# Love and Learn (Witwer)/Chapter 8

In the fiscal year of 68 b.c. (before Coolidge), a young gentleman who rejoiced in the high-sounding name of Cornificus stepped out of a projection room in sunny Italy after previewing a super-production by the local deMille and remarked:
"A picture is a poem without words!"
Well really, if the movies are poetry I certainly wish the composers would try a little harder to make more of 'em rhyme. While I admit I've witnessed some films that smacked of Shakespearian verse, I've likewise watched plenty that reminded me strangely of Old Mother Goose! Having just had a long look at the manufacture of a motion picture, I'm satisfied that if the scenario poets would stare about them in the studios these master minds would find climaxes, thrills and gasp-producing situations right under their comely noses to the extent of galore. Honestly, the actual ​making of a movie is as full of red-blooded romance, human interest, excitement, comedy, drama and the unexpected as the letters of the defendant in a breach of promise suit!
How do I know? I helped make one—a picture, not a defendant!
This escapade came to pass, as they say in Patagonia, right after me and Hazel returned from abroad. After we got back again to the Land of the Spree and the Home of the Rave, we both settled down to the old routine. Hazel was kept busy doing her chores at the show shop with ample matinées and the regular evening exhibitions, while I tried not to die of yawning from the constant and monotonous "Number please?" For a change, romance was temporarily conspicuous by its absence as far as we were concerned. That unfortunate experience in Paris with William the wicked waiter, had made Hazel a man-hater for the time being and she was scrupulously steering clear of any petting parties with the exacting sex.
But I still continued to exchange wise cracks with the boys who hungrily hover around the switchboard. I also went on taking boxed and verbal confectionery, occasionally making dinner engagements with the cream of the entries and rejecting moonlight auto ride propositions from the others. If I didn't clown a little I'd go cuckoo. All work and no play makes Jack a ​dull boy, but what it makes Jacqueline is fearful, honestly!
I've always got a decided thrill out of entering the lists daily in this eternal tournament of sex, playing the game according to Hoyle and emerging with my reputation and sense of humor still intact. Really, that's a feat just difficult enough to fascinate me and I've done it since the first time I realized that it wasn't merely something stuck in their throats that made the boys catch their breath when they gazed at me!
"My future's all behind me!" says Jerry Murphy, mournfully to me one day. "I don't seem to be gettin' nowheres, what I mean! I only wish I had went to work and got married when I was a handsome young lad and the girls all maniacal over me. Why, they was at least eight wealthy and beautiful young heirlooms chasin' after me day and night, but——"
"Heirlooms?" butts in Pete Kift, "Ha, ha, ha—that's one for the book! You mean heiresses, you big banana!"
"I'll call 'em what I like!" says Jerry indignantly. "Whose Janes was these? Anyways, as I was sayin', should I of got wed I'd of had a big family now and somethin' to live for, get me? I wish I had about a dozen kids and——"
"Tomato sauce!" interrupts Pete, "On the sugar ​you make you couldn't keep a promise, let alone a dozen kids!"
"But they would be nothin' to prevent them dozen kids from keepin' me, would they?" says Jerry.
Don't you love that?
"Chase this act back to its dressing room and get me Vanderbilt four-six-five-nine-six, will you, Cutey?" says Mr. Lee, the booking agent, who's been waiting for service. He grins at the scowling Jerry and Pete. "You boys better go right into your dance. Your crossfire's all wet!" he tells 'em.
Well speaking of mushrooms, I came down to business bright and early one morning—that is, the morning was bright and I was early—to find the St. Moe just a-quiver with excitement. Under the continual commands of Pete Kift, the merry bellhops are running themselves ragged bringing mail, telegrams, stationery, ice-water and what-not to the most magnificent suite on the mast magnificent floor of the most magnificent hotel in Gotham. Yvonne McCann, the night operator that I relieved, greeted me with cheers, as the buzzers on the switchboard were simply running wild with calls to 302-4-6-8, occupied by Mr. Gordon Daft, Esq., and retinue.
As you probably know, Gordon Daft is the most famous superdirector of superpictures in the wide, wide world. He's the fourth musketeer, no fooling! I guess ​you've fought your way in to see some of his latest box-office wows: "Are You My Parents?" "Wronged by Mistake," "The Girl Who Loved Plenty," "Murdered in Fun," etc.—all masterpieces which cause the audience to stand up in cheers, the exhibitors to count up in tears and the censors to pick up their shears. You always see Mr. Daft's productions prominently mentioned in the lowdown from the exhibitors in the trade magazines under the heading, "What the Picture Did to Me." Thus:
"The Girl From Gehenna," directed by Gordon Daft. Book thes one, boys, it's the trout's necktie! Personally I thought it an awful thing but the audience ate it up. Ran it three nights with colored revival as opposition and packed 'em in like they do in the subway. Give us more of these and I'll be able to retire. That's what I'll have to do anyways, if they don't lower the rentals. Smiling Billy Goof, Dreamland Theater, Nightmare, Ala.
Well, anyhow, the noted Mr. Daft had just returned from Hades or some place where he went on location to "shoot" realistic tropical scenes, in his newest example of what can be done with a camera, a good title and an unlimited expense account. Reporters of all sexes besieged him for interviews on "What's Wrong with the Movies?" even carrying the thing to the astonishing extreme of printing his answers. Really, our ambitious phone operators, chambermaids and scrub​ladies vied with the equally ambitious female guests of the hostelry in trying to catch and hold the eye of this star-making wizard of the screen. His horde of secretaries, servants and stenographers spoke of him in hushed voices as "The Master!"
Oh, Gordon Daft created quite a panic with the neighbors and don't think he didn't!
Nevertheless, all this hullaballoo over Mr. Daft left me quite unmoved, and when it came to giving him worship, well, I wasn't putting anything out!
In spite of all this furore he was no good to me, even though he unquestionably produced a mean movie. In my estimation Gordon Daft was just a good egg, rating no particular favors—a nice young fellow and that's all!
A couple or three days after Mr. Daft had stood the St. Moe on its head by his mere august presence, he came to the switchboard in person one morning and just ruined the peace of mind of the girls. After posing there awhile to give these adoring ones a treat, he turned and gazed squarely into my face. I guess my eyes must have been a bit cynical at that moment because I was thinking scornfully what my charming colleagues would do for a smile from Gordon Daft—and what I wouldn't!
One instant of puzzled frown and then Mr. Daft had me pegged.
​"As I live!" he exclaims with a pleased smile. "The beautiful Goddess of the Switchboard in her native lair! I've been trying to find you everywhere since we made that boxer Leary a champion in London. Fate must have directed my footsteps this morning! How are you?"
"Perfect!" I smiled back, shaking his eager hand. "How's the magic lantern business?"
The other girls, following our tête-à-tête with ears as open as Lake Erie and giving out flocks of wrong numbers as a result, gasped with the shock of hearing the great Gordon Daft spoken to in this frivolous manner. But that swiftly changed to envy when he didn't seem the least bit steamed and continued to make a large fuss over me. However, I was merely wondering how long it would be before he tried to get me to give him Hazel's phone number. I figured I had read his approach correctly, but it seemed I was wrong!
"I never expected to see you at a switchboard again after your exhibition of ingenuity in London," he says, "I've told the story of how you crowned King Leary a score of times!"
"I've told it a few times myself," I says. "What's the name of the twenty-reel insult to the adult intelligence you're assembling now?"
Gasp number two came from the other girls and Mr. Daft grins.
​"I'm wild about frankness," he says, "and you're Miss Candid herself! I'd like you to see my latest picture, it's really a good one—plot a bit different, excellent cast and—say, why not dine with me tonight and I'll tell you all about it?"
At this the girls nearly swooned! Honestly, under the circumstances it was hard to resist the temptation to accept that invitation, in a loud voice. But thinking of Hazel, I stalled.
"I think you're giving me a run around," I says, busily manipulating the switchboard plugs. "Why should you have to ask me to eat with you? You don't mean to tell me you're friendless in this town, do you?"
Again he laughs.
"Having already devoured your beauty with my eyes," he says, bowing cutely, "I'd like your company for dessert."
"I love that," I says. "You sound like the titles from some of your own movies. Desserts are not good for you—you may find me too rich."
"Perhaps," he says. "At any rate I can make you rich! Eventually, why not now?"
"Behave!" I warn him. "Do you wish a number?"
"Why high-hat me?" he complains. "I'm harmless and I may be able to do you a lot of good. I've half a ​mind to offer you a part in one of my pictures—laugh that off!"
This time two of the girls with weak hearts got up and left the board!
"Oh, daddy, you're so good to me!" I laughed, in Hazel's best manner. "I won't dine with you, but I'll tell you what I will do—in the interests of better-phone service for the other guests, who are already squawking, you've got to go away from here! Run along and, I'll let you call on me next Sunday afternoon. Bring your own cake!"
"Fine!" says Mr. Daft. "That's a good thought and I look forward to spending a most delightful Sunday!"
"That's entirely up to you," I says. "Goo'-by, see you all of a sudden!"
I knew Hazel was going to be home on Sunday and I knew I was going to be out! Hazel's my chum and even though Mr. Daft hadn't mentioned her name once, she saw him first and I wanted her to have every chance. It's a hobby of mine to play the game. We girls can be the square sex as well as the fair and only a poor and consistent loser of the male sex will sneer at that statement.
When I told Hazel that evening about meeting Mr. Daft she immediately got so excited as the word itself. Really, she hurled questions at me for an hour, but! ​managed to come through her eager cross-examination on what the world's champion director had to say about her without disclosing the fact that he said absolutely nothing whatsoever. That was no mean feat! As Hazel's show was about to close it looked like a hard winter and when I mentioned that Mr. Daft was calling on Sunday, Hazel prepared for a killing. I carelessly remarked that I had another engagement for the Sabbath and she certainly didn't do any crying and carrying on for me to remain at home.
Well, I had taken up horseback riding as a pleasant exercise to keep my figure the way they're wearing 'em now and I started to spend Sunday afternoon cantering in Central Park. I demanded a good, speedy equine at the riding academy and I got service, I did for a fact. Honestly, I think they gave me Zev and if they didn't then I'm satisfied I was aboard Zev's master. By a strange coincidence, at Sixty-third Street this animal mistook a traffic cop for a starter and went out after the mile record without even consulting me. From then on it was a typical case of hold everything. I've heard of running fools, but this horse was Mr. Run himself! At Seventy-fourth Street I was four lengths ahead of an excited and leg-weary field composed of mounted police, other riders, automobiles and motorcycle cops. They were all trying, but they couldn't cope with my fiery steed! Around Eighty-sixth Street ​I drew my first breath and managed to talk my noble charger out of the crazy idea that he had Paul Revere in the saddle and I pulled him to a walk without assistance. That spoiled the whole day for the panting heroes galloping up behind me, among which, to my great surprise, was Mr. Gordon Daft!
"You ride superbly!" he lies like a gentleman. "Is there anything you can't do?"
"Plenty!" I smiled. "I seem to have some trouble avoiding you, for one thing!"
"But why should you avoid me?" he wants to know. "Why are you as cold as an Eskimo's nose to me? I'm going to give you a screen test and if you can troupe as well as you can ride, I'll never let you get away from me!"
"Oh, you're so masterful!" I says with mock admiration. "I thought you were scheduled to appear at my flat today?"
"I was there," he says. "Where were you? What's the big idea of giving me a pushing around like that?"
"But you saw Hazel, didn't you?" I asked, ducking his questions.
"Saw who? Oh, your girl friend? Yes, I saw her. I think she was with you in London, wasn't she?" says Mr. Daft. "Her features are faintly familiar, but then I'm not much on remembering faces. I gave her a message for you and left right away. You owe ​me an apology for breaking your engagement, young lady!"
But really, I was so flustered and astonished at his dismissing Hazel with a mere wave of the hand, you might say, that I couldn't think of a thing to tell him. We rode along in silence for a while, with Mr. Daft closely studying my averted face. Suddenly he burst out:
"Listen, little girl, you have me cataloged all wrong. Get the idea out of your pretty head that I have any unholy designs on you—that's out! You certainly must be aware of the fact that I'll never expire of not knowing beautiful women. It isn't just me—any man in my position has 'em thrown at him hourly! Well, six-fifths of them are meaningless. You're not, which explains my interest!"
"Oh, thank you, sir, she cried!" I says demurely.
"You'll thank me yet and mean it!" says Mr. Daft. "I'm not interested in your figure—though it's a pulse-quickener—I'm interested in your future, get me? I'm not trying to promote you, I'm trying to put you where you'll get important money, lots of fame and lots of laughs!"
"Yes, yes, go on!" I says.
"I wish you'd stop clowning and get serious for a minute!" says Mr. Daft pettishly. "I tell you it's the crime of the century for a girl with your unusual good ​looks and remarkable wit to waste yourself on a telephone switchboard! Who will you ever meet there? Who, that amounts to anything, will give you a tumble?"
"The best people in New York say hello to me daily," I reminded him.
"Yes—over the phone," says Mr. Daft. "And they also say good-by to you daily, don't forget that! Well, if you should change your mind within the next few days let me know and I'll cast you in my picture. I won't be happy till I get you off that switchboard and started for fame and fortune!"
Honestly, that made the 964th time that similarly "disinterested" gentlemen had made that last remark to me. My answer never varies and seldom runs into more than two words—apple sauce! I'll say this for Mr. Daft—he really seemed very sincere and at no time during our acquaintance did he strike me as a mere John. I won't attempt to tell you that I didn't feel highly flattered by his interest, but——
Well, to lower a high story, Mr. Daft continued to favor me with his kind attentions, a fact that I didn't think it was necessary to encumber Hazel's mind with, though why my beautiful girl friend couldn't hold him was a problem for bigger brains than mine. It's always seemed to me that Hazel has everything in the world to attract a man of the first water, but when it comes to ​the high-class boys she always fails to click. She goals 'em all at first glance, but after that it seems to be a case of no can do.
I didn't try to make a heavy boy friend of Mr. Daft; in fact I went out of my way to sell him Hazel. My roommate's show had now closed, and, being a good girl at heart, Hazel simply had to get a job or go without her cakes. The European junket had played havoc with her bankroll and my weekly honorarium wouldn't feed two dyspeptic gnats, let alone two healthy girls. In other words, the panic was on!
About this time Mr. Daft got permission from the management of the St. Moe to use the gorgeous hotel lobby for a scene in "Why Marry Your Husband?" his latest celluloid concoction. He talked me into appearing in the thing at my switchboard as a phone operator and he also commandeered Jerry Murphy and Pete Kift in their respective capacities of house detective and bell captain. The enthusiastic guests who crowded the side-lines, braving the weird glare of the Klieg lights, laughed themselves hysterical watching Jerry and Pete try to make the Barrymores look like supers, both of 'em breaking out with an acting rash and taking it as seriously as if it was diphtheria. Really, when these boys entered the hotel game the comic strip artists lost a couple of wonderful models!
All your little girl friend had to do was to keep ​plugging my board and talk to Harold Lorraine, the handsome star, in a couple of closeups. One was supposed to be a very dramatic scene and Mr. Daft carefully rehearsed me. He said Harold would rush up fearfully excited and say to me: "Call police headquarters at once. There's been a murder committed on the third floor!" I was then to exclaim "My God!" open my mouth and eyes wide and frantically try to get police headquarters. It was necessary to say something like that, said Mr. Daft, to get the proper expression of horror and excitement on the features. Well, Harold rushed up and said, "My, what beautiful eyes you have, girlie!" and I said, "Be yourself!" I suppose the lip readers will write complaining letters to the fan magazines when they see that scene.
Afterwards Mr. Daft took me and Hazel over to the big studio on Long Island and let us see the "rushes" of the hotel scene run off in the projection room. Honestly, he got quite enthusiastic over my "acting," which was just my natural self, and all the yes-men in the projection room told me I was a knockout, following "the Master's" lead. None of this made much of a hit with the brooding Hazel, and really I was glad when Mr. Daft detailed a willing young assistant director to show us all around the lot.
This sightseeing trip was quite interesting and replete with smiles, for me at least. I always get a kick ​out of a movie studio—much more than I do out of most of the product thereof. I thoroughly enjoy the stars who absolutely cannot do their stuff without soft music playing on the set; the puttee-wearing directors who refuse to look at their daily rushes without ditto music in the projection room; the yesmen who hang about the executives and hold their jobs by simply being constantly affirmative; the upstage female stars who come to work with maids, chauffeurs, secretaries, lap dogs and what-not; the dare-devil, underpaid doubles who do the wild rides and wilder airplane jumps for the milk-fed leads; the "gag men" who furnish all the surefire hokum; the director who hurls away the scenario with the contemptuous remark, "What does an author know about a good story?" and adds that his best pictures have been made without any story at all; the actors who act both before and away from the camera; the hungry-looking extras hoping they are "the type"; the trained cats, hounds, horses, lions, monkeys, etc., that work oftener and harder and get and deserve more money than most of the actors; the hard-boiled camera men and electricians who think everything is all wrong; the producer, late of the cloak and suit industry, who is positive Scott's "The Lady of the Lake" was written for Annette Kellermann; the sleepless property man who incessantly tells the joke about the undertaker who used to be a director refusing to bury his first ​corpse because it "wasn't the type!" etc., etc. and even etc!
Their thrilling plunge into the silent drama had disgusted Jerry Murphy and Pete Kift with hotel life. They were now a couple of artistes and all through with the St. Moe, so they thereupon got rosy with the manager and he promptly checked them out. By stating their pitiful case to Mr. Daft I managed to get them jobs as extras until he had finished with "Why Marry Your Husband?" at least. Knowing nothing of my intercession for them, they blew into the St. Moe one afternoon arm in arm and putting on dog like a sales person with her first engagement ring.
I pretended not to know what they were doing for an existence and they loftily informed me they were in pictures now, as Mr. Daft had quickly recognized their genius after seeing them in the hotel scene in his movie and had engaged them at exorbitant wages on the spot before Mr. D. Griffith could snatch them up. Really, this was a scream to me, especially as neither of 'em knew any more about the movies than they did about the Koran and were as out of place in a picture as a yacht on the desert. I'm positive they thought Alice Lake was a swimming pool!
"We're certainly sorry to see you still tied to the old switchboard and us on the top of the ladder, kid," says Jerry, looking around the lobby with a self-satisfied ​grin. "We had lots of laughs together in this drum! We'll undoubtlessly be starred soon and we hope you come and see us."
"Don't be makin' the poor girl feel no worse than she does!" rebukes Pete Kift. "It ain't her fault that she ain't a actor, is it? You got to be born a actor, what I mean!"
"No fooling," I says. "Like you and Jerry were?"
"Sure!" says Pete. "My old man used to tend the stage door at Miner's old barleycue house on the Bowery. It's in the blood!"
Don't you love that?
Well, I kept on boosting Hazel to Mr. Daft till one day he cut me off short in the middle of a particularly glowing and first hand description of my girl friend's good points.
"Listen, Gladys!" he says earnestly. "I don't want to hire Hazel—she's a nice girl, but I've got no place for her. What I want to do is engage you and I predict a brilliant career for you! Why don't you let me——"
"Mr. Daft," I interrupted, "I know you must think I'm a trifle demented for passing up this lifetime opportunity you're offering me, but honestly, I can't help it! Pictures are no new experience for me—I did time in Hollywood before coming to Manhattan from Bountiful, Utah."
​"Bountiful?" says Mr. Daft. "I never heard of it."
"It's fifty-fifty," I says. "It never heard of you, either! However, while I have lots of dreams in the daytime, moving pictures don't figure in them at all—I mean I never have nightmares, just dreams! The studio game thrills me about the same way it thrills a correspondence school office boy to see a postage stamp. I thank you just the same. And now, just what is the matter with Hazel? Isn't she beautiful, hasn't she got——"
"Oh, she's beautiful enough!" says Mr. Daft impatiently. "She's a snappy number and I just know she wears 'em, but she can't troupe! Her brains seem to be out on location too often, get me? In other words, while your girl friend makes a nice display in a bathing suit or an evening gown, she hasn't showed me a thing to make her stand out from a thousand similar beauteous dumbbells that I can have for the asking. You and her don't belong in the same room—she just hasn't got your stuff and that's all there is to it! To please you I'll give her a note to a comedy director who might use her in place of a title as a bathing beauty or——"
"Never mind that note," I butt in. "I wouldn't expose you to writer's cramp for the world! Besides, it wouldn't mean anything, really. Hazel would only ​bawl me out for trying to place her in the one-piece suit drama. She's long since tired of being a mere eye-feast and she wants to act or nothing!"
"I can heartily recommend nothing, then!" says Mr. Daft.
Finally the filming of "Why Marry Your Husband?" was almost completed and only the big scene—the hair-raising climax—remained to be shot. Mr. Daft said the title of the picture turned his stomach, as it was simply aimed at the box-office and had as much to do with the story as he had to do with the Japanese earthquake.
So he offered a prize of one thousand dollars for a better label and the contest was open to anyone on the lot outside of the watchmen, who were automatically barred, as the competition was for amateurs only and not for the people who have been composing all the motion picture titles right along. Well, really, I have a decided money complex and I made up my mind I would win that thousand or die in the attempt.
I won it and didn't even get ill, let alone perish!
The climax of this picture called for a thrilling rescue of the leading woman. Thelma Tasty, from a burning yacht in mid-ocean by Harold Lorraine, the star. But child Harold had other plans! The dashing screen hero calmly and pointblankly refused to risk his precious life in the interests of bigger and better movies ​and he insisted upon a double doing the large rescue. This eleventh hour mutiny on the part of his star got Mr. Daft red-headed and he ruled the double off on the grounds that Harold had used doubles so many times of late that the dear old public was beginning to get wise that their idol had feet of ice. The argument kept up for a week, with the star and director deadlocked. Honestly, Mr. Daft was frantic as the immense overhead of the company reporting daily went on and the release date drew nearer. Then he remembered how I had maneuvered Fighting Paddy Leary into a world's championship in London and in desperation "the Master" came to me.
"Show me an out to this jam, Miss Fix-It, and you can write your own ticket!" wails Mr. Daft.
Well, gentle reader, I did both!
In a hasty conference behind locked doors with Mr. Daft, his various assistants, production manager and publicity director, I outlined a rather daring and original plan to make the faint-hearted Harold Lorraine rescue. Thelma Tasty from the flames. There was a tense silence when I finished speaking—really, you could have heard a gag drop! Mr. Daft frowned, coughed, drummed on the table with a pencil, looked doubtful and finally remarked that he thought my scheme clever, but a bit too risky. That being the cue for the others, they thought so too. All except "Scoop" ​Murphy, press-agent and two-thirds of the studio brains. He leaped up and loudly declared my little scheme was fourteen degrees above perfect and there was no way it could miss! Then Scoop made quite a speech, casting admiring glances at me and pointing out the enormous publicity value of my stunt—if it worked. At last the skeptical Mr. Daft was sold and gave his consent to a trial, adding that if one word of my plan leaked out in advance or afterwards there would be no use of anybody present ever showing up on the lot again, even as sightseers.
Several days after this me and Hazel are visiting the studio during a "re-take" of a scene in "Why Marry Your Husband?" The leading woman. Thelma Tasty, is framed in the topmost window of a high wooden tower blowing kisses to her lover, Harold Lorraine. The cameras were clicking away merrily, the usual gang of unnecessary hangers-on were giving matters their undivided attention and the action was progressing smoothly under Mr. Daft's megaphoned orders.
The scene with the principals finished, the extras were moving about the big stage herded by a perspiring assistant director when suddenly I let out a wild shriek at the top of my voice. Mr. Daft swung around on me with an angry exclamation, Hazel jumped away in alarm and I was the embarrassed object of all eyes. ​In answer to the questions flung at me I simply pointed heavenwards in speechless horror.
High up in the wooden tower puffs of dense smoke were swirling around the beautiful form of Thelma Tasty and the vicious crackle of flame came clearly from below her. Instantly the studio was in the wildest confusion—here was an unscheduled thrill! Camera men, extras, carpenters, electricians, actors and visitors began milling back and forth in terrified excitement and the great Gordon Daft himself turned pale and also ran madly around calling for the fire department. Trapped high above the ground, with the flames below her already curling upwards, Thelma Tasty screamed piteously for help, but the panic-stricken mob below had all lost their heads and simply fell over each other like stampeded cattle, honestly! Harold Lorraine stood—stock-still staring up at his leading woman's plight, apparently petrified with amazement, while a hastily formed and wofully ineffective bucket brigade dashed past him. A pail of water, jostled from somebody's grasp, half drenched Harold and he found his voice.
"For heaven's sake!" he yells wildly, "Somebody climb up there and get her out! What's the matter with all you people? Get ladders, get—oh, hurry! She'll burn to death while you fools stand there looking at her!"
​I'm right beside the excited young man, wringing my hands.
"Oh, oh, oh!" I moan in his ear. "This is terrible! Oh, if I was a man I'd——"
But with a muttered oath Harold Lorraine pushes past me, dives through the gaping mob and runs for the burning tower. Another minute and our handsome star is frantically climbing its side. And Hazel had contemptuously called Harold a cake eater!
"Camera!" bawls Mr. Daft, snapping into himself on the instant that Harold's feet left the ground on their upward climb. "You people keep milling around there—shout, scream, holler, bump into each other—keep busy with those fire buckets—run for water—get ladders—that's it, gimme a riot! Remember your places, you extras, and don't all crowd on one side—if this screens like a movie I'll murder the lot of you!"
Well, after a series of breath-taking slips Harold reached the top of the tower, seized his swooning leading woman in his manly arms and carried her down to safety—just as I had assured Mr. Daft he would do if my stunt was properly staged! Honestly, as a "punch climax" it turned out to be far punchier than the one in the original scenario, calling for a rescue from a yacht. The cameras caught it all from a dozen different angles and really it photographed beautifully, ​with Mr. Harold Lorraine still in ignorance of that "unprogramed" fire being carefully plotted and unceasingly rehearsed for weeks—while he was away from the lot! Harold thought he was a bona fide hero—and as a matter of fact he was!
Scoop Murphy, who, of course, had called out the fire department, plastered pictures and stories about Harold Lorraine, Thelma Tasty, Gordon Daft, the fire and the coming movie all over the front pages of the newspapers for one entire day. As they were New York newspapers, that was as good as having the incident run serially somewhere else. As for Mr. Daft, well, when he finally ceased congratulating me and thanking me for helping him out of the hole he was in with his temperamental star, he told me I could have anything I wanted.
"I don't care what it is—ask and it's yours!" he wound up, banging his fist on the top of the table in his office.
"Then I ask a contract—and a fair chance—for Hazel Killian!" I says promptly, while he gasps and stares at me in amazement. "I know you can make Hazel an actress—you can make anybody an actress! I've seen some of the dumbbells you've made famous on the screen, Mr. Daft—why can't you do the same thing for Hazel?"
"Why not for you?" demands Mr. Daft. "You're ​no dumbbell, Gladys, you're that rare animal, a born actress, and——"
"Some other time!" I interrupted, smiling at him. "I have a job, Hazel hasn't. She's crazy to get into the movies—I'm not!"
Mr. Daft leans back in his chair and looks at me with the same curiosity he'd probably view me with if I was a four-headed mouse.
"Gladys," he says finally, "you're what I'd call a phenomenon of the first water! Offered a contract by——"
"By the greatest director in the world!" I put in, still smiling.
"By—eh—by a director of standing," he corrects me, but he's pleased; "I repeat, offered a contract by a director, you refuse it and plug for your less capable girl friend. The fair sex—fair is right!"
"Or square," I says. "I rather like 'the square sex!'"
"Like it!" yells Mr. Daft, suddenly sitting straight up. "I love it! The Square Sex—a pip! That's what we'll call this picture, 'The Square Sex.' It means something, it fits, it will tickle the ladies! Well, I'll sign Miss Killian—that's that! But say, I wish you'd let me do something for you!"
"You can!" I says coolly. "You can write me a check for one thousand dollars for supplying your title."
​"Yes—and I'll write you another for five thousand for supplying the punch!' he says, reaching for his pen.
A nice boy, now wasn't he?
A couple of days later Hazel, who knew nothing at all of the part I played in the sensational incident of the studio fire, got her contract from Mr. Daft. She woke me up and tossed it on my bed triumphantly. I looked sleepily at her flushed cheeks and delightfully tousled hair. She is a beautiful thing, really!
"Good for you!" I says. "I—I wish I could act!"
"I wish you could too, dear!" says Hazel jumping on the bed and smoothing my hair. "I hate to think of you moored for life to that old switchboard; you're so awfully pretty and such a darn good fellow, Gladys. But then we can't all be born with a talent for acting and I'll bet you have hidden gifts that are just as good as mine. I'll speak to Mr. Daft about you from time to time and maybe after a while I can work you in somewhere—I suppose he remembers you, all right?"
I looked at Hazel and smiled a smile that was wasted on her blissful ignorance.
"I suppose he does!" I says.