The Moving Picture Girls
L >> Laura Lee Hope >> The Moving Picture GirlsThe
Moving Picture Girls
OR
First Appearances in Photo Dramas
BY
LAURA LEE HOPE
AUTHOR OF THE BOBBSEY TWINS, THE BOBBSEY TWINS IN THE COUNTRY,
THE BOBBSEY TWINS AT SNOW LODGE, THE OUTDOOR GIRLS OF DEEPDALE,
THE OUTDOOR GIRLS AT RAINBOW LAKE, ETC.
_ILLUSTRATED_
[Illustration: IN ONE SCENE ALICE AND RUTH HOLD THE STAGE ALONE.
_The Moving Picture Girls.--Page 157._]
THE WORLD SYNDICATE PUBLISHING CO.
CLEVELAND NEW YORK
Made in U. S. A.
COPYRIGHT, 1914, BY GROSSET & DUNLAP
PRESS OF THE COMMERCIAL BOOKBINDING CO. CLEVELAND
CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
I AN UNCEREMONIOUS DEPARTURE 1
II RUSS DALWOOD APOLOGIZES 11
III THE OLD TROUBLE 20
IV DESPONDENCY 33
V REPLACED 43
VI A NEW PROPOSITION 51
VII ALICE CHANGES HER MIND 60
VIII "PAY YOUR RENT, OR----" 70
IX MR. DEVERE DECIDES 78
X THE MAN IN THE KITCHEN 87
XI RUSS IS WORRIED 96
XII THE PHOTO DRAMA 106
XIII MR. DEVERE'S SUCCESS 113
XIV AN EMERGENCY 124
XV JEALOUSIES 132
XVI THE MOVING PICTURE GIRLS 140
XVII A PROMISE 151
XVIII A HIT 159
XIX A BIT OF OUTDOORS 170
XX FARMER SANDY APGAR 181
XXI OVERHEARD 189
XXII THE WARNING 197
XXIII THE MISSING MODEL 205
XXIV THE PURSUIT 214
XXV THE CAPTURE 221
CHAPTER I
AN UNCEREMONIOUS DEPARTURE
"Oh, isn't it just splendid, Ruth? Don't you feel like singing and
dancing? Come on, let's have a two-step! I'll whistle!"
"Alice! How can you be so--so boisterous?" expostulated the taller of
two girls, who stood in the middle of their small and rather shabby
parlor.
"Boisterous! Weren't you going to say--rude?" laughingly asked the
one who had first spoken. "Come, now, 'fess up! Weren't you?" and the
shorter of the twain, a girl rather plump and pretty, with merry
brown eyes, put her arm about the waist of her sister and endeavored
to lead her through the maze of chairs in the whirl of a dance,
whistling, meanwhile, a joyous strain from one of the latest Broadway
successes.
"Oh, Alice!" came in rather fretful tones. "I don't--"
"You don't know what to make of me? That's it; isn't it, sister mine?
Oh, I can read you like a book. But, Ruth, why aren't you jolly once
in a while? Why always that 'maiden all forlorn' look on your face?
Why that far-away, distant look in your eyes--'Anne, Sister Anne,
dost see anyone approaching?' Talk about Bluebeard! Come on, do one
turn with me. I'm learning the one-step, you know, and it's lovely!
"Come on, laugh and sing! Really, aren't you glad that dad has an
engagement at last? A real engagement that will bring in some real
money! Aren't you glad? It will mean so much to us! Money! Why, I
haven't seen enough real money of late to have a speaking
acquaintance with it. We've been trusted for everything, except
carfare, and it would have come to that pretty soon. Say you're glad,
Ruth!"
The younger girl gave up the attempt to entice her sister into a
dance, and stood facing her, arm still about her waist, the laughing
brown eyes gazing mischievously up into the rather sad blue ones of
the taller girl.
"Glad? Of course I'm glad, Alice DeVere, and you know it. I'm just as
glad as you are that daddy has an engagement. He's waited long enough
for one, goodness knows!"
"You have a queer way of showing your gladness," commented the other
drily, shrugging her shapely shoulders. "Why, I can hardly keep
still. La-la-la-la! La-la-la-la! La-la-la!" She hummed the air of a
Viennese waltz song, meanwhile whirling gracefully about with
extended arms, her dress floating about her balloonwise.
"Oh, Alice! Don't!" objected her sister.
"Can't help it, Ruth. I've just got to dance. La-la!"
She stopped suddenly as a vase crashed to the floor from a table,
shattering into many pieces.
"Oh!" cried Alice, aghast, as she stood looking at the ruin she had
unwittingly wrought. "Oh, dear, and daddy was so fond of that vase!"
"There, you see what you've done!" exclaimed Ruth, who, though only
seventeen, and but two years older than her sister, was of a much
more sedate disposition. "I told you not to dance!"
"You did nothing of the sort, Ruth DeVere. You just stood and looked
at me, and you wouldn't join in, and maybe if you had this wouldn't
have happened--and--and--"
She did not finish, her voice trailing off rather dismally as she
stooped to pick up the pieces of the vase.
"It can't be mended, either," she went on, and when she looked up the
merry brown eyes were veiled in a mist of tears. Ruth's heart
softened at once.
"There, dear!" she said in consoling tones. "Of course you couldn't
help it. Don't worry. Daddy won't mind when you tell him you were
just doing a little waltz of happiness because he has an engagement
at last."
She, too, stooped and her light hair mingled with the dark brown
tresses of her sister as they gathered up the fragments.
"I don't care!" announced Alice, finally, as she sank into a chair.
"I'll tell dad myself. I'm glad, anyhow, even if the vase is broken.
I never liked it. I don't see why dad set such store by the old
thing."
"You forget, Alice, that it was one of--"
"Mother's--yes, I know," and she sighed. "Father gave it to her when
they were married, but really, mother was like me--she never cared
for it."
"Yes, Alice, you are much as mother was," returned Ruth, with gentle
dignity. "You are growing more like her every day."
"Am I, really?" and in delight the younger girl sprang up, her grief
over the vase for the moment forgotten. "Am I really like her, Ruth?
I'm so glad! Tell me more of her. I scarcely remember her. I was only
seven when she died, Ruth."
"Eight, my dear. You were eight years old, but such a tiny little
thing! I could hold you in my arms."
"You couldn't do it now!" laughed Alice, with a downward glance at
her plump figure. Yet she was not over-plump, but with the rounding
curves and graces of coming womanhood.
"Well, I couldn't hold you long," laughed Ruth. "But I wonder what is
keeping daddy? He telephoned that he would come right home. I'm so
anxious to have him tell us all about it!"
"So am I. Probably he had to stay to arrange about rehearsals,"
replied Alice. "What theater did he say he was going to open at?"
"The New Columbia. It's one of the nicest in New York, too."
"Oh, I'm so glad. Now we can go to a play once in a while--I'm almost
starved for the sight of the footlights, and to hear the orchestra
tuning up. And you know, while he had no engagement dad wouldn't let
us take advantage of his professional privilege, and present his card
at the box office."
"Yes, I know he is peculiar that way. But I shall be glad, too, to
attend a play now and again. I'm getting quite rusty. I did so want
to see Maude Adams when she was here. But--"
"I'd never have gone in the dress I had!" broke in Alice. "I want
something pretty to wear; don't you?"
"Of course I do, dear. But with things the way they were--"
"We had to eat our prospective dresses," laughed Alice. "It was like
being shipwrecked, when the sailors have to cut their boots into
lengths and make a stew of them."
"Alice!" cried Ruth, rather shocked.
"It was so!" affirmed the other. "Why, you must have read of it
dozens of times in those novels you're always poring over. The hero
and heroine on a raft--she looks up into his eyes and sighs. 'Have
another morsel of boot soup, darling!' Why, the time dad had to use
the money he had half promised me for that charmeuse, and we bought
the supper at the delicatessen--you know, when Mr. Blake stopped and
you asked him to stay to tea, when there wasn't a thing in the house
to eat--do you remember that?"
"Yes, but I don't see what it has to do with shipwrecked sailors
eating their boots. Really, Alice--"
"Of course it was just the same," explained the younger girl,
merrily. "There was nothing fit to give Mr. Blake, and I took the
money that was to have been paid for my charmeuse, and slipped out to
Mr. Dinkelspatcher's--or whatever his name is--and bought a meal.
Well, we ate my dress, that's all, Ruth."
"Why, Alice!"
"And I wish we had it to eat over again," went on the other, with a
half sigh. "I don't know what we are going to do for supper. How much
have we in the purse?"
"Only a few dollars."
"And we must save that, I suppose, until dad gets some salary, which
won't be for a time yet. And we really ought to celebrate in some
way, now that he's had this bit of good luck! Oh, isn't it just awful
to be poor!"
"Hush, Alice! The neighbors will hear you. The walls of this
apartment house are so terribly thin!"
"I don't care if they do hear. They all know dad hasn't had a
theatrical engagement for ever so long. And they know we haven't any
what you might call--resources--or we wouldn't live here. Of course
they know we're poor--that's no news!"
"I know, my dear. But you are so--so out-spoken."
"I'm glad of it. Oh, Ruth, when will you ever give up trying to
pretend we are what we are not? You're a dear, nice, sweet, romantic
sister, and some day I hope the Fairy Prince will come riding past on
his milk-white steed--and, say, Ruth, why should a prince always ride
a milk-white steed? There's something that's never been explained.
"All the novels and fairy stories have milk-white steeds for the hero
to prance up on when he rescues the doleful maiden. And if there's
any color that gets dirtier sooner, and makes a horse look most like
a lost hope, it's white. Of course I know they can keep a circus
horse milk-white, but it isn't practical for princes or heroes. The
first mud puddle he splashed through--And, oh, say! If the prince
should fail in his fortunes later, and have to hire out to drive a
coal wagon! Wouldn't his milk-white steed look sweet then? There goes
one now," and she pointed out of the window to the street below.
"Do, Ruth, if your prince comes, insist on his changing his steed for
one of sober brown. It will wear better."
"Don't be silly, Alice!"
"Oh, I can't help it. Hark, is that dad's step?"
The two girls listened, turning their heads toward the hall entrance
door.
"No, it's someone over at the Dalwoods'--across the corridor."
The noise in the hallway increased. There were hasty footsteps, and
then rather loud voices.
"I tell you I won't have anything to do with you, and you needn't
come sneaking around here any more. I'm done with you!"
"That's Russ," whispered Alice.
"Yes," agreed Ruth, and her sister noted a slight flush on her fair
cheeks.
Then came a voice in expostulation:
"But I tell you I can market it for you, and get you something for
it. If you try to go it alone--"
"Well, that's just what I'm going to do--go it alone, and I don't
want to hear any more from you. Now you get out!"
"But look here--"
There was a sound of a scuffle, and a body crashed up against the
door of the DeVere apartment.
"Oh!" cried Ruth and Alice together.
Their door swung open, for someone had seemingly caught at the knob
to save himself from falling. The girls had a glimpse of their
neighbor across the hall, Russ Dalwood by name, pushing a strange man
toward the head of the stairs.
"Now you get out!" cried Russ, and the man left rather
unceremoniously, slipping down two or three steps before he could
recover his balance and grasp the railing.
"Oh, shut the door, quickly, Alice!" gasped Ruth.
CHAPTER II
RUSS DALWOOD APOLOGIZES
The portal was closed with a bang--so closed because Alice in a mad
rush threw herself against it and turned the key in the lock. Then
she gained a place by her sister's side, and slipped an arm about her
waist.
"He--he won't come in," Alice whispered. "I saw him going down the
stairs."
"Who--who was it?" faltered Ruth. She was very pale.
"I don't know," Alice made answer. "I don't believe he meant to come
in here. It was--was just an accident. But the door is locked now.
Maybe it was some collector--like those horrid men who have been to
see us lately. The Dalwoods may be short of money, too."
"I don't think so, Alice. Russ makes good wages at the moving picture
place. Oh, are you sure the door is locked?"
"Positive. Don't worry."
"Let's slip down the back stairs to Mrs. Reilley's flat. She has a
telephone, and we can call the police," suggested the taller girl, in
a hoarse whisper, her eyes never leaving the hall door that had been
so unceremoniously thrust open.
"Silly!" returned Alice. "There's no danger now. That man has gone. I
tell you I saw him hurrying down the stairs. Russ sent him about his
business, all right--whatever his business was."
"Oh, it's terrible to live this way!" wailed Ruth. "With--with common
fighting going on in the halls! If poor mother were alive now--"
"She wouldn't be a bit afraid, if what you tell me of her is true!"
insisted Alice, stoutly. "And I'm not a bit afraid, either. Why, Russ
is just across the hall, and it was only the other day you were
saying how strong and manly he was. Have you forgotten?"
"No," answered Ruth, in a low voice, and again the blush suffused her
cheeks.
"Then don't be a silly. I'm not going down and ask Mrs. Reilley to
'phone for the police. That would cause excitement indeed. I don't
believe anyone else heard the commotion, and that was only because
our door flew open by accident."
"Oh, well, maybe it will be all right," assented the taller girl who,
in this emergency, seemed to lean on her younger sister. Perhaps it
was because Alice was so merry-hearted--even unthinking at times;
despising danger because she did not know exactly what it was--or
what it meant. Yet even now Ruth felt that she must play the part of
mother to her younger sister.
"Are you sure that door is locked?" she asked again.
"Positive! See, I'll slip on the chain, and then it would tax even a
policeman to get in. But, really, Ruth, I wouldn't go to Mrs.
Reilley's if I were you. She'll tell everyone, and there doesn't seem
to be any need. It's all over, and those below, or above us, seem to
have heard nothing of it."
"Oh, I wish daddy would come home!"
"So do I, for that matter. That's sensible. What did he say," asked
Alice, "when you went down to Mrs. Reilley's telephone to talk to
him?" For that neighbor had summoned one of the girls when she
learned, over the wire, that Mr. DeVere wished to speak with his
daughters about his good fortune.
"He didn't have time to say much," replied Ruth. "He just stole a
minute or two away from the conference to say that he had an
engagement that was very promising."
"And didn't he say when he'd be home?"
"No, only that it would be as soon as possible."
"Well, I suppose he'll come as quickly as he can. Let's see what we
can get up in the way of a lunch. We may have to resort to the
delicatessen again. I do want father to have something nice when he
comes home with his good news."
"So do I," agreed Ruth. "I'm afraid our ice box doesn't contain much
in the way of refreshments for an impromptu banquet, though, and I
positively won't go out after--after what happened. At least not
right away!"
"Pooh, I'm not afraid!" laughed Alice, having recovered her spirits.
"On the ice box--charge!" she cried gaily, waltzing about.
The girls found little enough to reward them, and it came, finally,
to the necessity of making a raid on the nearest delicatessen shop if
they were to "banquet" their father.
In fact since the DeVere family had come to make their home in the
Fenmore Apartment House, on one of the West Sixtieth streets of New
York City, there had been very little in the way of food luxuries,
and not a great deal of the necessities.
Their life had held a little more of ease and comfort when they lived
in a more fashionable quarter, but with the loss of their father's
theatrical engagement, and the long period of waiting for another,
their savings had been exhausted and they had had recourse to the
pawn shop, in addition to letting as many bills as possible go unpaid
until fortune smiled again.
Hosmer DeVere, who was a middle-aged, rather corpulent and
exceedingly kind and cultured gentleman, was the father of the two
girls. Their mother had been dead about seven years, a cold caught in
playing on a draughty stage developing into pneumonia, from which she
never rallied.
Ruth and Alice came of a theatrical family--at least, on their
father's side--for his father and grandfather before him had enviable
histrionic reputations. Mrs. DeVere had been a vivacious country
maid--or, rather, a maid in a small town that was classed as being on
the "country" circuit by the company playing it. Mr. DeVere, then
blossoming into a leading man, was in the troupe, and became
acquainted with his future wife through the medium of the theater.
She had sought an interview with the manager, seeking a chance to
"get on the boards," and Mr. DeVere admired her greatly.
Their married life was much happier than the usual theatrical union,
and under the guidance and instruction of her husband Mrs. DeVere had
become one of the leading juvenile players. Both her husband and
herself were fond of home life, and they had looked forward to the
day when they could retire and shut themselves away from the public
with their two little daughters.
But fortunes are seldom made on the stage--not half as often as is
imagined--and the time seemed farther and farther off. Then came Mrs.
DeVere's illness and death, and for a time a broken-hearted man
withdrew himself from the world to devote his life to his daughters.
But the call of the stage was imperative, not so much from choice as
necessity, for Mr. DeVere could do little to advantage save act, and
in this alone could he make a living. So he had returned to the
"boards," filling various engagements with satisfaction, and taking
his daughters about with him.
Rather strange to say, up to the present, though literally saturated
with the romance and hard work of the footlights, neither Ruth nor
Alice had shown any desire to go on the stage. Or, if they had it,
they had not spoken of it. And their father was glad.
Mr. DeVere was a clever character actor, and had created a number of
parts that had won favor. He inclined to whimsical comedy roles,
rather than to romantic drama, and several of his old men studies are
remembered on Broadway to this day. He had acted in Shakespeare, but
he had none of that burning desire, with which many actors are
credited, to play Hamlet. Mr. DeVere was satisfied to play the
legitimate in his best manner, to look after his daughters, and to
trust that in time he might lay by enough for himself, and see them
happily married.
But the laying-aside process had been seriously interrupted several
times by lack of engagements, so that the little stock of savings
dwindled away.
Then came a panicky year. Many theaters were closed, and more actors
"walked the Rialto" looking for engagements than ever before. Mr.
DeVere was among them, and he even accepted a part in a vaudeville
sketch to eke out a scanty livelihood.
Good times came again, but did not last, and finally it looked to the
actor as though he were doomed to become a "hack," or to linger along
in some stock company. He was willing to do this, though, for the
sake of the girls.
A rather longer period of inactivity than usual made a decided change
in the DeVere fortunes, if one can call a struggle against poverty
"fortunes." They had to leave their pleasant apartment and take one
more humble. Some of their choice possessions, too, went to the sign
of the three golden balls; but, with all this, it was hard work to
set even their scanty table. And the bills!
Ruth wept in secret over them, being the house-keeper. And, of late,
some of the tradesmen were not as patient and kind as they had been
at first. Some even sent professional collectors, who used all their
various wiles to humiliate their debtors.
But now a ray of light seemed to shine through the gloom, and a
tentative promise from one theatrical manager had become a reality.
Mr. DeVere had telephoned that the contract was signed, and that he
would have a leading part at last, after many weeks of idleness.
"What is the play?" asked Alice of her sister, when they had decided
on what they might safely get from the delicatessen store. "Did dad
say?"
"Yes. It's 'A Matter of Friendship.' One of those new society
dramas."
"Oh, I do hope he gets us tickets!"
"We will need some dresses before we can use tickets," sighed Ruth.
"Positively I wouldn't go anywhere but in the gallery now."
"No, we wouldn't exactly shine in a box," agreed Alice.
"Hark!" cautioned her sister. "There's someone in the hall now. I
heard a step----"
There came a knock on the door, and in spite of themselves both girls
started nervously.
"That isn't his rap!" whispered Alice.
"No. Ask who it is," suggested Ruth. Somehow, she looked again to the
younger Alice now.
"Who--who is it?" faltered the latter. "Maybe it's one of those
horrid collectors," she went on, in her sister's ear. "I wish I'd
kept quiet."
But the voice that answered reassured them.
"Are you there, Miss DeVere? This is Russ Dalwood. I want to
apologize for that row outside your door a few minutes ago. It was an
accident. I'm sorry. May I come in?"
CHAPTER III
THE OLD TROUBLE
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."