Picture Play Magazine (Mar-Aug 1927)

96 Film Struck Continued from page 94 ioned his arms to his sides, and snatched the wallet from his pocket. Then, jubilantly, as his opponent swayed groggily, Oscar's bleeding fist connected solidly with the point of his chin. Kirk flung up his arms, tottered on the edge of the sidewalk, and pitched backward into the street. "Perfect !" DuVal megaphoned. "Walk off slowly, Mr. Watt \" And Mr. Watt, flushed, breathless, smarting under his battle scars, his hat gone and his hair awry, but wearing a seraphic grin because of the wallet that again reposed safety in his own pocket, turned to stage a perfect exit. DuVal shouted, "Cut !" The cameras stopped clicking, and once more the circle of rapt spectators became noisy and active. But sprawled in the dust of the street, his clothes torn, his face soiled and damaged, Kirk remained inert, steeped in oblivion. Oscar leaned against a hitching rail to feel gingerly of his bruises. A swift inspection of the wallet assured him that it was his own and that all the money seemed intact. "Say, big boy," a man beside him spoke up, "that was the hottest scrap I've ever seen outside the ring." "The only trouble," said Oscar, with a casual glance toward his victim in the street, who was now slowly getting to his feet, "was that it wasn't long enough." The man stared at him. "Well, I guess it was plenty long enough to suit your partner," he observed. "Looks to me like a casualty." Although Kirk was on his feet, having been assisted by several bystanders, he swayed uncertainly, and his knees threatened to collapse under him. After mumbling incoherently to himself, he rubbed his eyes, blinked and, sighting the figure of Mr. Watt, weaved his way toward him. "I'll — I'll get you for this," he snarled. "Just wait !" "You better forget it," Oscar replied, unperturbed. "If you start anything more, I'll have a few things to say myself. You know what I mean, don't you?" He tapped his pocket significantly. "Just keep away from me, that's all." Carter pushed his way to them through the crowd. "What's all the trouble here?" he demanded. "The shooting's over. Seems to me you were a trifle too realistic, Mr. Watt," he added, after a glance at Kirk's damaged wardrobe and countenance. "No occasion for that." "Wasn't there !" Oscar came back. The possession of his wallet and the wealth it contained gave him sudden courage. "A lot you know about it!" Carter looked thoughtful. "A little personal matter, eh? I had a hunch it was. Well, pack this chap off to the doctor, some one. The rest of you come along." As Kirk was led away, he turned to flash a malevolent glance at his recent antagonist ; but perhaps for a very good reason, he discreetly kept his mouth shut. Still, the man's look and attitude convinced Oscar that his enmity, still smoldering, was quite likely to flare up again at any moment. Penelope Holt, who had been an interested onlooker from the first rehearsal to the dramatic curtain of the final encounter, slipped up to Oscar when Carter had hurried off. "You got your wallet?" she queried. "In Kirk's pocket," Oscar told her. "He had it all the time, just like we thought. I guess I made him sorry — he won't be likely to do any more stealing." "But you haven't told " "What was the use ? I got it back. I don't want to make a lot of fuss," Oscar explained. "Oh, I'm glad," said Penny. "Glad for lots of reasons," she smiled. "You've done yourself proud!" Oscar didn't say so, but he, too, was glad for many reasons that things had turned out as they had. Above all, because now was banished the suspicion he had momentarily entertained against Penny. And now, with his money and confidence restored, he would no longer be at DuVal's mercy. He could do precisely as he wished. Already he had made plans for leaving. [to be continued.] Bill wouldn't speak to me. You wouldn't look at me, even." "Ah, no, no," throbbed Pola. "I never saw you. So many there are on the sets. I certainly would have spoken to you. Oh, yes !" "I suppose you want me to tell you that you're beautiful. Well, I don't think you're so beautiful. And I don't think you're the greatest actress by a long run. And what's more, I'm going home." All this amused the not-oftenamused Negri. It was so original — ■ even if it was not what she had expected ! To-day, Bill's troubles — if he ever had any — are over. He has a beautiful home, a beautiful wife, and a beautiful baby daughter. And his salary has been raised three times since "The Volga Boatman." After telling Bill what I thought of him, and what the fans think of him, I got up to make a dignified departure, and the same voice I had first heard a long time ago rang after me, "So long, kid! See you later!" A Breezy Blond Named Continued from page 43 that 'Last Frontier' thing I did nothing but stand around, dolled up in a trick outfit. I looked a mess. No," asserted Bill, jabbing his fork into a piece of steak, "no more Westerns for me. "What would you say to any one like myself doing a series of comedies like Wally Reid used to make — like those Reginald Denny makes ?" I said what I thought. "They're the kind of pictures I want to do. Something with plenty of dash. I don't want those romantic roles. The Latin-lover line kills you — don't you think so?" I assured the perplexed young man that so long as he remained himself on the screen he was sure to stay popular. And that is no lie. Bill has repeatedly been designated a "clean American youth." What is meant when that description is applied to Bill Boyd is that he has always maintained a breezy humor. He is nothing but a little boy grown up. Assumed sophistication is not tol erated by him. I knew a friend of his who nearly became a mental wreck through reading from ten to fifteen very cynical books a week, until he talked the stuff he was reading. From a dashing youth he became a neurotic. "Now, listen," Bill hissed at him, after giving him a good tongue lashing, "if I don't see you looking better each time we meet, and if you don't stop trying not to be yourself, I'll give you a punch in the nose every time I see you." The crazy reading stopped and the young fellow soon got back to normalcy. Bill is not easily flattered. After the opening of "The Volga Boatman," he was invited to attend one of Pola Negri's exclusive soirees and arrived in high spirits, intending to settle an old score. "Say," he remarked to Miss Negri when she started to praise his manly physique as the Boatman, "what's all this bunk about asking me here? When I was a half-starved extra you