MINNIE FLYNN marked off a date on the calendar that hung in the kitchen over the sink. It was October 24, 1914.
On that day, she began her career as a motion picture actress. She made three dollars and fifty cents as an extra girl at a moving picture studio in New Jersey, and signed the voucher slip, Mineola Flynn. All this, even to the Mineola, which lent some distinction to the commonplace name of Flynn, was inspired and arranged by Al Kessler.
On that memorable morning, when Mrs. Flynn came into her daughter's bedroom to awaken her at six o'clock, for the first time in her life Minnie sprang out of bed without protest. Mrs. Flynn had already put a quarter in the gas meter, so there was light to dress by. They moved around the room quietly so as not to awaken Nettie.
"I've got good coffee ready for you, Minnie dear," whispered Mrs. Flynn, "and some warmed-up beans."
"Lord, ma, how do you expect me to eat anything? I'm sick to my stummick right now with excitement."
Mrs. Flynn made a grimace of despair. "Look here, Minnie dear," she implored, "how can you act if you ain't got a good meal in you? Your pa went out and got them beans himself last night at the delicatessen. He says to me, 'Annie, don't let that child go out of this house, clean over to Jersey, without a good breakfast in her.' So the least you can do, Minnie, is to take a bit if only to please your father."
"All right, ma, dearie, but stop gabbin' about it. I've got to look good and there's no sense in gettin' me all worked up over a plate o' beans."
As she leaned to study herself in the piece of broken mirror, she noticed with fear the ravages of a wakeful night; puffs under her eyes and a dry pallor of her lips. "I'll need two cups o' coffee to steady myself," she said, turning to her mother. "Look at me, I'm a sight! My nerves is all on ends."
Mrs. Flynn, almost as feverish as Minnie, tried to convince her that it was only the overhead gaslight which threw the unbecoming shadows upon her face. "I wouldn't stand there worryin' about it. You'd better begin dressin' right away. Look, dear, I got everything ready for you."
On the chair beside the bed Minnie's suit had been carefully laid out (sponged and pressed the night before by her mother); her dotted Swiss shirtwaist (which Nettie had washed and ironed); and a pair of new tan gloves (Jimmie's contribution). Under the chair were Minnie's shoes (carefully polished by her father). Pete had done nothing, but Elsie came over the night before to loan Minnie her skunk scarf and the lace handkerchief which the girls in the Odds and Ends had given her for a wedding present.
After Minnie slipped off her nightgown she bathed her body, even her legs and feet, in a liberal sprinkling of Carnation Talcum Powder (Elsie also loaned her this accessory, which had been part of her trousseau). The powder gave forth a sickish sweet odor as it caked upon her moist flesh. Mrs. Flynn, who was starting out of the room to set the table so Minnie could have her breakfast served with some style, as befitting a motion picture actress, paused at the doorway and watched her daughter. She spoke with some concern: "You're sure you're tellin' us the truth, Minnie, about goin' to get a job in the movies, and not—not"
"What's eatin' you, ma? What do'you think I'm goin' to do?"
"All these preparations, Minnie. I thought—maybe"
Minnie's explosive laughter awakened Nettie who raised her crumpled face from the pillow and blinked stupidly. But she wasn't grouchy when she spoke to them. "What's so funny at this hour of the mornin'?" she asked, smothering her yawn.
"Ma's a scream, Net. Just because I'm puttin' on clean underwear in the middle of the week and some o' that talcum powder Els brought me, she thinks me and Al are goin' to run off and get married."
"I didn't say so, Minnie Flynn!"
"Well, you looked it anyhow. And you certainly hinted at it. Where d'you put my new stockings, ma?"
"There in the other room, dearie, I was showing 'em to your pa last night. He thought they was somethin' swell."
"Sure they are," Minnie answered casually, setting the can of talcum back on the washstand and reaching for her shirt. "Al's got good taste. He wouldn't buy a girl nothin' that wasn't up to snuff. Al's not that kind of a fellow. He would of bought me two pair, if I'd of let him."
"They don't look as if they'd last very long, Minnie, they're so thin. I wish I could put a darn in the heels for protection."
"Oh, ma, what's the use of havin' something new if you fix 'em up to look old and wore before you've even had 'em on? Of course I won't. Do you suppose if I undress before a lot of stuck-up acktresses, like Al said I would, that I'd want 'em to see that I got darned stockings on, the first crack out of the box?"
"I should say not!" Nettie chimed in. "Minnie's perfectly right, ma. Just as Al says, you got to put on a little side to make people respect you."
"Well, you know how it worked out, even with Al," came Minnie to the rapid-fire defense. "I'll bet if we didn't have that chicken stew the night Al come to dinner, and if you and pa hadn't got out your best clothes and Nettie fixed up her hair, he'd never have stuck around me the way he done, and seen to it that I was put on the right track of earnin' a lot o' money."
Money.
That is what had changed the attitude of the whole family toward Minnie. Al Kessler told them that if ever a girl stood a chance of making good in the movies, it was Minnie. He had been around the studios long enough to know how well her features would photograph. He'd get her into that line of work and he was willing to bet (yes, he'd put up real money if any of them wanted to take him up on it) that Minnie, inside of three months, would be earning no less than fifty dollars a week.
Fifty dollars a week!
Minnie, though still in a daze, could remember well the expressions on the faces of her family when Al's fist had pounded out the dazzling sum upon the dining room table. He had concluded with: "Maybe I'm wrong about the fifty bucks a week. But I believe in being conservative. That's the kind of a fellow I am, not given to exaggeration. But I know girls who haven't one half of Minnie's looks" (Minnie blushed and glanced shyly over at the mirror to arrange a stray lock of hair) "that are making today in the moving picture business close to one hundred dollars a week!"
"One hundred dollars a week! Oh, my God!" It staggered Michael Flynn. He repeated the sum several times to himself with the credulity of a child frightened though intrigued by the gross exaggeration of a fairy story.
"Why, that's nothing, Mr. Flynn," said Al easily, "there are actresses in this business that get as high as a thousand a week. I don't know whether it's true or not, but they tell me that Mary Pickford gets twice that much."
"Gets twice that much!" echoed Michael Flynn, slapping his hands together helplessly. "You can't clear that much a year on a good plumbing business the way things are now. Just think of it. Two thousand dollars. I'll have to tell that new pipe fitter down to our place all about it. Annie, what'll you bet he won't believe me?"
Minnie silenced her father with a look, but his head kept wagging foolishly as he leaned back to listen to further revelations.
Al told them about his own prospects. A clever young juvenile like himself would some day be earning several hundred a week, owning his own car, his own apartment, an extensive wardrobe, including an overcoat with a sealskin collar, gold cigarette cases and a large ring with a diamond set in the yawning mouth of a tiger. It was only a matter of getting in right with one of the directors, or casting directors, or backers of the company, he said. No one in the Flynn family knew what he was talking about, but they wouldn't for anything in the world show their ignorance by asking him to repeat or to explain anything.
He sat with his chair tilted back, his feet on the rungs of Mrs. Flynn's chair, while he talked persuasively. What a striking figure he was in that drab little hole of a room, Minnie thought, as she looked at him through half-closed eyes. He wore a high belted checked suit, a red tie and spats. True, Minnie blushed when she first looked out of the window and saw him coming down the street, but it was from fear and not from shame. Rotten neighborhood. Hundreds of dirty, fresh little brats of kids. They had formed a procession and were marching after Al, surrounding him, yelling and gesticulating. For half a block Al pretended that he didn't see them. He walked, his head up, his eyes straight before him as if the street were entirely clear and he was happily alone. But by the time he reached the doorway of The Central he was mobbed by the children. Their voices rose in such uproar that Minnie's warning threats, as she called from the window, were not heard by them. She saw Al peppered with wads of paper, stones and beans from well-aimed slingshots as he struck right and left with his bamboo cane.
"Oh, you Lizzie-boy! Oh, you Boiled Shirt!" "Hey there, Percy" (pointing to the spats), "Your underdrawers is slippin' down." "Oh, you Minnie Flynn!"
The name "Minnie Flynn" rose from a hundred throats like the scream of a siren.
"Damn this neighborhood!" Minnie cried in her shame and humiliation. "Thank God, I got a chance to get away from it."
Al was so nice about it all. He said, without even raising his voice, "Well, what can you expect of those poor, ignorant little devils. I wouldn't hold that against 'em. I'm not that kind of a fellow, Mrs. Flynn. I might have been one of those little kids myself, without a chance."
Mr. Flynn dreaded Al's visits to his home; life was made very uncomfortable for him. He was forced to wear a collar, and keep on his shoes all evening. So it is quite natural that at first he showed a definite dislike for Al. He spoke only once during the first dinner and that was to ask who took care of the plumbing for the movies.
Al laughed as if Mr. Flynn had said something very funny, but as Minnie mentioned it later to her family, Al passed it off like a gentleman by completely ignoring her father's stupidity.
Michael Flynn then lapsed into silence until Al began to talk about Minnie's chances in the motion picture business. He listened in, first credulous; then, a little resentful. He was surprised to see that already his wife and Nettie were trembling with eagerness as they stared at Minnie while Al pointed out her charms; stared as if they were conscious of her existence for the first time.
"Of course I don't expect you to see it right away," Al cried with enthusiasm, "but look at Minnie's nose!"
"What's the matter with her nose?" asked Nettie while her mother took off her glasses, wiped the lens, put them on again and leaned more closely to make a complete survey of Minnie's features.
"It's Grecian!"
"There ain't a drop o' Greek blood in our veins," said Mr. Flynn with a quiver of indignation. "Only foreign blood is on her mother's side. The rest of us is pure Irish."
"Mama's ma was French," said Nettie.
"But thank God her pa was born in Cork. I don't believe much in mixed races. Am I right, Annie?"
Al paid no attention to Mr. Flynn. "Her nose will be something wonderful on the screen. So straight, and yet it gives the impression that it tips up a little bit. Sassy, that's the word."
Laughter.
"Her eyes"
"Would her hair look red in the movies?" interrupted Mrs. Flynn, eager to have the interest move to her for a moment.
"Of course not," answered Al, casting a pitying glance at Mrs. Flynn. (Minnie saw that her mother's ignorance was a constant source of annoyance to him.) "Red photographs jet black on the screen."
"But how can her hair photograph black if it's red?" persisted Mrs. Flynn.
Minnie smiled, drawing Al's attention to her, while her right foot reached under the table to her mother's shin. "You started to tell me something about my eyes, Al," she said, "when you was interrupted—as usual."
"Gee, honey, your eyes would look like pansies on the screen. They're so big and dark and soft. I tell you, Minnie, for your own good, you're a fool not to try to break into the game. As I said before, why slave at a rotten job for—for"
"Nine dollars a week," Minnie supplied hesitatingly. "That's slavery all right, ain't it?"
"It's, well—" answered Al, "if you'll excuse my French, it's just plain hell."
Nettie's pendulous underlip drooped until her face looked like a grinning mask. She rested her chin in the palms of her hands and stared long and earnestly at Minnie.
"So you're pretty sure that Minnie can make a lot o' dough?" she asked.
Al nodded.
"Think of it! Min makin' fifty dollars a week!"
"Probably a hundred, some day. Fifty may only be a starter."
"God, what luck that kid runs into. What did I tell you, Min, only the other day? Born with a horseshoe in your mouth, that's what I said you was."
"Maybe," Minnie said laconically, as she gave her polished nails a final touch-up by rubbing them on the edge of the table. "You can't tell how far I'll go in the movies once I get started."
"No, you can't," echoed Al, "and what's more I'm not going to leave a stone unturned until I see you on your way."
The following Saturday, Minnie gave notice to the manager of the basement that he must find some other girl to take her place.
Al Kessler met Minnie at the Fort Lee Ferry and they caught the seven-thirty boat to Jersey. As they stood in the prow of the boat, the air was so crisp and invigorating that Minnie responded with sparkling life to the beauty of the morning.
White clouds dappled a brilliant blue sky. Great cobalt streamers shuttled across the gray green stretches of the water; long shafts of sunlight made high lights of emerald and cool silver. The flames of autumn had already died, but here and there upon the Jersey Palisades were trees that lay like glowing coals amid gray and blackening ashes.
She was sorry when the boat docked in the slip.
In the hubbub of landing, Al pressed close to her side, guiding her through the crowd, his arm around her shoulder in a proprietary manner. Many people, hurrying past, turned to smile at them. Evidently they were co-workers at Al's studio, because they called out greetings to him, casting sidelong glances at Minnie. When one of them winked at Al, she felt the pressure of his hand on her arm, drawing her closer to him. Embarrassed by his attentions, she tried to sidle away, wondering why it was that Al always seemed so much more familiar with her in public than when they were alone. He had never tried to make love to her, and there was nothing suggestive in his overtures. Minnie was wise enough to know that strangers would get a different impression of the situation; yet not wise enough to know that that was just what Al intended.
In the street car on the way to the studio, Al checked off his final instructions to Minnie. More important than anything else she mustn't let anyone know, especially the casting director, Sam Binns, that she had had no previous experience before a camera.
Minnie was yet to learn how dreaded the casting director is, for this man, though his power is primarily negative, is the stepping stone into the "movies."
"Well, little girl, here we are at last," said Al.
Minnie was disappointed in the studio. She wasn't quite sure how she had dreamed this money market would look, but she certainly hadn't expected to find, on a half-acre lot, a ramshackle, rambling old building with several newly added wings.
They passed through the Employees' Entrance, not unlike the one in the department store. Then they walked down a long dark hall until they came to the door of Sam Binns' office.
"You're here now," whispered Al, "don't be self-conscious, and don't make any slips. Sam's a shrewd little guy, and if he gets on to it that you're lying, he'll block your way into every other studio."
"Then why can't I tell him the truth?" Minnie's throat was so contracted that her voice was stifled and thin.
"My God, Min, do I have to go over all that with you again? No! You could have said you were a rank out-and-out amateur a year ago. But it's different now. They're sick of having people come to the studios that don't know anything about the game; that can't act or never saw a camera before. As Sam says, 'There's thousands of people come flocking to the studios every day looking to break into the movies.' He was up in Alaska during the gold rush, and in California when the oil gushers came in, and he says that people are always ready to stake anything on a gamble that lets them in on the ground floor of any get-rich-quick proposition."
Al was beating Minnie down by this rattle of talk, of which she understood little. She tried to silence him with a pressure of her trembling hand on his arm, but to no avail. "They come from every part of the world, he says, old folks and kids, bums, broken-down actors, and restless, married people all crazy to get into this game because they think they're going to dig a fortune out of it with no investment and very little effort."
"Oh, Al, for heaven's sake, shut up, or I'll have to go back. I can't stand it any longer. Let's go in there and get it over with."
Sam Binns had two offices; a large waiting room and his own private office where the aspirants were interviewed.
The waiting room was already filled with men and women of all ages and types, and pathetic, dowdy, overdressed children. Minnie and Al wandered around until they found a bench in one corner of the room, self-conscious because their entrance had attracted a little attention. But as soon as they were seated the others sank back and a deadly silence once more hung over the room. There they sat, their tense, eager eyes fastened upon the door leading into Binns' private office. The silence was broken only when the office boy opened the door and snapped: "Next!" Then they all bent automatically forward, their faces transfigured by mechanical smiles.
One by one they left the room, their ghastly, nervous smiles deepening as they reached the doorway of Binns' private office. No one ever returned through the waiting room, for the inner office contained two other doors. On one was the sign: "Stage and Dressing Rooms"; and on the other: "Exit."
The atmosphere depressed Minnie; the people's faces seemed so gray and colorless. In the overhead gas light they looked to her like sick people waiting at the Free Clinic for treatment. Even the children were unnatural, sitting there still and wan as wax figures. From time to time a mother would lean over, smooth out her child's dress, pat a spit-curl into place, or whisper instructions. Minnie wondered why the woman next to her repeated over and over again: "Smile pretty at Mr. Binns, darling. Mama'll give you a nice big piece of candy if you're a good little girl. Tell mama what you're going to say to Mr. Binns, Doris."
"Next!"
The mother and child left the waiting room. Before the open door closed again Minnie saw the little girl make an awkward curtsy and heard her say, "'Lo, Mr. Binns, I love 'oo." There followed a pretense of embarrassment from the mother as she playfully remonstrated with the child, but Minnie heard no response from Binns. "He must be a cold-blooded fish," she thought to herself.
"Next!"
An old man tottered into the office. Why, the mother and the child couldn't have been in there more than three minutes. Minnie wondered if that was all the time Binns was going to give her. She felt it hardly a fair test to any woman, though Minnie was certain that Binns would be attracted to her because she was pretty and would appear shy and modest. She would lower her lashes at him as she had done at Al the night she met him at the dance. Mentally she rehearsed every word and gesture. She couldn't fail. Binns was certainly a human being.
Sam Binns was a little man, impersonal, intense, and filled with the romance of reality. Most people, thinking him cynical and hard, feared him. His large dark eyes, schooled by his continual search, easily pierced the many shams presented to him, and he was left disappointed and impatient. He was considered cold, emotionless, without any enthusiasm; whereas, in reality, he was so much the slave of his emotions and enthusiasms when once they were aroused, that in self-defense he refused to let himself be drawn into a response that would trick and disillusion him. All about him in the picture business he saw men indulging in sham romance; false analysis colored to seem real; failure explained away or colored so as to seem success.
Al ushered Minnie into Binns' office. Before the steady, appraising glance of the little man, she forgot all her artifice, and sensed only a keen humiliation. Even Al's braggadocio manner flattened out, and he seemed almost as nervous as she when he introduced her. "Mr. Binns, I've brought a little friend of mine over here this morning. Had some experience, and I thought you'd be glad to give her a chance at this studio. It's her first visit here. She photographs very well as you can see for yourself."
"Name?" asked Binns without seeming to glance up.
"Miss Flynn," answered Minnie.
Binns leaned back in his chair, put his feet upon the desk, and tossed her a card. "Write it down," he said shortly.
"Write what?" asked Minnie, telescoping her words, "do you mean I'm to write my name?"
"Yes—in full."
Minnie wrote with a nervous, trembling hand: "Mineola Flynn."
"Fill out the address."
Minnie started to obey him. She reached to dip the pen in the ink. A huge blot pooled across the card.
Binns smiled.
"Shall I write another one?" Minnie asked, ashamed under his scrutiny.
"No, never mind." Then Binns slunk deeply into his chair and puffed at his cigarette for several moments before he asked her, completely ignoring what Al had said to him. "Had any experience?"
"Yes, sir."
"What studios?"
"The Biograph Studio, and once over to the Vitagraph Studio."
"Ever given a part to play?"
"Yes—no, sir. I'm an extra girl."
"I see you are."
Behind the mask of his disconcerting immobility, his keen, incisive mind built up this index: Features good. Eyes will screen well. Posture bad, but figure attractive. Hair negative, will go black and uninteresting. Vain and arrogant if she gets by. She's lying about the experience. But she's better than the average, has possibilities, no intelligence or ability, but if handled right could seem to have them all. She might be a bet, I'll let her get by.
While he was making these mental calculations the ticking of the clock irritated Minnie almost to the point of an hysterical outburst. It was a sudden let-down when he spoke again. "Who's going to help you make up?"
Al stepped forward with something of his familiar poise. "When she gets it on, I'll be glad to look her over, Mr. Binns."
"I thought so."
Al's shifty eyes narrowed at the sting of sarcasm, but he dared make no protest. "Miss Flynn's brought a dress along in case you can use her in the ballroom scene that Bacon is shooting today."
"You're a smart young fellow, Al, but you're a little premature. This time, however, I'll let you get away with it. Show her to Letcher. Tell him I O. K'd her."
He dismissed them with a wave of his hand.
"Burt, call the next one. No, wait a minute! Hal Deane 'phoned over for a woman to play an Irish mother. Got any Irish mothers out there?"
"Three or four of them might make up like it, sir. But Mrs. Riley's coming in this morning about nine."
"That's good, but we better play safe. I'll look the other women over while we're waiting."
He fixed his attention upon Al and Minnie who were still standing there. "What's the idea, Kessler?" he called out, annoyed. "Pick up your things and get out of here. You're cluttering up the office."
"But you told Miss Flynn to fill out the card," Al protested. "I thought you wanted her to do it now."
"Plenty of time for that," answered Binns. "We'll see how she gets along today. We may not even want her to fill out a card. Can't tell. Clear out of here! Can't you see I'm busy?"
Al opened the door marked, "Stage and Dressing Rooms", and Minnie left Binns' office without so much as turning back to cast him one of her luring glances. She realized that all efforts to attract Binns would meet with failure. But there was this comforting thought; he must have found her pretty, or perhaps clever, or he wouldn't have given her a chance. She completely discounted Al's introduction; she had seen too clearly how little stress Binns laid upon Al's recommendation.
The dimly lit circular stairway leading to the dressing rooms drummed under a hundred scurrying feet. The walls reverberated with inarticulate voices. Strange faces, stark and white in their make-up, leapt out of the darkness. An atmosphere of ghostly unreality prevailed. It seemed to Minnie as if she were rushing through the chaos of a grotesque nightmare.
They paused outside a door on which there was a sign reading: Extras. Female.
"Here's where you're to make your change," said Al, handing her the paper parcel containing her party dress.
"Come on in there with me," pleaded Minnie, dreading to face a new world of hostile strangers.
"I can't," whispered Al, "it's against the rules. Only the assistant directors are allowed in the dressing rooms. You go in, take your place at one of the tables in front of a mirror, and put the make-up on just the way I showed you. If you get stuck, ask the girl next to you. That is—but maybe you'd better not. You've got to be awful careful who you confide in. The place is full of stool-pigeons and I'm scared to death that Binns'll get on to you."
"What'll I do when I get the make-up on? Shall I come out in the hall again?"
"No, wait there until I get hold of Letcher. He'll go in and look you over. He's Bacon's assistant director."
"Is he anything like Binns?" asked Minnie.
"I should say not," laughed Al, "he's as soft as mush. Big fat slob, just as fresh as he can be but he don't mean anything by it. Put the works on him, and he'll fall for you like a ton of bricks."
"How will I know him when he comes in to see me?"
"You'll know him all right," answered Al. "He's so loudmouthed you can hear him a city block. But remember, Min, don't get sore if he puts his hands on you. He likes to squeeze the girls a little bit. But honest, honey, he don't mean anything by it. You'll get used to that around the studios, more or less."
"I hate a fresh guy."
"So do I, honey. That's why I'm putting you wise to everybody in the studio. Binns wouldn't fall for the Queen o' Sheba herself. Bacon's another one of those tough birds. Cold as halibut. Hal Deane—he's the crack director on the lot—he'll single a girl out every once in a while, but he's got to size 'em up a long time before he makes any advances."
Al paused to look at his watch. "You got about fifteen minutes to make up in, honey," he said, falling back into his old patronizing manner. "Now run along and get busy. Don't worry about anything. I'm here to see you through all right."
Al opened the door, gave her a last encouraging smile, then waved her into the dressing room.
The chitter-chatter of twenty girls stopped when Minnie walked among them, looking for an empty place at one of the tables. Afraid of betraying herself, she assumed an indifference which they interpreted as snippiness. She gave a casual nod to the few who looked up and smiled welcome. Then she found a vacant chair and sank down in it with a sigh of relief. She opened her paper parcel and took out the white dress, slippers and stockings. The girls exchanged glances; one pointed to the cheap little dress, another to the cotton lisle stockings, and a third to the slippers.
"Woolworth's," someone said, and a titter ran through the room.
Minnie went mechanically about the business of putting on the make-up, watching out of the corner of her eye the girl on her left. She rubbed off all her face powder with cold cream, and then applied the thick pinkish paste that Al had bought for her. She darkened her eyelids with a light green pencil. In her nervousness she did it all so jerkily that the only result was a distortion of her features.
The girl next to her had dipped her little finger in a pot of red grease and was making a Cupid's bow by covering her own thin lips. Forgetting Al's instructions that she was to follow only the lines of her mouth, which was small, curving up prettily at the corners, she imitated the girl at her left.
As she brushed out her hair (it was gloriously red and hung to her waist), she sighed, thinking of the sacrifice she must make for Art. How stupid she was to promise Al that she would braid her hair into two simple braids when with a little back ruffing she could transform it into twenty-one puffs.
Her face powdered, she undressed to her chemise. Just as she had taken off her stockings and shoes and was reaching for the white ruffled petticoat that went under the party dress, the door flew wide open and Letcher entered. His voice bellowed out, "Hello, girls!" as he slammed the door shut, and laughing, always laughing, walked in among them. Minnie uttered a cry of dismay and snatching her dress, held it up in front of her. Under the thick white paste she felt the burn of her blush.
But Letcher hadn't seen her. He had his arm around one of the girls, hugging her to him, while she squealed protests—though she seemed to make very little resistance. He let her go only to catch another whom he called "Baby Doll."
"Gee, Baby Doll, you look cute today," and his voice was muffled with laughter. "Give us a kiss, will you?"
"I'll give you a slap in the face," answered the girl, making no attempt to draw away from him. "Gee, you're fresh, Letcher, you're fresh as they make 'em."
"But I'm not a bad guy in spite of it, am I, Baby Doll?"
"No, you bet your sweet life you're not, Letcher. I'd rather have 'em rough like you than a little sneaky skunk like Warner."
Minnie was dismayed by Letcher's easy familiarity. When he walked down the aisle looking at their costumes, their make-up, he seemed scarcely aware that they were half-dressed. Minnie frantically slipped her petticoat over her chemise when his back was turned, but he spied her out before she was able to get into her dress.
"Well, look who's with us!" shouted Letcher, bellowing with laughter again. "Got a new cat in our alley. What's your name, sweetie?"
"Miss Flynn," Minnie answered as she made a screen of the white dress and the coat of her suit.
"Hell! What's the idea of the Lady Godiva stuff?" He reached over, caught the dress and pulled it away from her. "Say, listen, kid, I read once in a book that modesty is a bum figure. That needn't worry you."
Tears came to Minnie's eyes.
Letcher saw them. "Well, what do you know about that?" His smile suddenly collapsed and an expression of blank dismay took its place. "Well, I'll be—" and he turned defensively to the girls—"What do you know about that?" he repeated with heavy scorn. "I've insulted her! Come on, girls, tell her that she needn't be afraid of me, that I was only kiddin' her."
"Hand me my dress," Minnie demanded, "I'm going to get out of here!"
The girls, whose antagonism had been aroused by Minnie's indifferent manner, laughed uproariously. Their laughter branded her with hot irons. She dropped to her knees, holding her hands in front of her breasts, which were only half hidden by the low-cut chemise.
"Aw, come now, kiddie." There was a ring of sincerity in Letcher's voice. "The girls will all tell you that I didn't mean anything by it. It's just my way. I'm kind of rough, but that's as far as it goes."
He handed back her dress and turned away so she would no longer be embarrassed. Minnie picked up the towel and started to wipe off the make-up. Try as hard as she could to control them, the tears rolled down her cheeks. The girl who had been sitting next to her leaned over and whispered: "I guess you don't know much about studio life or you wouldn't be so upset by a little thing like that. Come on now, don't be unhappy. You're a pretty kid and you don't want to take this first disappointment too hard. If you don't mind, I'd like to help you with your make-up."
Minnie buried her head in her arms. When she looked up again the tears were gone; her jaw was set. In her face the girl next to her read a keen determination to see it through.
A few moments later, Letcher returned. He saw out of the corner of his eye that Minnie's neighbor had loaned her a protective kimono. "You don't happen to be Mineola Flynn?" he asked, his manner so changed that Minnie felt as if she were in the presence of another person.
Minnie nodded.
"Kessler just told me about you," he said. "Binns thought we might be able to use you today."
Minnie looked up.
"Surest thing you know. You're just the girl we're looking for," said Letcher. "Get your little duds on, and come down to the stage; set number fourteen."
Minnie nodded again, and smiled forgivingly at Letcher. She was willing to sacrifice anything for a career.
While the girl next to her helped Minnie put on the make-up, Minnie wondered why she was in the movies. She certainly wasn't pretty or even young; twenty-eight if she was a day. But she had a nice wide reassuring smile, a pretty mouth, (now that the Cupid's bow was painted over her thin lips), and straightforward, sympathetic eyes. Her nose was long and pinched; she tried to cover a high forehead by loops of thin marcelled hair. When she spoke her voice was husky. She started to cough and hurried out of the dressing room into the lavatory. Her muffled coughing could be heard through the door.
"Looks as if the old bug's bit Eleanor, all right."
"What bug?"
"T. B."
"'What bug?' she asks, can you imagine! What d'you think it was, the kissing bug?"
The gale of laughter that followed left Minnie bewildered and resentful. She was using Eleanor's theatrical powder at the time, and she thought her a very nice girl.
"I'll bet Eleanor hasn't had a kiss since Beauregard threw her over," said Alicia Adams, "but what can you expect at her age?"
Alicia was seventeen, a silver blonde, with transparent skin, pink as a seashell. Her pouting mouth gave an immature expression to her small pointed face. Her eyes, large and heavy lidded, were her most noticeable feature. Dreamy eyes, they were called, but no dreams slumbered in them. They were hard and green-yellow as a cat's; cruel eyes, guided by a cruel animal cunning; often they were lit with a strange, unnatural glitter.
Alicia's voice was soft and well modulated when she spoke. "Poor Eleanor should come to her senses and get out of the game. Doesn't she know that she's through?"
"I'm afraid not," said Mrs. Lee, the character actress, with a wise, sad shake of her head.
"Who's Beauregard got now, Mrs. Lee?"
"A kid he's picked out of the chorus. Funniest looking thing you ever saw. Got her hair cut off."
"Got what?"
"Hair bobbed like a kid's. Dutch cut. I almost laughed in her face the other night when I seen her."
"He doesn't always run to pretty girls, does he?" Alicia, with arched brows, motioned toward the lavatory. She was smiling.
"Ssh, she'll hear you. There's no sense rubbing it in."
The fat character actress wobbled unsteadily to her feet. "I've known Eleanor for years," she said. "When Beauregard picked her up, she was one of the prettiest girls I'd ever seen.'
Mrs. Lee's voice always dropped to a confidential whisper when she gossiped. She half covered her mouth with her plump white hand, loaded with old-fashioned rings set with semi-precious stones.
"Eleanor wasn't common looking like the others, but awful refined. And smart, too. I want to tell you she led that old bird a merry song and dance before she came across."
"Ohs . . ." from the girls. Alicia laughed.
"But I'm not criticizing her for it, even if you do, because as I've always said, how on earth is any girl to hold out on a man that spends money the way Beauregard does?"
"I suppose he did give her everything," said Alicia, the glint coming into her yellow eyes.
"But she paid for it, you bet!" This judgment came from Myrtle Song, who was considered a prude by the girls.
"What if she did?" snapped Alicia. "She enjoyed it when she had it. Did he give her an apartment?"
"The classiest little flat I ever set foot in. And girls, you may not think it to look at her now, but I knew the day that Eleanor Grant had three nigger servants."
"Three?" they echoed in awed voices, while Minnie Flynn wondered how she had dared be so familiar with her.
"One Christmas that man gave her a diamond and emerald lizard that went clear across her bosom."
"Did she have a car of her own?" asked Alicia, bending forward, her full red lips parted over her little pointed teeth.
"No, but the same as having one. He's got three. Why, the way Eleanor was riding around in cars you'd of thought she owned a garage."
"Is that so?" murmured Alicia. "Think of the luck a girl like that fell into. But he always throws his dames over, don't he?" She glanced into the mirror, wondering if a man like Beauregard would admire her type.
"Poor devils," said Mrs. Lee, "but I've seen them come and go in my day. Some women are weak enough to take their own life; they can't stand the hard knocks. They could if they had faith though. That's why I advise you girls to cling to your religion like I've done. God is the only friend we can ever be sure of, girls." And Mrs. Lee's eyes filled with tears. "It makes my heart ache to hear her," she said. "She ought to be in the Adirondacks instead of hanging around the studios trying to get on her feet again."
Myrtle Song told them that Weaver, who was Hal Deane's new assistant, had promised Eleanor a good part in "David Copperfield," the next picture, if they made it. He said that she was just the type for the Marchioness.
"Maybe he was only kidding her. Weaver's full of bull when he's got something up his sleeve," said Alicia, bitterly.
"Say, you'd think it was up to him to pick out the people to play the parts. You know what a fat chance he's got to make the final selection for Deane."
"What'll you bet that Eleanor isn't staking him to a little cash on the side?"
"She's doing worse than that," said Mrs. Lee with pious unction. "I hope none of you girls will ever lose your heads like poor Eleanor."
Minnie strained forward, afraid of missing a word of this enlightening conversation, which she regretted was at times unintelligible.
"When Beauregard got sick of her," Mrs. Lee droned monotonously, "she didn't have sense enough to listen to good advice, though I did my best to influence her. I said to her, 'Strike him now for a tidy little bankroll, for it's been my experience that when a man's ready to quit he'll be glad to settle any amount on you to get rid of you.' But no, Eleanor wouldn't take any sensible person's advice. She tried to hold Beauregard by spending everything he'd given her on clothes and parties, and you know how some girls carry on—hysterical and everything. Of course the more they cry the more a man hates them. She used to talk freely to me then as I was the only one the poor child could ever trust."
Minnie was nodding her head seriously, afraid that she might forget one golden word of this advice. What a fine, big-hearted woman Mrs. Lee was, Minnie was thinking, as she watched that placid face lifted by smiles, those kindly eyes rolling upward.
"Did everything collapse at once when Beauregard threw her over?" asked Alicia.
"They had an awful row over some other girl, then Eleanor cleared out. She told him he could go to the devil, that she was already started on her career and nothing could stop her."
Mrs. Lee paused impressively, looking from one girl to another.
"What do you think that poor little fool did, in spite of my advice?" she asked them.
A moment of suspense.
"She cleared out and left him without a coat on her back or a cent in her stocking."
"Well, you'd never think Eleanor was so dumb to look at her, would you?"
"You can't judge a girl by her forehead, Alicia. A high forehead don't mean brains, you know!"
"Gee, what happened after that?" cried Minnie, suddenly breaking the long, contemplative silence.
They all started.
"I beg your pardon, dearie, have we ever been introduced?" asked Mrs. Lee in a honeyed voice, rising and ambling over to her. "I don't seem to have met you before."
"My name is Minnie Flynn—Mineola," she corrected quickly.
"How do you do?" said Mrs. Lee, her face pocketing into a smug, fatuous smile. "I'm Evangeline Lee, you've probably heard of me. I'm very pleased to meet you."
"Thank you," almost inarticulately from Minnie. "I'm very much obliged to you."
"Don't mention it, Mineola. You're a new girl in this studio, aren't you?"
"Yeh, it's my first day here. But I've been other places," she added hastily.
"Friend of anybody?" asked Mrs. Lee, taking Minnie's slender hand in her soft, plump one and stroking it in a kind but patronizing manner.
"Yes, I am," answered Minnie with a touch of pride. "Mr. Al Kessler is a particular friend of mine. He brought me here."
"Al Kessler!" shrieked Alicia, and his name rose to a dozen throats. "So Al's your particular friend, is he? Well, that's nice, ain't it, girls? I'll bet you thirty dollars he told her that she'd be a raving beauty on the screen. Who'll take me up on it?"
"I'll bet fifty dollars he told her he was the white-haired boy in the studio and he'd get her in right with Binns. Didn't he, Mineola?"
Mrs. Lee put her arms protectingly around Minnie's shoulder.
"You girls make me tired," she said in her soft, kind voice. "You're always trying to kid somebody. Al Kessler may not be the most popular fellow in the world but he's a clever kid."
"Oh, Al Kessler," the girls were still whispering, "wouldn't that make you laugh?"
Minnie sat there, hating them, yet fascinated and longing to be accepted on an equal footing by them. She was relieved when Eleanor came back into the room. She already looked upon her as a friend and sensed her protective interest.
Eleanor, walking unsteadily, reached for the corner of the dressing table.
"You'd think I had whooping cough to hear me go on," she said as she sank onto the bench, "when all I've got is just a little tickling in my throat—a touch of bronchitis."
The girls exchanged significant glances, but no one spoke. Minnie didn't know whether the silence was cruel or kind. She wanted to break it but could think of nothing adequate to say.
The entrance of Mrs. Skerrit, the wardrobe woman, came as a great relief for in the scramble that followed Eleanor was forgotten.
"Who gets the riding habit?" Mrs. Skerrit asked.
"I do," Alicia took it and held it up. "I'll bet it's a lousy fit," she said, and all the girls laughed. "Lousy" was a new word in the vocabulary of the moving picture people. They all thought it a splendid, expressive appellation, so it had traveled from one studio to the other.
Mrs. Skerrit paid no attention to her.
"Who wears the Spanish costume?"
"I do. Got a comb and lace thingamajig to go with it?"
"You mean a lace mantilla to drape over the comb? Yes, I've got it here. Don't snatch, please."
Minnie watched with childish longing as Mrs. Skerrit distributed the costumes. There was a beautiful satin bridal gown embroidered with pearls, and Minnie's hand reached out to touch it, lingering on its delicate surface.
"Do I get a costume, too?" she asked Mrs. Skerrit. "I'd be glad to wear anything that you'd pick out for me."
Mrs. Skerrit's eyes opened with amazement.
"What do you mean, child, you'd wear anything?"
"Oh, nothin'," answered Minnie, realizing she had made a mistake, "only they're much prettier than any costumes I've ever seen."
A snicker rippled around the room.
"I guess we've got somebody's number," said Alicia pointedly, "that's all right, dearie, nobody's going to tip it off. We'll let you get away with it."
But three of the girls made up their minds to tell Binns, convinced absolutely that it was their duty. Minnie was too pretty!
Al Kessler, waiting outside the girls' dressing room, paced up and down impatiently. He was attired in conventional evening dress. But he wore a bright yellow shirt and collar which puzzled Minnie. Al explained that white was not used under the banks of lights in the studio because white caused a noticeable halation on the film.
"Take that dress of yours," Al said, "by way of illustration. It's lucky that it's yellow with age or they'd call you off the set. At that, I'm afraid when they give you the 'once over they're not going to like it very much. It's not what you'd call the classiest looking thing I've ever seen. I thought I told you, honey, to bring your best duds along."
"I guess I didn't understand you," said Minnie, who, though tired of this incessant lying, was trying to carry out Al's advice to her, "Never put all your cards on the table." "I should of brought one of the others, I guess, but you know why I wore this, don't you, Al?"
Al didn't answer. He was thinking that perhaps he had made a mistake in bringing Minnie. She looked all right in the Harlem Dance Hall but among those well-dressed girls at the studio she was embarrassingly out of date; cheap. Angry at his own poor judgment he was willing to put the blame on her so he smiled contemptuously and shrugged his shoulders.
"This is the dress I wore the night we met, Al," she said, forcing a lukewarm sentimentality.
"That's so. So it is. Well, I'd put it away in moth-balls if I were you, honey, and keep it for a souvenir."
Minnie stared at him for a moment, then flung at him: "Listen, Al, that kind of stuff don't go very far with me. I'm onto you. I know what's the matter. You're ashamed of me. You're ashamed of the way I look. You think I'm a fright."
Al was a little disconcerted. "Fishing," he said with forced pleasantness, "but I've got no time for that now, honey. Come on. We might as well go down and have Letcher look you over."
"I can't come now. I've got to wait for somebody."
"Who, for heaven's sake?"
"Eleanor Grant. She was awful nice to me, Al. Loaned me a lot of things. She said if you didn't have time she'd introduce me around the studio."
Al welcomed the chance to escape.
"Eleanor's a great girl," he said. "She can do the honors better than I can, honey, so I'll toddle along as soon as she gets here."
When Eleanor opened the door and came out into the hall Minnie gasped. She thought she had never seen anything so beautiful in all her life. A green velvet dress was draped gracefully over her thin body. Décolletée, the bodice was held up by straps of rhinestones. Rhinestones sparkled in the hollow of her throat. Rhinestones swayed like pendulums from her ears. Set low on her forehead a wide band of rhinestones and pearls held in place a spray of black aigrettes. On her hands were many rings, imitation pearls and opaque diamonds the size of canary eggs. She carried a jewel-handled feather fan which she waved gracefully back and forth. Minnie thought the jewels were real.
"My God, Eleanor," she exclaimed, "you're the swellest lookin' thing I ever seen."
"Miss Grant looks very charming this morning," said Al, pointedly. "She looks very charming. But for that matter she always does."
"Thank you very much," answered Eleanor. "My dress is nice, though it's just a simple little thing."
"Well, folks, I'll breeze along now. I've got to stop at the wardrobe for one of those accordion pleated opera hats."
Minnie's eyes were staring with wonder at Eleanor. . . . Her own dress! When they walked downstairs where all the others were what a contrast she would be to Eleanor. How people would laugh at her! Frightened by this thought she tried to stop Al, but he was already hurrying in the other direction.
"Al's a skunk," said Eleanor quietly, who had seen at once that he was ashamed of Minnie. "Come on, dearie, don't let it worry you, there's better fish in the sea."
They hurried through the long alleyway until they reached the door on which was the sign: Stage. Keep off unless working on the sets.
"We must find Letcher the first thing," Eleanor explained. "He'll have to check us in."
Minnie followed the gorgeous figure through a maze of half-completed bedrooms, drawing rooms, kitchens, sweat-shops, to most of which only three walls stood, and very often but two.
The confusion was terrific. The studio reverberated with the pounding of many hammers, the scurry of footsteps, voices . . . and far off, merging into the babble of sounds, the whining strains of music. Then above this tangled obbligato there arose a long shrill whistle. Instantly the hammers, voices, footsteps and music ceased. Eleanor gripped Minnie's arm to keep her from stumbling over a heavy cable stretched across the floor from the switch blocks to the bank of lights. A hissing sh-shush carried its echo. Then silence. Crashing into this came a roaring voice through a megaphone.
"Everybody working on Bacon's set get a move on!"
"That means us," whispered Eleanor, "we've got to hurry a bit. Follow me."
Minnie had seen many ballrooms on the screen so the sight wasn't unfamiliar when they stepped in full view of the set. There were the musicians in the balcony behind the palms. There were the four butlers. (Minnie had remembered there were always four butlers in the movie homes of the most refined rich.) There were the men in swallow tails, and the women nearly naked above the waist.
Minnie was thinking that it wasn't a very good floor to dance on, as they paused for a moment, their way blocked by a group of men who were moving the platform on which straddled the three-legged camera.
"What's that thing for?" she whispered.
"Pull a boner like that and they'll sure get onto you," warned Eleanor. "It's the camera."
"It don't look like one," said Minnie, who had noticed a display of kodaks in a shop window only the night before.
"Take a good look at it," said Eleanor. "It's like a living thing. Do you know why? Because it can be your best friend or your worst enemy. God, but it's cruel."
She talked about the camera in such dread tones, about its power to make you or destroy you, with what diabolical cruelty it shows up every little defect in your face, how it catches every hidden thought and reveals it upon the screen, that she personified it so that Minnie felt a growing awe for it. She looked up into the steel face as it leaned over her and saw its cold unblinking glass eyes looking down, passive in its terrible power.
"You don't have to be afraid of it now," concluded Eleanor, seeing a shadow of fear fall upon Minnie's face. "You haven't any telltale lines yet. Wait until you're my age, sick and thin and discouraged."
The platform was moved out of their way so they hurried on to join the eager group pressing around Letcher. Letcher wasn't laughing now. He was working furiously, the sweat standing out on his brow as he checked over the names of the people who were to work in the set.
"Grant!" he called. "Grant! Where the hell is she?"
"Here I am. What's the idea of yelling like that?"
"Beg your pardon, Eleanor. Didn't see you. You're not to get any number. Bacon will probably pick you out to do a bit."
Eleanor was placated.
"Oh, there you are, little one," to Minnie. "Stand out so I can give you the double O."
With confused alarm Minnie edged away from him.
"Stand out as I told you. How do you suppose I'm going to look you over if you hug the wall?"
He motioned for her to turn around, and she mechanically obeyed him, feeling like a rat in a trap. He drew his brows together, puckered his mouth into a long whistle. At last he spoke.
"What are you made up for, girlie, a Sunday School picnic?"
Giggles; and Al Kessler was seen slinking behind a large pillar.
"Say, who told you to come down in that outfit? This is a classy ball at a Duke's house! Can you imagine a society dame wearing an outfit like that? If Kessler told you to bring your wardrobe he certainly gave you a bum steer. If I was you I'd lay him out for it. Sorry, we can't use you today."
Eleanor stepped forward. "Don't put her out, Letcher," she protested. "I've got a dress upstairs that I think will do."
Minnie pressed her hand gratefully.
"All right, then, get a wiggle on! Bacon's coming on the set in five minutes."
They rushed back into the now deserted dressing room. Minnie's distracted breathing sounded above the rustle of paper as Eleanor opened the box.
"Here it is, a spangled gown with a train," cried Eleanor. "Do you think it will do?"
Minnie wanted to laugh. She wanted to cry. "Oh, my God," she was saying, "if it hadn't been for you I'd of—" She was hysterical with relief.
"Don't worry about that now, we've got no time to lose. Bacon's an old crank. Heavens, you can't wear this gown over that chemise, it comes up too high on your neck."
Desperately, "It's all I got."
Eleanor tossed her one of hers, a pink silk slip. "Put that on," she ordered peremptorily, "and hand me your slippers. I'll black them while you're getting into the dress."
It was the first time Minnie had ever worn silk next to her body and when she drew it on she quivered at the feel of its clinging softness.
"I'm all goosefleshy," she said, "I'm that excited."
Eleanor almost ruined the slippers but the dress was long enough to cover them.
"We'll stop at the wardrobe room and ask Skerrit for some jewelry and a fan," she said as she drew Minnie toward the mirror.
The reflection in the mirror dazzled Minnie. How white her shoulders rose above the low cut V. How becoming was that fullness of half-revealed breasts.
"I don't blame you standing there gaping at yourself. You sure look like a different person."
The train was difficult to manage. When Minnie carried it over her arm she was conscious of her mottled slippers; when it swished after her it whipped the floor like the broken wing of a bird.
Mrs. Skerrit gave her a string of pearls the size of mothballs and fastened to her ears large jet pendants. Then she handed her a black ostrich fan.
"You look rich enough to be Mrs. Vanderbilt, herself." It was Mrs. Skerrit's favorite phrase. It meant that she had taken a fancy to Minnie. She liked them bright and eager and appreciative, though she knew Minnie would soon get like the others, bored and ungrateful.
Fortunately for them Letcher hadn't finished checking over the extra people when they returned.
"Well, what do you think of her?" Eleanor said triumphantly, turning Minnie around so Letcher could see her every curve.
Minnie waved her fan and arched her neck in imitation of Eleanor.
Letcher whistled approvingly.
"O. K. for me," he said, giving Minnie's arm a pleasant squeeze. "Some chicken, I'd say. All white meat."
Minnie was the only one who laughed. The others, that is the pretty ones, had heard this before. They knew exactly what would follow. Minnie would not get a number which would herd her in with one of the groups, but she would be set aside with the favored few for Bacon to choose from. So they exchanged glances when Letcher said:
"Don't want to separate you two girls, so, Miss Flynn, you go over and sit on the bench with Eleanor. Bacon will look you over later."
Minnie smiled with a fresh assurance and when she walked, following Eleanor, she tilted her head and drooped her eyelashes. Under their lowered veil she could see the other girls staring after her in jealousy mingled with admiration.
To think that she, Minnie Flynn, late of the Odds and Ends, was in the movies!
When Bacon came on the set Letcher blew his shrill whistle again. Silence clapped down upon the stage. All the people stood there rigid, tense, their eyes on Letcher as he raised the huge megaphone.
"Places," he bawled. "Ones—to the stairway."
Instantly there was a stir in the crowd and those given the number one scurried to the stairway.
"Twos—take your places on the floor." The twos moved swiftly to the positions given them.
"Where do we come in?" whispered Minnie, her heart pounding.
"Wait till the numbers are given out. He'll tell us where to go."
"Threes—beat it to the lobby."
Minnie shivered as if a cold blast of air had swept around her. How white and stupid the people looked, their eyes glassy under the hideous blue-green lights. They were staring for all the world like the pigs' heads that decorated Hesselman's butcher shop during the holidays.
"Fours—get off the set and be ready to come back when you're called."
Then Letcher turned to the group which included Minnie, Eleanor and Al Kessler, who had slipped among them without having been noticed.
"Come toward the platform, you!" he shouted, beckoning. They walked solemnly toward the platform Bacon mounted it and all but Minnie bowed and smiled with forced animation when he nodded good morning.
"That's Bacon," prompted Eleanor, "for heaven's sake, don't stand there like a dummy."
Minnie was bewildered. She glanced swiftly at the others to see what they were doing. They were still smiling. She smiled, too, very nervously.
Bacon was looking right at them. He nodded to Eleanor. He had been compelled to take her as leading lady in one of the pictures he had made for Beauregard. The picture suffered as a result and Bacon was criticized for the stupid mistake of miscasting the leading rôle; the public, even the press, know so little of what goes on behind the scenes, what elements of petty politics and love affairs enter into the making of a picture!
Bacon had borne a keen resentment against Eleanor, though at heart he was not an uncharitable man. He thought he was being magnanimous when he gave her extra work in his pictures now.
"Eleanor, you're looking very well today," he said in a flat, meant-to-be-kindly voice. "I'll pick you out to be one of the three women on the reception committee. You're to stand at the foot of the stairway and meet the guests as they come down."
"Letcher," he said, turning to his assistant, "speak to me later about a close-up of Eleanor."
"Yes, chief," Letcher replied, making a note of it in a thumbed manuscript.
Eleanor, inspired with new hope, glided away from them, lazily waving her fan.
Bacon was looking at Minnie now.
"Who's this girl?" he called to Letcher without taking his eyes off Minnie. "Has she worked for me before?"
"No, chief," answered Letcher. "A good little type, don't you think?"
"Not bad."
"Thought you might want to single her out for a bit. The kid's clever they tell me."
Minnie fluttered before Bacon's hypnotic gaze like a helpless bird.
"Can you dance?"
She caught herself just in time from saying, "Bet your sweet life I can. . . ."
"Yes, chief," she answered, addressing him with the same marked respect shown him by Letcher.
Bacon smiled and chewed on his heavy blond mustache.
"Very well, young lady. Sit down on the bench over there. I'll call you when I need you."
Minnie imitated as best she could the manner in which Eleanor had bowed, then she sidled out of the scene, slowly waving her fan. She, too, was triumphant.
"Who let that little ass in here?" Bacon asked as soon as she had gone beyond hearing.
"I had nothing to do with it, chief." Letcher's eyes were shifting restlessly and he mopped his brow with his handkerchief. "On my honor I didn't. Binns sent her to us."
"Binns has got to quit foisting a lot of inexperienced idiots on me. I won't stand for it."
"They say she photographs like a dream," insisted Letcher, afraid the blame might fall upon him. "I didn't want to overlook a bet for you. That's the only reason I called her out of the crowd."
"And gave her a little extra squeeze, I suppose. Don't try to pull the wool over my eyes, Letcher, or pass the buck. You're as transparent as glass."
"Yes, chief."
Here Al Kessler stepped forward with elastic step. "Good morning, Mr. Bacon," he said effusively. "Anything I can do for you today?"
"Yes, keep out of my sight!" stormed Bacon.
"Very good, sir," answered Al, undaunted, delighted to be the center of interest no matter how he earned the distinction.
Bacon turned to Letcher, snapping his fingers at each order. "Get everybody ready for rehearsal. Send Bill out for more cigars. Have this lousy new leading lady we've got cued to be on the set in ten minutes. We've got to get started early this morning. I want to clean up all the ballroom scenes by tomorrow night."
Letcher's fat face was most ridiculous in repose, and when he walked it quivered like a bowl of jelly. Minnie smiled at him flirtatiously when he passed by but he paid no attention to her; he was afraid Bacon was watching him.
A rehearsal began which seemed endless and stupid to Minnie. Letcher bawled the numbers through a megaphone while the extra people moved like uninspired automatons, carefully following every direction. Some walked down the stairs while others crossed the dance floor; a group fluttered in from the lobby; another group moved toward the exits. They talked or laughed only when the megaphone ordered them to.
And Letcher was behind the megaphone!
What an important person Letcher was, Minnie thought when she saw how blindly everybody obeyed him. She didn't notice that Bacon was sitting back placidly smoking a cigar and guiding Letcher's every move. How proud she was to think that Letcher had singled her out from among all the pretty girls there. Minnie had seen that at once, so it was clear to her she must 'play up to him.' She wished he weren't such a fat, ungainly creature, but were slim and handsome like Al Kessler. She sighed at the thought of Al, but she saw through him now, with his cheap sentiments, tawdry and insincere.
Now they were rehearsing with music.
"Get them to talk! To laugh! My God, are they dead?" growled Bacon. "What in hell's the matter with the music?"
Letcher sprang to the platform. "Talk! Laugh! My God, are you dead!" he bawled. "Music! What in hell's the matter with the music!"
As if touched by electric switches they leapt into action. The organ whined and the violins screeched. Hollow laughter and meaningless chatter came from their lips.
"Very good," called Letcher after he caught the nod of approval from Bacon. "Now choose your partners for the dance!"
Al Kessler, so much more animated than the others, scurried among them, keeping well in the foreground.
"Don't be a lens-hog, Kessler," yelled Letcher.
Minnie didn't know what a lens-hog was but she realized that Al was being called down. She was glad because it fitted in with her new estimate of him. "I'll bet he feels like thirty cents," she said to herself, but she didn't know Al.
The partners were chosen and the extra people danced. Rotten dancing, Minnie thought, because Bacon didn't let them sway their bodies or hug shoulder to shoulder. He bawled them out, saying that they were supposed to be dancing on Fifth Avenue instead of Sixth. He made the men hold their partners away from them as if they were afraid of catching the measles. Minnie was disgusted, and glad she wasn't called upon to dance. She told the girl next to her she'd hate to be seen stalking around the floor like that. Dancing wasn't anything unless one body fitted in closely with another.
Over and over and over again they rehearsed the dance until she could see their limbs were aching from the strain.
Then Bacon called out, "Let's shoot!"
"Shoot what?" Minnie turned to the girl next to her, her eyes round with excitement.
"Shoot the scene," answered the girl, stifling a yawn. "It's about time. Keep this up and they'll never get to us. That's always my luck."
"Places!" shouted Letcher. "This is the picture."
How frightened they all looked as they grouped together, then scrambled back to their positions! Letcher blew three times on his shrill whistle and there was again silence. Then Bacon rose, took off his coat, carefully laid his cigar on the edge of the table and reached for the megaphone.
"Lights!" he called.
There was a sharp, staccato splutter which died away in a hissing sound as the hard, dead-white lights came on, striking the eyes like a physical blow.
"Music!" The orchestra opened with a crash of cymbals, and there was a restless movement of the crowd like race horses at the barrier.
"Camera!"
The cameraman who had been waiting for the signal squinted into the camera for his last focus; then the grinding off of film could be heard as he turned the crank.
"Ones!" shouted Bacon. "Moving quickly! Pick up your feet, ones!"
"Twos! What're you stalling for, twos?"
"Twos! What're you stalling for?" echoed Letcher, running breathlessly on the outskirts of the set, ordering, cursing, prodding the laggards into action.
Bacon was growing more frantic every moment. "Choose your partners for the dance," and his voice roared above the confusion.
"Music! Louder!" he cried. "Kessler, get the hell out of the foreground. . . . You, you with the blond hair! Don't look into the camera . . . dance! Put some pep into it, some spirit! Hey, there, Eleanor. Those boys standing over there by the stairway. Get rid of them!"
He was now leaping upon the platform shouting in a frenzy.
"Laughing! Talking! Having a hell of a good time!"
"Having a hell of a good time!" echoed Letcher. "Ha-ha-ha! That's it! Ha-ha-ha!" with forced laughter that was terribly grotesque.
Then something happened. . . .
No one noticed when Bacon gave the signal to Bill, the property man, or saw the latter wave a handkerchief to one of his carpenters. That is why they were unprepared for what followed.
"Keep up your dancing and laughing!" yelled Bacon to whip up their wearying feet. "Music! Laughter!" with irritating persistence. "Laughter! Louder!"
The carpenter hidden behind one of the painted drops raised a forty-four, cocked it and at the signal from the property man fired off half a dozen blank cartridges. The explosion in that closed space was terrific, and for one moment pandemonium broke loose. Women screamed. The dancers mobbed together. . . . Then they stopped still, rigid, electrified with fear.
Down the stairway rushed the leading woman with hair and gown disheveled, wild screams tearing out of her.
"Rush to her! Surround her!" bawled Bacon, jumping up and down the platform, raging. "You blockheads! You idiots! Don't look this way or by God I'll"
Frothing, inarticulate, he swung the megaphone into the crowd as they stood there, frozen in wonder and bewilderment, gripped by a fear they could not understand.
"Lights out!" shouted Letcher. "Stop the camera! Back to your places, you blockheads! You idiots!"
Minnie had fled to the far end of the stage at the explosion. She returned when she saw the workmen going methodically back to their usual tasks, and crept up to the platform to find out what had happened. She wasn't one who suspected a trick on Bacon's part to force realism artificially into the scene.
Still cursing, Bacon paced the platform. He might have known he couldn't expect anything from those sheep, he was ejaculating. What a fool he was to be wasting his time!
Binns and the director-in-chief of the studio, Hal Deane, who were watching the scene from the background, now stepped forward. Both were smiling enigmatically.
"Did you see that?" Bacon roared. "Tried an experiment and it failed as usual. I should have known better than to expect intelligence from that crowd. They've got no intelligence."
"How can you judge that?" came very quietly from Deane.
Bacon snorted. "They've got no heads, I tell you. Even their instincts are tricky. I wanted to get a scene of real panic. Thought if I rehearsed them the whole thing would look mechanical and spiritless. What did they do when they were faced with something that scared hell out of 'em? Stood like sheep. Never budged. Faces frozen. That's how much sense they've got!"
"It's not their fault," Deane began in quiet defense. "It's your own for expecting anything else. They've always been taught to obey; every gesture—every expression—every step is laid out for them. If they dared disobey orders they were called for it. Called hard. Fired! Then you stick a bomb under them and expect them to do just the opposite of all their training. Of course they freeze right where they are. Scared stiff. If you were in their places you'd do the same."
Binns, walking among the extra people, passed Minnie. He stopped, recognizing her in spite of her elaborate disguise.
"Well, what do you think of it all?" he asked her, a little curious to see if she would confess any sincere impressions.
"Oh, I don't mind it," she tried to answer casually. "I'm used to it."
The lie antagonized him for a moment, then he shrugged his shoulders indifferently. Poor little kids, he was thinking to himself . . . no background, no education. . . . So ready to sacrifice pride, independence, honor, so willing to prostitute themselves for the cheap return of easy money and personal popularity. Pretty faces and empty heads. A few that got on because they were clever. Most of them riding to success on the tide of public whim . . . always the victim, the tool of the more intelligent minds who were responsible for their success. They succeeded when success was doled out to them and failed when their producers failed them.
Thinking of all this he spoke kindly to Minnie. "You make up very well," he said. "I'll try to use you again."
"Oh, thanks awfully, Mr. Binns."
"Don't thank me. You may regret the circumstances that brought you here." (Which Minnie thought was a foolish thing for a man to say, especially one whom Al had cracked up as knowing so much.)
She watched his retreating figure, shoulders hunched up, hands in pockets, his hat cocked on the back of his head over his obstinate black hair. Funny little man he was but she was glad he had taken such a fancy to her. What with Letcher and Binns (and Bacon wasn't entirely unmoved by her or he wouldn't have placed her among the extras chosen for individual work), she was bound to find it easy sailing in the "movies."
The afternoon brought no definite advance to Minnie. Bacon succeeded only in getting to his satisfaction what he called his "big scene," while Minnie sat all day long, waiting to be called. The interest of watching didn't hold her very long; she was too restless and eager to take part.
Twice Al Kessler drifted over and made overtures, only to be repulsed. He was really pleased to be seen in her company now that the clothes she came in were hidden in the dressing room.
"You certainly look sweet, honey, you certainly look sweet," he murmured in his most caressing tone. "I'm glad Eleanor fixed you up the way she did. But if she hadn't, you can bet I would of done it. I certainly would of, honey."
Minnie wanted to imitate Alicia's disdainful expression as she answered, "I've accepted all I'm goin' to from you, Al Kessler, and I want you to know you showed yourself up for what you was this morning." Then with undisguised triumph as she turned to walk away from him, "I guess I can make some friends without your help, Mr. Kessler, I ain't poison ivy."
While Bacon was rehearsing the leading woman, Eleanor slipped away from her tiresome post by the stairway and sought Minnie.
"Am I getting on, Eleanor?" Minnie asked eagerly. "Do you think I got a chance here, with Binns so nice to me?"
Eleanor nodded. She had been through enough to make her bitterly cynical. "Play them for all they're worth, Minnie," she advised, "and give them nothing. You don't have to, and you can get away with it. I mean," she added, "the small fry. Of course it's different with the big ones. They're worth landing, especially if they've got something that you want. Gee, if you could only get a fellow like Hal Deane interested in you. Or Binns. They'd treat you decently. I've heard it rumored that Binns is going West to be the studio manager of a big new organization."
"Al Kessler told me to put the works on Letcher, Eleanor. I've certainly done it, too."
"I see you have. But that's just what I'm advising you against. Letcher is a four-flusher. He's just old Bacon's echo and Bacon's got no real confidence in him. You can't go very far with a fellow like that. He belongs to the little fry I'm talking about."
She kept repeating with irritating persistence, "Play for the big ones. That's the best advice I can give you. Somebody's bound to come along when you're young and pretty."
"Don't any of the girls make good by themselves?" asked Minnie.
"Sure they do," replied Eleanor, "lots of them. But that's the hardest way around. Sometimes you work years and don't get half as far as some other girl who's wise enought to cop off a fellow with a big job in the picture business."
"But if you've got talent as an acktress," persisted Minnie, her mind flashing back to the time when her imitations of people on the stage had amused the girls at the Odds and Ends.
"I don't like to seem conceited, but everybody says I'm cut out for the stage, Eleanor. I've acted all over the place ever since I was a kid. Like Mary Pickford," she added. "I was readin' in a movie magazine only the other night how Mary Pickford began her career when she was five years old. She didn't need a pull to get on, did she?"
"Sure she didn't. But how many Mary Pickfords are there? Thousands of girls in the moving picture business—and only one Mary."
"Gee," said Minnie after a long, thoughtful pause. "It sure is different than I thought it would be. In some ways it's a lot nicer. In others it scares me skinny. It's an awful complicated business, ain't it?"
They were standing in a draft which made Eleanor cough, an ugly strangling cough.
"Gee, Eleanor, can't you do something for it?" Minnie asked as her arms held the racking shoulders. "Don't you think it would help if you kept a Smith Brothers in your mouth all the time?"
"It's nothing much," Eleanor reassured her, "but it's rotten to have bronchitis the way I've got it. Lord, it's hot in this place, isn't it? Let's ask Letcher if we haven't time to go to the dressing room."
"Anything your little heart desires," Letcher assured her, after looking around to make sure that Bacon was out of hearing. "I'll run up and call you myself when you're wanted."
Minnie gave him what Billy McNally called her Kewpie smile. It made her pretty mouth turn up quaintly at the corners and pressed her dimples deep into her cheeks. Her big eyes sought his eagerly to see if he were impressed.
"Oh, you cute little devil, you," was all that Letcher could say. "You'd better not do that when we're alone. Wild horses couldn't keep me from kissing you."
"Try it and I'll crown you," threatened Minnie, though she held the dimples in place, the corners of her mouth still turned up.
"Crown me. I'd like to be king." And amazed at his own ready retort, Letcher repeated, his huge body shaking with laughter, "You cute little devil, you. You cute little queen."
Up in the dressing room the two girls discussed Minnie's serious need of a wardrobe. Without doubt she would work the following day as Bacon hadn't finished with his ballroom scenes. Eleanor said if she were only in a position to give Minnie the evening gown she would do so gladly, but under the circumstances she felt that she couldn't afford such generosity. The gown had cost her—at a sale—fifty-five dollars. The sum made Minnie gasp, for in the second-rate department store where she had worked the most elaborate evening gown had never been marked over forty dollars. Eleanor explained that because she knew she and Minnie were going to be friends, she would let her have the gown for the trifling sum of fifteen dollars.
After much figuring Minnie saw how she could pay for it in ten working days. That was fair enough, Eleanor said, and it also gave Minnie the chance to buy some other things she needed. Eleanor knew of a shop where Minnie could get an afternoon frock (she simply must have an afternoon frock in her wardrobe), an evening cloak, extra slippers and lingerie. Minnie laughingly repeated the word "lingerie" several times before she could pronounce it. Funny word to call underwear. Eleanor explained that all the girls had their own wardrobes. If they were called for costume plays the company would supply the costumes, but there would be dozens and dozens of other calls for afternoon teas, garden parties, boarding-school scenes and dance halls.
That evening when Minnie signed the voucher slip and was given three dollars and a half for her day's work, she paid a dollar and a half on account to Eleanor.
"I feel as if I was cheating you to get that classy dress for fifteen dollars," she said. "I never dreamed of owning anything like it. I'll take it home and show the folks. Bet it'll be an eye-opener for them, too."
Minnie's name was on the callboard for the following morning.
"That makes seven dollars in two days," she figured, "and I've been slaving for a whole week in that rotten basement for only nine dollars."
She thought of what a contrast Eleanor was to the girls she'd been going with; Elsie Bicker and her friends of the basement. Not that she'd throw over her old friends because she had found new ones, but they could never interest her again. They didn't know anything, when she compared them to Eleanor who had been everywhere, who had seen so much of life and had known so many of its experiences. For Eleanor had traveled to California and back; she had gone up to Maine on a picture, and had been out on ocean boats many times. And how wise she was, how well she knew men. Eleanor had had a flat with three nigger servants in it. She was also going to make it clear to Minnie how it was possible for her to have all of that, too—and clothes with spangles on—and silk things next to the skin, lingerie.
"Oh, God, I'm lucky," cried Minnie to herself as she hurried from the studio to wait at the street corner for Letcher. "Just as Nettie says, I was born with a gold horseshoe in my mouth."