Photoplay (Jul - Dec 1916)

120 Photoplay Magazine Marcia drifted to a spot under a tree where Tim Barr, his long cigar protruding from his mouth, stood negligently. She greeted him with a bright smile. "Well, Tim," she asked, "did you put yours over?" "I sure did." "Oh, you're a dear, Tim." Her tone wa< almost affectionate. Then she added modestly, "I think I helped a little, too. Now if it will only work." "It'll work all right, Marcia. Just leave it to me," he assured her. "But say, you look tired out. Sit down in this chair and let me get you something to eat." "Thanks, Tim, I will," she said, gratefully. "My Lord, it would be a nice world if everybody looked after me like you do !" "Well, maybe everybody don't think as much of you as I do, Marcia." CHAPTER XV THE bazaar came at a time not only of ■* seasonal changes, but at a period of June's development and experiences which marked the close of one phase and indicated the commencement of another. Locally, the month meant that the eastern tourist trade, upon which Los Angeles depends so much for support, was dead. A period of stagnation existed which followed the departure of those who had come for the winter, and preluded the summer arrival of gasping hundreds from the fiery border States. Easterners have yet to learn that summer is the most delightful season in California. At the same time all the natives (real or adopted) who could, were starting East for a vivifying breath of Atlantic culture and climate. Rows of houses stood vacant in Hollywood and Los Angeles, but many of these would be occupied by newcomers. At the beaches, which, rarely more than twenty miles from Los Angeles, extend fifty miles up and down the coast — for the metropolis is inland — cottages, shacks and tent cities were beginning gradually to fill up. Catalina Island was bidding loudly for the summer season by which alone she existed. Everywhere the annual battle with drought and dust had begun. The water of the winter rains, stored in the high mountain reservoirs many miles away, was poured out in a ceaseless flood to keep the city green. In the great lawns, water systems with spray nozzles regularly interspaced had been laid beneath the turf, and an acre at a time could be made one vast silver fountain playing upon a glistening emerald. Elsewhere pipes a hundred feet long and perforated en one side lay along" the grass, and in operation suggested the barrier fire of the European battlefields. In the country, the principal activity was haying. Miles upon miles of land lay dotted with heaps of drying alfalfa. Here and there by the baling machine the structure of bales arose, apparently small at a distance, but as big as a warehouse, and surrounded by a circle of brown plowed earth as a protection against fire. The cutting altered greatly the appearance of the country. From a rolling green sea it had suddenly become tawnv, and very dry. The round hills had the appearance of close-clipped blond heads. The summer change was showing everywhere. Mountains and uncultivated hills were taking on their summer cowls of Franciscan brown, and only the vivid green expanse of beet and bean fields, or orchards, relieved the sober tintings. These, of course, depended for life upon the silver thread of irrigation that wound up and back into the mountains. At the studio, although there was ceaseless general activity, the main interest now centered about Briscoe's work with June. He permitted her time to think of little else, and she wished to think of nothing else. Inexplicably she was glad that her work kept her from frequent contact with Holt. She saw him often in the studio, but seldom elsewhere, as she was too tired to have company or go out in the evenings. And her previous disposal of him in her mind had left her strangely unconvinced and dissatisfied. Briscoe had evolved a play for his new star from a script turned in by one of the Graphic scenario staff. The germ of the idea had been good, but the "continuity." as the sequence of scenes is called, was not in line with Briscoe's contemplated treatment, and he had re-written it. IKE many other directors of intelli gence in the business. Briscoe felt strongly the great need of better stories if his art was to advance. And yet he refused to lav all the blame for failure in that