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Moving Picture Girls, The

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<h2>CHAPTER III</h2> <h3>THE OLD TROUBLE</h3> For a moment the girls faced each other with wide-opened eyes, the brown ones of Alice gazing into the deep blue ones of Ruth. Ruth's eyes were not the ordinary blue—like those of a china doll. They were more like wood-violets, and in their depths could be read a liking for the unusual and romantic that was, in a measure, the key to her character. Not for nothing had Alice laughed at her sister's longing for a prince, on a milk-white steed, to come riding by. Ruth was tall, and of that desirable willowy type, so much in demand of late. Alice was just saved from being a "bread-and-butter" girl. That is, she had wholesomeness, with a round face, and ruddy cheeks—more damask than red in color—but she also had a rollicking, good-natured disposition, without being in the least bit tomboyish. She reminded one of a girl just out of school, eager for a game of tennis or golf. "Are you busy?" asked the voice on the other side of the door. "I can call again!" "No, wait—Russ!" replied Ruth, with an obvious effort. "We had the chain on. We'll let you in!" The DeVeres had only known their neighbors across the hall since coming to the Fenmore Apartment. Yet one could not live near motherly Mrs. Sarah Dalwood and not get to know her rather intimately, in a comparatively short time. She was what would have been called, in the country, "a good neighbor." In New York, with its hurry and scurry, where people live for years in adjoining rooms and never speak, she was an unusual type. She knew nearly every one in the big apartment—which was almost more than the janitor and his wife could boast. A widow with two sons, Mrs. Dalwood was in fairly good circumstances—compared with her neighbors. Her husband had left her a little sum in life insurance that was well invested, and Russ held a place as moving picture machine operator in one of the largest of those theaters. He earned a good salary which made it unnecessary for his mother to go out to work, or to take any in, and his brother Billy was kept at school. Billy was twelve, a rather nervous, delicate lad, liked by everyone. There was a rattle as the chain fell from the slotted slide on the door, and Alice opened the portal, to disclose the smiling and yet rather worried face of Russ. The girls had come to know him well enough to call him by his first name, and he did the same to them. It might not be out of place to say that Russ admired Ruth very much. "I'm awfully sorry about what happened," began Russ. "You see I didn't mean to shove that fellow so hard. But he was awfully persistent, and I just lost my temper. I was afraid I'd shoved him downstairs." "So were we," admitted Ruth, with a smile. "Did he try to come in here, to escape from you?" asked Alice, with a frank laugh. "Indeed he did not," replied Russ. "He caught at your door to save himself from falling. I guess he thought I was going to hit him; but I wasn't. I just shoved him away to keep him from coming back into our rooms again. Mother was a little afraid of him." "Was he—was he a——" Alice balked at the word "collector." "He was a fellow who's trying to steal a patent I'm working on!" exclaimed Russ, rather fiercely. "He's as unscrupulous as they come, and I didn't want him to get a foothold. So I just sent him about his business in a way I think he won't forget." "Oh, are you working on a patent?" cried Ruth. "How nice! What's it about? Oh, I forgot! Perhaps you can't tell. It's a secret, I suppose. All patents are." "Well, it isn't a secret from you folks," returned Russ. "I don't mind telling you, even though I haven't perfected it yet." "Especially as you can be sure we girls wouldn't understand the least thing about it—if it has anything to do with machinery," put in Alice, laughing. "Well, it is something about machinery," admitted Russ. "It is something new to go on moving picture machines, to steady the film as it moves behind the lens. You've often noticed how jerky the pictures are at times?" he asked. "Yes; though we don't go very often," responded Ruth. "Well, I've made a simple little device that fits on the machine. I needn't go into all details—to tell you the truth I haven't got 'em all worked out yet; but I think it will be a good thing, and bring me in some money. "I've spoken to Mr. Frank Pertell, manager of the Comet Film Company, about it. I have done some work for him, you know. He says it will be a good thing, and, while it may not make me a millionaire, it will help a lot. So I'm working hard on it." "But who was this man—what did he have to do with it?" asked Alice. "He didn't have anything to do with it—but he wanted to. His name is Simpson Wolley—Simp, he's called for short, though he is not as simple as his name sounds. He heard about my invention—how, I don't know—and he's trying to get it away from me." "Get it away from you?" echoed Alice. "Yes. He came to me and wanted me to sell him the rights, just as it was, for a certain sum. I refused. Then to-day I came home unexpectedly. I found him in the room where I work, looking over my drawings and models. Mother had let him in to wait for me. She put him in the parlor, but he sneaked into my room. That's why I sent him flying." "I don't blame you!" exclaimed Alice, with flashing eyes. "Only I'm sorry he disturbed you," went on Russ. "I didn't mean to be quite so hasty; but he got on my nerves, I expect." "Oh, that's all right," said Ruth, graciously. "Mother said you might be frightened," went on the young man, "so she sent me here to tell you what it was." "Don't mention it," laughed Alice. "We were a bit frightened at first, and we put the chain on the door. But are you sure you're all right—that he won't come back again?" "Oh, you need not worry," Russ assured her. "He won't come here again; though I don't fancy I'm through with him. Simp Wolley hasn't much principle, and I know a lot of fellows who have done business with him to their sorrow. But he'll have to work hard to fool me. So my apology is accepted; is it?" "Of course," laughed Ruth, blushing more than before. Another step was heard in the hall. "There's dad!" cried Alice. "Oh, where have you been?" she exclaimed, as she ran to her father's arms. "I couldn't come sooner," the latter explained in his deep, mellow voice—a voice that had endeared him to many audiences. "We had to arrange about the rehearsals. Haven't you a kiss for dad, Ruth," he went on, putting his arms about the taller girl. "How are you, Russ?" and he nodded cordially. "Isn't it fine to have two such daughters as these?" He held them to him—one on either side. "Father!" objected Ruth, blushing. "Ha! Ashamed of her old daddy hugging and kissing her; is she?" Mr. DeVere laughed. "Well, I am surprised; aren't you, Russ? Some day——" "Dad!" expostulated Ruth, blushing more vividly, and clapping a small hand over her father's mouth. "You mustn't say such things!" "What things?" with a simulated look of innocent wonder. "What you were going to say!" "Well, as long as I didn't, no harm is done. What about lunch? I must go back this afternoon." "I'll see you again," called Russ, retiring, for he knew father and daughters would want to exchange confidences. "It's good news, Russ!" called Alice, as he departed across the hall. "Daddy has an engagement at last!" "Glad to hear it, Mr. DeVere. I knew you'd land one sooner or later." "Well, it came near being later, Russ, my boy." "Now, Daddy dear, tell us all about it," begged Alice, when they were by themselves. "Isn't it just splendid! I wanted to get up a banquet, only there's nothing much on which to bank——" "Alice, dear—such slang!" reproved Ruth. "Never mind, better days are coming," said the actor. "At last I have a part just suited to me—one of the best for which I have ever been cast. It's with the 'A Matter of Friendship' company, and we open in about three weeks at the New Columbia. I feel sure I'll make a hit, and the play is a very good one—I may say a fine one." "And you open in three weeks, you say, Dad?" asked Ruth, thoughtfully. "Yes; or, rather, in two weeks from to-night. There are two weeks' rehearsals. But what—oh, I see. You mean there won't be any money coming in for three weeks—or until after the play has run a week. Well, never mind. I dare say we will manage somehow. I can likely get an advance on my salary. I'll see. And now for lunch. I'm as hungry as a stranded road company. What have you?" "Not so very much," confessed Ruth. "I was hoping——" There came a knock at the door. "Come!" invited Mr. DeVere, and Russ appeared. "Excuse this interruption," the young moving picture operator began, "but mother sent over to ask if you wouldn't take dinner with us. We have a big one. We expected my uncle and aunt, and they've disappointed us. Do come!" Alice and Ruth looked at each other. Then they glanced up at their father, who regarded them thoughtfully. "Well, I don't know," began the actor, slowly. "I—er——" "Mother will be disappointed if you don't come," urged Russ. "She has chicken and biscuit for dinner, and she rather prides herself on it. The dinner will be spoiled if it isn't eaten hot—especially the biscuit, so she'll take it as a favor if you'll come over, and take the places of my uncle and aunt. Do come!" and he looked earnestly at Ruth. "Well, what do you say, girls? Shall we accept of our neighbor's hospitality?" asked Mr. DeVere. "Please do!" exclaimed Alice, in a tense whisper. "You know we haven't got a decent thing to eat in the ice box, and that delicatessen stuff——" "Alice!" chided Ruth. "Well, it's the truth!" insisted the merry girl, her brown eyes dancing with mischief. "Russ knows we aren't millionaires, and with papa out of an engagement so long—oh, chicken! Come on. I haven't tasted any in so long——" "Alice—dear!" objected Ruth, sharply. "You mustn't mind her, Russ," she went on, rather embarrassed. "I don't," he laughed. "But if you'll all come I'll promise you some of the best chicken you ever tasted. And mother's hot biscuits in the chicken gravy——" "Don't you say another word, Russ Dalwood!" interrupted Alice. "We're coming!" "I—I think we will," agreed Mr. DeVere, with a laugh. Thus was his new engagement fittingly celebrated. The memory of that chicken dinner lingered long with the DeVere family. For though there was daylight ahead there were dark and dreary days to be lived through. As usual in theatrical companies, no salaries were paid while "A Matter of Friendship" was being rehearsed. Neither Mr. DeVere, nor any of the company, received any money for those two weeks of hard work. Those actors or actresses who had nothing put by lived as best they could on the charity of others. It was indeed "a matter of friendship" that some of them lived at all. And for a week after the play opened they could expect nothing. Then if the play should be a failure—— But no one liked to think of that. The rehearsals went on, and the play was going to be a great success, according to Mr. DeVere. But then he always said that. What actor has not? How he and his family lived those two weeks none but themselves knew. They had pawned all they dared, until their flat was quite bare of needed comforts. Tradesmen were insistent, and one man in particular threatened to have Mr. DeVere arrested if his bill was not paid. But it was out of the question to meet it. What little money was on hand was needed for food, and there was little enough of that. Mr. DeVere did negotiate some small loans, but not enough to afford permanent relief. Perhaps motherly Mrs. Dalwood suspected, or Russ may have hinted at their neighbors' straits, for many a nourishing dish was sent to Ruth and Alice, on the plea that there was more of it than Mrs. Dalwood and her sons could eat. There were more invitations from the Dalwoods to dinner or supper, but Mr. DeVere was proud, and declined, though in the most delightfully polite way. "I—I don't see how he can refuse, when he knows we are really hungry!" sighed Alice. "You wouldn't want him to be a beggar; would you?" flashed Ruth. "No. But it's awfully hard; isn't it?" "It is. Too bad they don't pay for rehearsals. And there'll be another full week! Oh, Alice, I wish there was something we could do to earn money!" "So do I! But what is there?" "I don't know. Oh, dear!" They sat in the gloaming—silent, waiting for their father to come home. "There's his step!" exclaimed Ruth, jumping up. "Yes—but," said Alice, in puzzled, frightened tones, "it—it doesn't sound like him, somehow. How—how slowly he walks! Oh, I hope nothing has happened!" "Happened? How could there?" asked Ruth, yet with blanched face. The door opened, and Mr. DeVere entered. It needed but a glance at his white face to show that something had happened—something tragic—and not the tragedy of the theater. "Oh, Father—Daddy—what is it!" cried Alice, springing to his arms. "I—I—my——" Mr. DeVere could hardly speak, so hoarse was he. Only a husky whisper came from his lips. "Are you—are you hurt?" cried Ruth. "Shall I get a doctor?" "It—it's my voice!" gasped the actor. "It has gone back on me—I can't speak a word to be heard over the footlights! It's my old trouble come back!" and he sank weakly into a chair. <hr style="width: 65%;" /> <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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