BREAKERS AHEAD
“It looks bad, Jim! Bad! Anyway you figure it, the result is the
same. A financial smash and the sort of failure that doesn’t do your
reputation any good in the motion picture business!”
Mr. Hammond was seated in the offices of the Alectrion Film
Corporation in conclave with one of his close business associates,
James McCarty.
The latter was a jolly red-faced Irishman with an habitual smile
wreathing his wide, good-humored mouth. Just now the smile was not in
evidence, in consequence of which James McCarty bore a rather close
resemblance to a sorrowing kewpie.
Mr. Hammond’s own usually cheerful ruddy countenance was grave and
he puffed absently at his cigar, now and then beating a nervous
tattoo with his fingers on the edge of his desk. Even without the
confirmation of his words it could be seen that the head of the
Alectrion Film Corporation was in a state of extreme agitation.
“Anyway you figure it the thing looks bad,” he repeated unhappily.
“Wish I could disagree with you,” said McCarty, with a rueful shake
of his head. “But I can’t and still keep my reputation for tellin’
the truth. You’ve had a streak of bad luck that’s uncanny, that’s
what I call it.”
“And I’d call it something worse than that,” retorted Mr. Hammond
grimly. “There’s the best director I ever had deserting me just at
the most critical time and going over to the enemy. I tell you, I’d
have thought twice about sinking so much cash in ‘The Girl of Gold’
if I hadn’t depended on Baxter to put it across strong.”
“Davidson would have been your next best bet,” said McCarty
mournfully, with a hard pull at his cigar. “I’ve often said he was
pretty near as good as Baxter.”
“Yes, and what does he do just at this time?” demanded Mr. Hammond
bitterly. “Goes and gets typhoid fever, which puts him out of the
picture—literally—for months to come——”
“And you under contract to produce ‘The Girl of Gold’ in six months,”
finished McCarty.
“Aren’t you the fine old comforter!” said Mr. Hammond, a touch of
humor playing about the grim lines of his mouth. “You might just as
well pronounce a death sentence over my forty thousand dollars.”
“Well, it isn’t my fault,” McCarty pointed out, reasonably enough.
“I’m just contributing my little share to the gloomin’ party you
started yourself.” For a moment his grin flashed out, making him look
less like a mournful kewpie. His face sobered almost immediately,
however, as he added: “Anyway, I’m not sayin’ a thing but the truth.”
“Don’t I know it!” retorted Mr. Hammond, the lines of worry furrowed
deep in his face. “If only I could have kept Gordon we might have
inched through some way, though he isn’t nearly as competent as the
other two. But now that he’s starting for Europe——”
“You couldn’t blame him though,” McCarty broke in. “It’s his father
that’s dying and you couldn’t have much respect for the lad if he
didn’t rush to the old man’s side.”
“Who’s blaming him?” retorted Mr. Hammond irritably. “Have I said a
word against him? The only one who is really to blame,” he added with
a grim tightening of his mouth, “is that man Baxter. And some day I’m
going to have the extreme satisfaction of telling him what I think of
him!”
There was a short pause while both men thought uncomfortably of the
gloomy future.
Suddenly Mr. Hammond looked up, and there was a new note in his voice
as he said quietly:
“Jim, there’s just one little twinkling light in all the gloom.”
McCarty gazed at him with interest.
“And would you mind tellin’ me what that is?” he requested.
Mr. Hammond leaned across the desk, his steady gaze holding McCarty’s.
“Jim, I think there is one person who can pull our fat out of the
fire—if she will!”
“‘She’?” repeated McCarty, bewildered. “And now who have you in mind?”
“Miss Fielding,” the other replied quietly. “If I could get her to
direct this picture—I feel sure she could do it with credit to every
one concerned!”
McCarty considered and gradually his expression became less mournful.
A ray of hope shone through his clouds of depression. Suddenly he
leaned forward, bringing his big fist down on the table with a
decisive thump.
“Say, I bet you’ve struck the right lead, old man!” he cried. “That
girl can swing it if anybody can. Look at the work she has done
already!”
“Tremendous!” cried Mr. Hammond, delighted at his friend’s
enthusiasm. “Her last pictures are going across like wild fire. She’s
on her way not only to fame, but wealth.”
“Yeah—that’s just it!” McCarty’s clouds of depression descended
again, almost as black as before. “What makes you think she is going
to step aside from her own business just to help us out of a jam?
Don’t sound reasonable. Not human nature—movin’-picture-business
human nature, anyway. No, old man, wake out of your pleasant little
dream. She’d never do it. Wouldn’t be reasonable to ask her to.”
Mr. Hammond remained thoughtfully silent for a moment or two. Then he
looked at McCarty and smiled.
“I’m not so sure you’re right, Jim. As you say, the motion-picture
business is more or less of a cutthroat proposition—but then, so is
all business, for that matter. But I believe that there are some
individuals in the game who are unselfish enough to reach out a hand
to a comrade in distress. I’m pretty sure—and I’ve known her for a
long time—that Miss Fielding is one of these.”
Still McCarty shook his head dubiously.
“That little lady is running too strong on her own. You’ll never get
her to do it, never in the wide, wide world!”
It was only a short time after this conference that another took
place in the office of the Alectrion Film Corporation. Several of Mr.
Hammond’s associates were present, among them the dubious Mr. James
McCarty.
They were all there sitting in solemn conclave when Ruth Fielding
breezed in with Tom. “Breezed” was exactly the right word for the
manner of her entrance, for Ruth’s rosy face and bright eyes seemed
to bring with them a breath of the spring day. There was one among
the men who saw her at that moment who straightway made a mental note
that Ruth Fielding was far too good looking to be the clever business
woman they made her out to be. Good looks, in this gentleman’s
estimation, did not usually go with brains.
All unconscious of this estimate of herself, Ruth nodded pleasantly
to those in the office she knew; then put out her hand to Mr. Hammond.
The latter greeted her cordially and the next moment grasped Tom’s
hand in a firm grip. The two men were great friends, yet now Mr.
Hammond did not disguise from himself that it was Tom’s negative that
he really feared to this proposition he was about to put to Ruth. He
knew, as most people knew who had come into intimate contact with the
young people, that Tom had been very patient and had waited a long
time for Ruth to “name the day.” And he could not but wonder now and
with a good deal of trepidation just how Tom Cameron would view a
proposition that meant inevitably another postponement of his hopes.
Ruth had a very genuine affection for Tom, he felt sure, despite
her devotion to her career, and his attitude would unquestionably
influence her decision.
Small wonder then that the justly famous Mr. Hammond should show a
trace of nervous apprehension as he introduced the two young people
to his colleagues.
“Now sit down, all of you,” he said with a joviality that was just a
bit strained, “and I’ll outline my little proposition.”
“You said there was some trouble about your ‘Girl of Gold,’” Ruth
interpolated. “I was sorry to hear that.”
“There is trouble, quite serious trouble, Miss Ruth, as you will see
when I am done,” said Mr. Hammond gravely. “Luck has turned her back
on us completely as producers of ‘The Girl of Gold,’ and you,” with a
quick smile, “appear to be our only hope!”
Ruth leaned forward with quickened breath. Just what did he mean by
that? She knew that Tom was watching her thoughtfully and felt a
sudden rush of compunction. Dear old patient Tom!
But Mr. Hammond was speaking, outlining for her as he had outlined
for McCarty a few days before conditions as they were at that time
with the Alectrion Film Corporation.
“The whole proposition, boiled down, amounts to this, Miss
Fielding,” Mr. Hammond concluded. “Because of a lack of first-class
directors we are literally on the rocks, as you can see, and we are
looking to you, selfishly, no doubt, to pull our fat out of the fire.”
Ruth drew a long breath and leaned back. Her cheeks were burning, but
her hands, clasped together in her lap, felt cold.
“Will you do it?” asked Mr. Hammond, and the other gentlemen,
including the dubious McCarty, leaned forward, staring at her.
“It—it’s a very great compliment you are all paying me,” Ruth
replied slowly. “I—I—” her voice trailed off and she looked at Tom
appealingly.
Tom had been deep in thought, but now his eyes met Ruth’s with an
understanding smile. His nod, though almost imperceptible, seemed to
raise a thousand-ton weight from the girl’s heart.
She turned to Mr. Hammond, the blood flaming to her face, her little
fist doubled up upon the table.
“Mr. Hammond,” she cried, with the light of battle in her eye, “I’ll
do it!”