin'
over his silk duster which he'd throwed on the floor.
"That's all for now, ladies and gentlemen!" pipes Duke suddenly,
turnin' to the bunch. "I'll shoot the rest of this to-morrow."
They all blow out except Miss Devine. Duke looks at her, rubbin' his
hands together and grinnin'.
"All right!" she smiles back. "First honors! What will I do next?"
She didn't have to do nothin' next! The thing that Duke had started
got away from him and Adams led all the tricks from then to the finish.
Duke told me afterwards he felt like a guy which has lit a match on
Lower Broadway and seen the Woolworth Buildin' go up in flames!
The very next afternoon, Mister Jack Adams becomes a star. Yes, sir!
A gang of supers is hangin' around the general offices waitin' for
their pay. De Vronde and Miss Devine is sittin' at a cute little table
under a tree drinkin' lemonade, and Adams is standin' with the supers,
watchin'--Miss Devine.
"Look at that big stiff tryin' to make the dame!" pipes one of the
extrys, a big husky grabbed up off the wharves in Frisco. He points at
De Vronde. "If I was built like he is, I'd eat arsenic!"
Adams walks over to him.
"Why?" he says, very cool and hard.
"Heh?" says the super. "Why, look at 'im. Lookit the lace shirt he's
wearin' and them pink socks. Why--"
"Shut up!" snarls Adams. "I know your kind--you think because a man
bathes, shaves, speaks English and wears clean linen, that there's
something wrong with him! You roughnecks resent the--"
"Well, I'd hate to be the family that brung that up!" interrupts the
super. "Gawd! It makes a man sick to look at 'im!"
It all happened so quick that even Miss Devine and De Vronde didn't get
it. They's just a sudden swish--a crack of bone meetin' bone, and the
big super is flat on his ear! The rest of the gang mills around,
shoutin' and yellin', and Adams prods the super with the toe of his
shoe. I see Duke runnin' over with a couple of camera men which is so
excited they've even brought their machines along.
"Listen!" spits out Adams, bendin' over the fallen gladiator. "Don't
make any more remarks like that about--about Mister De Vronde, while
I'm in this camp! If you do, I'll hammer you to mush! If you don't
believe that, get up now and I'll illustrate it!"
The super plays dead, and Adams turns away.
By this time, Miss Devine and De Vronde, on the outskirts of the mob,
has seen some of it.
"Really," says De Vronde, frowning "you'll have to stop this brawling,
Adams! I can't have my man--"
Adams gives him the up and down.
"Aw, shut up!" he snarls--and blows.
Well, right now I'm a million miles up in the air and no more
interested in the thing than the bartenders was in final returns of the
prohibition vote. They's two things I can't figure at all. One of 'em
is why Adams should knock a man kickin' for roastin' De Vronde, who
didn't have a friend in the place, and the other is what Duke and them
camera men is doin' there.
About a week blows by, and then Miss Devine rides out alone one mornin'
on a big white stallion. In a hour the horse trots into camp with the
saddle empty. For the next twenty minutes they's more excitement in
and about Film City than they was at the burnin' of Rome, but while
Duke is gettin' up searchin' parties, Adams has cranked up Miss
Devine's roadster and is a speck of dust goin' towards Frisco.
It was around five o'clock that afternoon, when he comes back and Miss
Devine is sittin' beside him. Her ankle is all bound up with
handkerchiefs and Adams is drivin' very slow and careful. He stops and
then turns to help her outa the car, but she dodges his arm, steps down
all by herself and without any sign of a limp, walks into the general
offices.
Adams stands lookin' after her for a minute, kinda stunned.
"What was the matter?" I asks him, runnin' up.
"Why," he says, without lookin' at me; "she broke--she said she broke
her ankle. She--"
Then he turns and runs the car into the garage.
The next mornin' he quits!
Duke broke the news, comin' over to Miss Devine, while I'm tellin' her
how Kid Scanlan clouted his way up to the title.
"Well, Miss Devine," he growls, "I guess you win! Adams has left Film
City flat on its back. I thought that bird had the stuff in him, but I
guess you saw deeper than I did!"
"I guess I did!" says Miss Devine kinda slow. "I knew he'd never stay."
Duke clears his throat a coupla times, blows his nose and wipes his
forehead with a silk handkerchief--his only dissipation.
"And now I got a confession to make," he says, throwin' back his
shoulders like he's bracin' himself for a punch. "Ever since the day I
played you against Adams, I been takin' a movie of you and him. Every
time you was together they was a camera man--and a good one--in the
offin'. You didn't know it and neither did Adams, but the result is a
peach of a movie that'll make us a lot of money, if you'll let me
release it. All I need is a couple more close-ups and--"
Miss Devine has been listenin' like she was in a trance. She turned
more colors than they is in the flag, and, lemme tell you, they all
become her!
"You--you--made a picture out of our--out of--me?" she gasps.
Whatever else Eddie Duke is, he's game.
"Yeh!" he nods. "And wait till you see it--it's great! Why, you got
Pickford lookin' like a amateur, and Adams will be a riot with the
girls the minute this movie's released! I wanted to prove to you that
the movies ain't got a thing on real life, and I did! Why Adams can
sign a contract with me any time he wants. That's makin' good, ain't
it? From valet to movie star in five reels--and who put him over?
_You_!!!"
Before Miss Devine can say anything, we hear voices behind us. We're
standin' by a high hedge that had been set up for a picture that
mornin', and it was Miss Devine that motioned us to keep quiet. The
voices on the other side are Adams and De Vronde.
"I've done my share!" De Vronde is sayin'. "I've been sending home--"
"Eighty dollars a month!" cuts in Adams, in that new, cold voice of
his. "Eighty dollars a month to your father and mother, and you're
making a thousand a week. Eighty dollars a month, and you pay a
hundred and fifty for a suit! It's hard for me to call you a brother
of mine! Do you know why I whipped that bum the other day? For what
he said about you? No! Because I didn't want it thought that the
whole family was as yellow as you are! But I'm going to make you game.
You're going to turn what money you've hoarded over to Dad."
We're all lookin' at each other--dumb-founded! Even Duke is pale and
pop-eyed.
"By the Eternal, Miss Devine," he whispers in her ear. "I swear I
didn't know _that_! It don't happen in real life, eh? _Brothers_--by
the dust of Methuselah!"
De Vronde is speakin', and we bend to listen.
"I can't!" he chokes out. "Why, I'll--"
We hear Adams snort.
"Stop!" he says. "You can make more money than I can and make Ma and
Dad comfortable for the rest of their days. I'm going--"
"About that girl--that Miss Devine," De Vronde breaks in, his voice
shaking "It's only right that you should know. She's made an ass of
you--she and that Duke person! You've been followed about and
everything you've done has been recorded by a camera. She had no
accident the other day--her ankle wasn't hurt--the horse was sent back
with the empty saddle deliberately--they photographed that, too! They
had a silly bet of some sort and--"
Miss Devine steps deliberately right around the side of the hedge
almost into Adams's arms. He's white and lookin' much like he did the
first day he blowed into Film City. The minute he sees her he
straightens up.
"How long have you been here?" he clips out.
"I've heard--everything!" she says, lookin' him right in the eye.
Adams runs his hand through his hair, and pulls a look that went
through me to the bone. I don't know how it hit Miss Devine.
"And all of this--this--your attitude toward me--the accident--was
played to make a picture?" he says.
"Yes!" says Miss Devine. "All except _this_!" And I hope I never see
another movie, if both her arms didn't go around his neck--right out
loud in public, too! "All except _this_!" she repeats. "And, oh,
Jack--this is _real_!!"
"I win a thousand bucks!" pants Duke, draggin' me away--De Vronde blew
the minute she appeared on the scene--"I win a thousand bucks!" he
says. "And the picture is gonna be a riot! If they was only a good
camera man here now for that close up at the finish, eh? Still--I
guess that would be too raw!" He looks back where Adams and Miss
Devine is posin' for a picture of still life. "And she said this love
stuff was the bunk!" he hollers. "Oh, boy!!!!"