Picture Play Magazine (Mar-Jul 1929)

Advertising Section 109 Tke Stroller Continued from page 65 "And did you work in — in the movies?" She giggled a little timidly as she asked this. I don't know why. "Well," I hedged, "in a way." "I just love the movies," piped the lady on my left. "When I'm home my sister and I — my husband's dead, and I live with my sister — go three or four times a week." "Is that so?" What more could you say to that? The next hour was pretty. I admitted that I thought that Colleen Moore was awfully cute ; that Billie Dove was just gorgeous ; that Buddy Rogers was just the dearest boy ; that Laura La Plante was awfully cute ; that John Gilbert, aside from being a good actor, was not really a wild young man after all ; that Bebe Daniels was awfully cute ; that Marian Nixon was awfully cute; that, in fact, any number of cuties were awfully cute. I also declared, to dispel vague doubts in the minds of my inquisitors, that young girls are as safe in Hollywood as they are anywhere else. I added that from the young girls I had seen migrating to Hollywood, I judged that they needed no more protection from Hollywood than Hollywood did from them. This was received without either laughter or comment. Thank Heaven they didn't ask me about talking pictures. Emerging from my morning experiment, which proved that a safety razor is not a safety razor when you use it on a train, I discovered that the berth opposite me had acquired an occupant some time during the night. She was young, to a certain extent, and she had red hair. I could not but observe that she rolled her stockings, and she smiled and said "Good morning," even though she had never seen me before. A ukulele rested ominously beside her. By eleven o'clock a group consisting of the threshing-machine salesman, the representative of Finkelstein shoes, the gray-haired gentleman, and another unidentified rake were grouped about her, committing some perfectly atrocious close harmony to the jangling of her ukulele. The threshing-machine salesman caught my eye and beckoned me over. Then he waved his hand in a manner of introduction and said, "Billie, this is Mr. McGimp. Mr. McGimp is from Hollywood." Have you ever seen the lions in the zoo just before feeding time? That's the way she looked. At the earliest possible moment she asked, "What's chances for a kid getting by in pictures out in Hollywood?" I gave her the stock answer. "I been thinking of giving it a whirl. Been playing the uke around the night clubs in Chi, and I thought I'd lamb out there as soon as I give New York a quick up-and-down." At least she speaks the language, I told myself. She had, it seems, had a screen test made by an itinerant camera man once, and he had pronounced her a "perfect photographic subject." The more I thought of it, the more I was convinced that she was made for Hollywood. Hollywood is full of Billies — and they all do well. But one thing clinched it absolutely. We were passing through Philadelphia and I became platitudinous for an instant. "A lot of historical things have happened here, haven't they?" "Yeh," she said, seriously, "here's where Tunney beat Dempsey." That's just what any member of the producers' association would have said. I was sitting on the observation platform when a little boy tugged me by the coat sleeve. "Mister," he asked, "are you Tom Mix?" I looked at him paternally, severely. "My son," I replied, "I have done a lot of things I do not want published in my memoirs but at least I am not Tom Mix." "Well, . you're from Hollywood, aren't cha?" "That is true," I granted, knowing that further denial would not help me now, "but there are a great many people in Hollywood who are not Tom Mix. I am not even Hoot Gibson, or Rin-Tin-Tin." He turned away disappointed. "Aw, a fella up in our car said you was from Hollywood, and I thought sure you'd be a movie star." 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