Janet Hardy in Hollywood
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_Chapter XVI_ THRILLING HOURS
Janet was speechless and Helen was the first to give vent to her thoughtsin words.
"Oh, Dad, it's grand of you, but it doesn't seem possible." She looked atthe ticket again, feeling it to see if it actually was real.
Tears brimmed into Janet's eyes.
"I'm so happy I could cry," she confessed. Then added quickly, "But Idon't know how I can thank you."
"Don't try now," smiled Henry Thorne. "I'll be more than repaid if youtwo make good in the western pictures I'm going to try to put you in."
"But Dad, we've never had any experience like that," protested Helen."We'll probably be awful flops."
"Nonsense. It doesn't take much acting ability to get by in the 'horseoperas' as we call them. You just act natural, look pretty, and you'llhave all of the cowboys in the cast asking you for dates."
Janet looked at her mother, wondering just how she had been won over toletting them go to Hollywood, even though Helen's father would be thereto oversee things in general.
Just then Mrs. Thorne spoke, pulling an envelope from a pocketbook.
"You're not the only lucky ones," she reminded Janet and Helen. "I'mgoing along and see that you are properly chaperoned when these dashingcowboys ask you to go places with them."
That explained to Janet why her mother had consented for with Mrs. Thornealong she would have little to worry about.
"Does that mean we're going to leave Clarion for good?" asked Helen.
"Well, hardly," boomed her father. "I'd be lost if I didn't have Clarionto come back to for a rest when I get fagged out and I don't know whatthe bullheads out in Indian creek would do without me. We're going tokeep the place here for you never know when even a famous Hollywooddirector will start turning out poor pictures and once you hit thetoboggan out there, it's hard to come back. I've been at it so long now,that another year will just about see me through. Then I'll want toretire to some quiet city and Clarion suits me."
"I'm glad of that, Dad, for I've grown up here and it would be so hard tothink of cutting all of the ties of friendship at just one sweep."
"You won't have to do that, Helen, and maybe, if you two youngsters can'tmake the grade with our western company, you'll be back here before youknow it."
"But we're leaving in just a week. It doesn't seem possible," said Janet,half to herself and half to the rest.
"The time will go before you know it," said her mother, "what with thepacking we'll have to do and the new clothes to buy."
"Now let's stop right there," put in Helen's father. "Packing is all welland good, but let's cut out the new clothes. Instead of loading the girlsup with things here, we'll give Mother the money and she can let themhave it in Hollywood when they see a dress in the shops out there thatthey want. I think they'll feel a little more in style in Hollywoodclothes than in Clarion clothes in Hollywood."
"I suppose they would," confessed Janet's mother, "but I'm afraid themoney for Janet's summer clothes allowance won't go very far."
"She'll be getting a regular salary each week and the company willfurnish whatever costumes are needed for each picture."
"Each picture," smiled Helen. "I like that Dad. How long does it take tomake a picture?"
"When I'm directing anywhere from six weeks to three or four months, butthe western company moves pretty rapidly. They'll grind the average oneout in two weeks or three at the most. They're after action and plenty ofscenery."
"Which explains why we were carted off to Hill and Dale farm and hoistedup on horses and jogged up and down for hours until I thought every bonein my body would be broken," said Janet.
"Good guess. I've had this idea in mind ever since the night of the classplay," confessed Helen's father. "If you think you're going to get out ofthe riding class the rest of the time you're in Clarion you'll be sadlymistaken. I'm certainly not going to show up on the lot and ask BillyFenstow to take on a couple of girls who can't ride."
"Who's Billy Fenstow?" asked Helen.
"He runs our western unit. Billy writes most of the stories, does thesupervising and directing and just about everything else about thepicture. You'll like him. He's fat, forty, bald and lots of fun and if helikes you, he'll invite you to the Brown Derby for dinner."
"What fun that would be," exclaimed Janet. "Why that's where all of thestars go."
"You usually find a few of them eating there," admitted Helen's father.
They talked for another hour, the girls, in their excitement, planningthings that could never come true, but their fathers and mothers,indulging them the sheer joy of their mood, let them ramble on.
It was nearly midnight when they finally pushed their chairs away fromthe table and the Hardys started for home.
"I'll see you first thing in the morning," said Helen, "but I don'tbelieve I'll sleep a wink."
"I'm afraid I won't either," replied Janet, "but I'm so excited I don'tcare."
On the way home she linked her arm with her father and mother and theywalked slowly.
"Happy?" her father asked gently.
"Gloriously happy," replied Janet softly, squeezing her mother's arm. "Ofcourse I want to go to Hollywood, but I'm going to miss both of youterribly."
"We'll miss you, too. You know that," replied her father, "but it's anopportunity that comes to few girls. Don't be too disappointed if youfail to remain in the cast of that western picture. You're going outthere for a lark and not with the serious intent of becoming a motionpicture actress."
Janet bit her lips. Of course her dad was right. She couldn't seriouslyhope to be a motion picture actress, but for just a moment she had foundherself dreaming of real fame and fortune in Hollywood. Why it WAS just alark, a sort of super vacation that only Helen's father could makepossible for them.
In the fall, after the summer on the film lots, they would probably comeback to the middle west for Janet knew her father favored her enteringthe state university, Janet resolutely set her mind right. She mustrealize that it was to be only a vacation lark. Then she could come backhappy and without regret when the summer was at an end.