MAKING HIS WAY
Dave felt as if he was in some unreal, topsy-turvy dream. Everything was
like a Wild West picture, and he closed his eyes wondering if his fall
and roll down the side of the ravine had not sent his wits astray.
The fling of the tomahawk he saw was real, so was the sharp report of
the gun. Above all, the heavy foot pressing down on his body and holding
him motionless was tangible.
Dave opened his eyes as the foot was suddenly removed, to view an
amazing spectacle. The “Indian” had taken out a pipe and was leisurely
filling it. The “hunter” had picked up the “tomahawk”, which had struck
a piece of rock and split open, showing that it was made of papier
mache. Across the ravine the young man had risen to his feet and was
yawning and stretching, and the young lady walked away putting up her
parasol.
“Mind yourself, now,” spoke the owner of the foot that held Dave a
prisoner, and he reached down, grasped the boy by the arm and set him on
his feet.
“I say!” gasped Dave vaguely—“what is this?”
“Moving picture,” replied the man briefly.
“Yes, it moved quick enough,” said Dave slowly. “Oh, I see now,” he
added, as, a step advanced, he came in view of several persons near two
automobiles down the valley, and in their midst a camera.
It was all plain to Dave in a moment. The persons he saw were acting out
a motion picture. He had heard of these groups before. In the present
instance they had selected a pretty natural spot as a framework for
their acting. Dave had stumbled upon them at a moment when a
particularly thrilling drama was in progress.
“Come on with us,” spoke the man who had played the Indian, looking Dave
over curiously. “We’re going to have lunch, and if you’ll carry my traps
down to the camp you shall have a snack.”
“Thank you,” replied Dave, greatly interested in the group, and nothing
loth to accepting the invitation.
The man had motioned to a spot under a near tree where a satchel lay. It
was open and he closed it, but not before Dave saw that it was filled
with his acting wardrobe.
Dave followed after the two men. They soon reached the first automobile.
Here a man, apparently the chauffeur and general utility man, was
placing food on a piece of canvas spread on the ground as a tablecloth.
Nobody paid any attention to Dave, who set down the satchel as directed.
The chauffeur had a large, well-filled hamper beside a tree stump which
served for a table. Dave went up to him.
“Can’t I help you, mister?” he asked pleasantly.
“Why, yes, you can,” was the prompt response. “It’s pretty rushing
around here when the people get hungry.”
Dave under direction set seven wooden plates and as many paper napkins
on the impromptu table. He sliced up two long loaves of bread, carried
the cold meat and fruit to the table, and went to a spring nearby to
fill a big tin pail with cool, sparkling water.
A young man wearing glasses, and smart looking and brisk, seemed to be
the manager. He beckoned Dave and the chauffeur to join the family
party. Dave enjoyed the liberal meal immensely. He was interested and
entertained with the continuous chatter of the group about him.
“What’s the programme, Mr. Alden?” asked the big fellow who had acted
the Indian.
The man addressed took a roll of manuscript out of his pocket. He
separated the sheets and passed one around to each of the party.
“There’s your parts,” he said. “Scenario: ‘The Ruined Mill’.”
“I don’t see any mill,” observed the man who had played the hunter,
looking up and down the ravine.
“Two miles farther on, according to my directions,” explained the leader
of the party, consulting his note book.
Dave was so interested that he planned that he would linger with the
group till he had seen how they made a moving picture film. When one of
the crowd whom they called Davis moved away from the table and went to
the intricate outfit near the wagon, Dave unobtrusively followed him. He
was engrossed in watching the process of “loading up” the film reels,
when the manager came up.
“See here, Davis,” he said in his jerky, energetic way, “we’ll have to
get busy if we expect to cover the programme in daylight.”
“I told you that myself,” was the retort.
“I’ve waited two hours for Banks now.”
“He’s got delayed somehow.”
“The only bother is the rescue of the heroine in the mill race.”
“Cut that act out, then.”
“Why, it’s the thriller of the scene. No, I can’t do that. None of the
fellows can swim, though, and I don’t see what we are going to do.”
Dave fancied he understood the situation. In an eager way he pressed
forward.
“Mr. Alden,” he said, “can’t I be of some help to you?”
“Hey, what?” exclaimed the man, looking Dave over. “A boy? But then—look
here, can you swim?”
“Like a fish.”
“Then you’ll do. Why, this is big luck. Hi, Dollinger, start up the
machines. It’s wasting time waiting for Banks any longer.”
Dave got into the smaller automobile after the traps lying about had
been packed into it. The others boarded the larger and more elegant
machine. They went a roundabout way to strike a traversed road, and in
about an hour came to the stream again.
It was where an old abandoned mill stood. Mr. Alden gave Dave one of the
acts of the “Scenario”, as he called it. He explained to Dave what he
was to do.
“Put on this suit,” directed the manager, selecting some clothing from a
big box. “Better wear a wig and whiskers, so you’ll look more like a
man. These moccasins will fit your feet. Now, you understand, when the
villain pushes the heroine into the mill stream, you are to act your
part. Just follow the cues in your typewritten screed there.”
“All right,” reported Dave promptly, “I think I know what you wish me to
do.”
It was like watching a play, the various scenes that were enacted inside
and outside of the old mill, all forming part of a very interesting
story. As it neared its end, Dave took a fishing rod, as directed, and
seated himself on the bank of the stream a few yards from the mill.
At the sound of a whistle he glanced at the mill, arose, dropped his
fishing pole, tore off his coat, and took a plunge into the water,
throwing his arms up in the air and floating down the swiftly rolling
stream. The heroine came floating into view.
She splashed around and seemed about to sink as Dave reached her. He
caught her, swam for the shore, and both went off to change their
dripping attire.
“You did that very well,” said Mr. Alden in a kindly tone, coming up to
Dave some minutes later. “You can keep those moccasins if you like,” he
went on. “And here’s your pay for helping us.”
The speaker handed Dave a dollar bill. There had been considerable of a
fascination to the little business part Dave had played. He would not
have been sorry if Mr. Alden had offered him continued employment. The
latter forgot him in a moment, however, bustling about and directing the
others, who piled into the big automobile.
“You had better wait here about an hour, Dollinger,” he spoke to the man
who attended to the rough work of the party.
“All right, sir.”
“Banks may come along. If he does, fetch him on to Fairfield.”
“What’s that!” said Dave with sharp interest to Dollinger. “Is the party
going to Fairfield?”
“Yes, that’s next on the route, I understand,” answered Dollinger.
“Say,” broke in Dave eagerly, “I don’t suppose you could crowd me into
your machine and take me that far?”
“Why not?” quizzed Dollinger, good naturedly.
“I’ll help you double work, if you could,” persisted Dave.
“That’s where you’re headed for, is it?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Well, you’re welcome to a seat in the machine. I like your company,”
observed Dollinger cheeringly.
Both of them bustled about getting the traps of the party stowed into
the most convenient compass. After that Dollinger waited an additional
hour for the man Mr. Alden expected.
“I reckon we’ve filled orders,” said Dollinger finally. “It looks like
rain, and if we expect to reach Fairfield before dark we had better make
a move.”
A storm overtook them ten miles on their way. They were, however, then
on a good road, and found shelter in a wayside shed. There was still
further delay when the auto broke down in a deep rut. Dollinger had to
send Dave on to the near village to bring a repair man to the scene.
It was about dusk when they started again. While the man was making
repairs Dollinger and Dave ate their supper.
“There are the lights of Fairfield, I guess,” spoke Dollinger, as they
drove down a well ballasted road. “Mr. Alden and his people have gone to
a hotel, and I will have to call on him for directions as to where I am
to put up. I generally rough it this fine weather.”
The rain had ceased, but a fierce wind was blowing, the sky was
overcast, and altogether it was a disagreeable evening. Dollinger
located the hotel where Mr. Alden was stopping. He went in and shortly
came out with a card in his hand.
“All right,” he reported, “I know where to go to.”
Dave’s plans were half formed in his mind. He was delighted to realize
that he had reached Fairfield so readily—that, too, he congratulated
himself, with comfortable footwear and over a dollar in his pocket. Of
course his first thought was of Mr. King, the airman. Dave reflected,
though, that a dark night in a strange town was not a condition favoring
a search for a stranger. He was pretty well tired out, and he kept with
Dollinger, hoping something might turn up that would give him a free bed
for the night.
Dollinger ran the automobile quite out of the city. Finally he lined the
fence of some kind of an enclosure. Dave noticed that it was of
considerable extent, but in the dark, he could not make out exactly what
it was.
They at length reached a wide gateway. Outside of it was a small
building resembling a switchman’s shanty. There was a light inside of it
and an old man moving about.
Dollinger stopped the automobile, leaped out and knocked at the door of
the building. He showed the card to the man inside who read it, seemed
to give some directions to Dollinger, and then came out and unlocked the
gate.
He locked it shut again when the automobile had entered the enclosure.
Dollinger drove across an open space, reversed, and backed into one of a
series of low sheds with the front open and exposed to wind and weather.
“Now then,” he said to Dave, “we’re housed for the night. Want to stay
with me?”
“It will save me the price of a lodging somewhere else,” explained Dave.
“You’ve earned a sure one here,” declared Dollinger. “Nothing like the
pure open air for health. I’ll rig you up a shakedown that will please
you, I’ll guarantee.”
Dollinger was as good as his word. He spread blankets over the roomy
seats of the automobile, and Dave voted he had never welcomed a more
pleasant resting place.
Dave slept like a top. It was broad daylight when he awoke. For a moment
he forgot where he was. Just as he arose Dave gave a jump, a gasp and a
cry.
Gazing out through the open front of the shed Dave saw a dazzling object
cavorting swiftly above the ground.
“An airship!” shouted Dave Dashaway in a transport of delight.
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