Screenland (Oct 1924–Apr 1925)

72 SCREENLAND the man whose imagination, organizing ability and shrewd understanding of what the public at large wants in the form of entertainment, . had -lifted the Crimerian Films Incorporated to the point where it was one of the biggest factors in the film "world. V" ;;, Director Jay Jordan, with Ned .Blystone but a step or two behind him, and " even ' Gloria Thomas momentarily forgetting herself so far as to join the select coterie, crossed quickly to Storer. The big man acknowledged the greetings of his people but there was no arrogance, no ego visible in his manner; nothing but a keen interest in everything on the floor. Max Storer had not forgotten the days when he was a poor man in Chicago; the long, lean years before he sensed "the money to be wrung from films. He had learned that fortunes are capricious things and that results, not volubility, were the things that counted in the gamble of hundreds of thousands on a single throw. Peggy saw Jordan, as he crossed the studio beside his chief, point to the set with pride. In the silence that hung about the room, she could hear the patter of rain on the roof. "I saw 'The Last Leap' today, Jordan. It's a money picture and well directed." It was Max Storer speaking. All eyes shifted to the director. Jordan's face expressed satisfaction. It was one thing to be complimented in the big chief's office. It was far more satisfying to be lauded, thus, before one's minions. "I did my best," replied the director with Jordan modesty. "Good stuff," continued Storer, his eyes the while taking in all the details of the studio. "Enough art without making it so strong that the average theatre-goer forgets all about the picture." "That's my aim." Jordan fairly bubbled satisfaction. "I give 'em action an' realism, Mr. Storer. Let the highbrows pass out the super-photography. My eye is on the box office." The big man nodded his approval. Storer covered the studio with remarkable speed, Jordan, Blystone and Miss Thomas, flanked by assistants, trailing along with him. A little group of extra girls, Peggy among them, caught his eye. He crossed quickly to them. "Like to work here?" he inquired. "They don't make them any better," replied Peggy so promptly that she surprised herself. Storer smiled. The great man was pleased. He had always fostered a sneaking desire to become known for his altruism and intended to put this into effect as soon as he had placed the Crimerian Films Incorporated in its predestined place. As he crossed to one of the windows, Peggy whispered to a girl at her elbow. "Darned if the old boy isn't actually human." Storer, his mind on a dozen little things that he had observed and was determined to take up with his general manager later, stood looking out at the storm. 'Jordan pointed to the torrents of water that fell. "Some storm," he said. Then, without the slightest realization of how the remark sounded, "Almost as good as my storm scene in 'The Last Leap'." "Almost," agreed Storer. Jordan missed the twinkle in the chief's eyes when he said this. He was actually, at the moment, rather sorry that the elements could not produce the realism that his skill, as a director, did bring forth. Fifteen minutes later Storer had seen enough. He jerked a thumb towards the set. "When do you finish this picture?" "Tomorrow. • This is the last set." "When do you start on 'The Shoals of Illusion'?" "I figured to leave for Cape Cod the first of the week" Peggy's heart jumped as she heard this. "Good." A short pause and then, "That picture should be a hummer; we'll spend a lot of money in exploiting it, Jordan. Hold the expense down as low as you can." And the big boss was gone. Jordan stood for a moment looking towards the door that had just closed behind Max Storer ; Max Storer, the man who held him in the palm of his hand. Then he turned abruptly about. "That's that," he said curtly. "And if we're going to wind up tomorrow without night work we've got to move." Sunday night was the "big event" in the girls' rooms in East Fiftieth Street. Even Aggie, who really should have been outside taking advantage of the fresh air, agreed to be there. After all, it was something of an occasion. Peggy and Lois had worked like beavers all day. There had been mysterious trips to the delicatessen, the joyous whoops over certain bundles that Peggy refused to explain, and, greatest of all miracles, the donation of a chocolate cake by Miss Cousins. The rent had been paid the morning before. Every one who counted in their little circle was there, including five nondescript kittens that Mrs. Dubois watched over in a soap box. The arrival of the Dubois litter early Sunday morning ... a most "indiscriminate hour" according to Peggy . . . had momentarily threatened to turn the event into a wholesale christening but Aggie had nipped it in the bud by announcing that, if this mad plan were carried through, Peggy and Lois could dig up some one to take her place. So the purring Mrs. Dubois and her family became the side show rather than the main tent The ironing board, deftly covered with a bed sheet — recently cleaned — served as the groaning board on which Peggy and Lois deposited chicken from a nearby rotisserie; long, iced shoots of celery packed with rochefort cheese; the inevitable cans of sardines — the openers had broken on every box so that the ends looked a bit ragged — and everything that a fair sum of money and two active and hungry girls could buy. In the center of the table stood a bottle of Chianti. This Sid had mysteriously, and not without pride, produced at the last moment. It was late before the orgy was over. Peggy, in order to shape up for the following morning, had suggested a Fifth Avenue bus as far as the Drive and a few moments in the river park. A chorus of protests and pillows failed to dissuade her, so Sid, the patient, went with her, leaving the others to do their best with the difficult task of transforming the room back from a scene of gastronomic wreckage to the semblance of a sleeping compartment. Sid and Peggy left the bus at NinetyEighth Street and strolled across the grass to an empty bench. The river, placid, lay just below them. A late river boat, its lights like strings of illuminated beads, made its way between Uncle Sam's grey fighting monsters anchored midstream. Peggy immediately thought of 0. Henry's expressive lines, "a stream of port-holes passing in the night." Sid turned to Peggy. His big hand rested on one of Peggy's, and she didn't seem conscious of the fact. She was miles away on location with "The Shoals of Illusion" . . . and fame. Sid's voice brought her back to the present. "I suppose you've got me classed as a first-class dub, Peg." She looked quickly towards him. He was more earnest than usual. "I don't range up with Ned Blystone." "Sid!" Peggy made no attempt to disguise her petulance. "Are you preparing to bawl me out or merely working up to a proposal?" Sid gave vent to a deep sigh. "I know better than to try the latter." Peggy was