Picture-Play Magazine (Mar-Aug 1921)

84 The I can't describe the scene that followed. Hugh told the poor, misguided woman how mistaken she'd been, and she wept on her husband's shoulder, and that delighted little man told us he was awfully grateful to us — I don't know just why, unless it was because his wife's wild dream had been shattered — and that if he wanted us to be sure to look him up if we ever came to Onowanda, Florida. His name was Silas Huggins. And because it was such a queer name I'd remembered it. So that spring afternoon, as I jolted along toward Onowanda, I thought of Silas Huggins and decided that Hugh and I must go and call on them ; probably Mrs. Huggins had recovered from her disgust at finding Hugh married, and would be glad to see him. It was late when we got in — late and very dark. I hadn't brought Hughie's nurse with me, and he was asleep in my arms when the train stopped at Onowanda. I gathered up my traveling bag and made my way out of the train, wishing I'd brought the nurse, and with the conductor's help got down to the station platform. There were one or two cabs waiting in the street, and there was a telegraph operator in the station, yet everything seemed very dark and quiet. The air was heavy with the scent of flowers, and I thought I could hear the murmuring of the sea. I set down my bag and called to one of the cabmen — and then suddenly, as the train pulled out, I realized that I had dropped my purse in my seat in the car and hadn't picked it up again ! I was furious at myself, of course; it was such a ridiculous thing to do. Hughie had awakened and clutched his fat little arms around my neck as he realized that he was in a strange place, so I couldn't put him down. My hat was sliding down in my eyes, the cab driver was asking where I wanted to go, and for a moment or two I felt helpless and lost and just a little bit put out with Hugh because he hadn't met me. He might have known I'd take that train. But the telegraph operator said he'd have the station agent at the next town see if my purse was turned in there, and I went on up to the town's one hotel ; as we joggled along through the sleepy streets I reflected that Hugh would take care of everything for me, and T needn't worry, anyway. That's one of the wonderful things about Hugh ; tremendously popular as he is, and despite the flood of adoration that might swamp a less sensible man, he's always the dear, big, dependable Revelations of a Star's husband that I used to dream about when I was a girl. At the hotel I asked for Hugh. The clerk shook his head, then looked at the register again and yawned. No, there wasn't any Mr. Beresford there. "But there must be! He came this morning. Is Mr. Daniel Gardner registered? Mr. Bingham? Miss Burnet and her mother?" No, none of them. Evidently the clerk recognized Hugh's name. He looked at me suspiciously. "I'm Mr. Beresford's wife," I told him. "And I've left my purse on the train, so I've simply got to find him. I have to pa)r the cabman who HOW DO THEY DO IT? Is it fifty times as hard to direct fifty people as one? What does a director do to make hundreds of extras laugh or cry or hurry or dawdle? How do the extras feel about it? "Making the Mob Emote," by Edwin Schallert, answers all of these questions in the next issue of PICTURE-PLAY. brought me here. The company was to be here to-night. There must be some mistake." I tried to be dignified, but I'm not very tall, or very old, and when the clerk began to grin I thought I'd die of shame and embarrassment. "Oh, Chet !" he bawled at the man in the pool room at one side of the lobby. "Here's a dame says she's Hugh Beresford's wife — ain't got no money !" Chet, evidently the manager, came out of the pool room, cue in hand, followed by two or three other men, all in their shirt sleeves, all chewing tobacco. They looked me over with sly, leering eyes. I could feel my cheeks blaze. "Guess you'd better try that somewhere else, girlie," Chet told me. "Can't get credit here with a story like that ; too old. Pick somebody else beside a movie actor and maybe you'll have better luck." I picked up my heavy bag, held Hughie closer, and marched out with my head high, though my knees wT6re shaking. To think they'd be so insulting, not merely to me, but to Hugh's profession. Of course, there are all sorts of people making pictures, and a few of them do terrible things — but there are so many of the right kind of people in it, so many who are just trying to earn their living by good, hard work, that I can't bear to have them judged b; the others. The cabman was waiting for me I but I hardly knew what to do a first. Then, like a ray of light, cam< the remembrance of Silas Huggins The driver knew of him, luckily And once more, as we joggled alon£ through the warm night, contentment came to me. Just to be able to put Hughie down on a bed anc lie down beside him would be perfect bliss. I could borrow money and get home the next day, if Hugh didn't turn up. Probably the com-; pany had been delayed somewhere. Every one seemed to have gone to bed at the Huggins home; it was all dark. The driver rapped on the door with the handle of his whip, and finally from an upper window there was thrust a head, wrapped in a shawl. I recognized Mrs. Huggins. Somehow I wished it had been her husband. As brief!}' as I could I explained my errand. I reminded her of the time she and I had met, when she and her husband were touring California. "I'm sure he'd remember me," I concluded falteringly, as she remained forbiddingly silent. "If you could just take me in for the night — or lend me money enough to get home " "Huh ! Nice way to come around at midnight and want to borrow money from a man!" she snorted at me. "He's out of town, anyway — wouldn't lend you money if he was here. Nice person you are, after the way you treated me in Los Angeles, telling me your husband didn't mean what he said in his letters, and that you'd helped write 'em yourself !" And she slammed the window. Never before had I known what it was 'to be perfectly helpless. No money, nobody to turn to, no knowledge of where Hugh was— it was ghastly. It was the cab driver who came to my aid. "I've seen your husband in pictures," he told me reassuringly, as I sat huddled up on the horse block. "And when my little girl wrote and asked for his picture, and didn't send no quarter nor nothing, he sent her one and wrote her a nice note. too. I guess if you're any kin of his I can take you home with me." As we drove back through the town I looked up at his bent back, hunched on the seat in front of me, and thanked Heaven that my husband believed in answering his fan mail. Where would I have been without it ! And as we straggled past the hotel, I caught sight of a Continued on page 102