by B. M. Bower
“You get us that way or you get licked,” Weary, the mild-tempered one, stated flatly. “You can fire us and send us home, but you can’t walk off and leave us with the Acme, ’cause we won’t stay.”
That was what Luck had ridden twelve cold, rainy miles to hear the Happy Family declare. He had expected them to take that stand, but it was good to hear it spoken in just that tone of finality. He stacked his cup and saucer in his plate, laid his knife and fork across them in the old range style, and began to roll a cigarette,—smoking at the table being another comfortable little bad habit which Rosemary Green wisely and smilingly permitted.
“That being the case,” he began cheerfully, “you boys had best go over with me now and give in your two weeks’ notice. I’m director of our company till I quit—see? I’ll arrange for your transportation home—”
“Aw, gwan! Who said we was goin’ home?” wailed Happy Jack distressfully.
“Now, listen! You’re entitled to your transportation money. That doesn’t mean you’ll have to use it for that purpose—sabe? It’s coming to you, and you get it. There’s a week’s salary due all around, too, besides the two weeks you’ll get by giving notice. No use passing up any bets like that. So let’s go, boys. I’ve got an appointment at one o’clock, and I may as well wipe the Acme slate clean this forenoon, so I can talk business without any come-back from Mart, or any tag ends to pick up. Grab your slickers and let’s move.”
That was a busy day for Luck Lindsay, in spite of the fact that it was a stormy one. His interview with Mart, which he endured mostly for the sake of the Happy Family, developed into a quarrel which severed beyond mending his connection with the Acme.
It was noon when he reached his hotel, and his wrath had not cooled with the trip into town. There were two ’phone calls in his mail, he discovered, and one bore an urgent request that he call Hollywood something-or-other the moment he returned. This was from the Great Western Film Company, and Luck’s eyes brightened while he read it. He went straight to his room and called up the Great Western.
Presently he found himself speaking to the great Dewitt himself, and his blood was racing with the possibilities of the interview. Dewitt had heard that Luck was leaving the Acme—extras may be depended upon for carrying gossip from one studio to another,—and was wasting no time in offering him a position. His Western director, Robert Grant Burns whom Luck knew well, had been carried to the hospital with typhoid fever which he had contracted while out with his company in what is known as Nigger Sloughs,—a locality more picturesque than healthful. Dewitt feared that it was going to be a long illness at the very best. Would Luck consider taking the company and going on with the big five-reel feature which Burns had just begun? Dewitt was prepared to offer special inducements and to make the position a permanent one. He would give Burns a dramatic company to produce features at the studio, he said, and would give Luck the privilege of choosing his own scenarios and producing them in his own way. Could Luck arrange to meet Dewitt at four that afternoon?
Luck could, by cancelling his appointment with a smaller and less important company, which he did promptly and with no compunctions whatever. He did more than that; he postponed the other two appointments, knowing in his heart that his chances would not be lessened thereby. After that he built a castle or two while he waited for the appointment. The Great Western Company had been a step higher than he had hoped to reach. Robert Grant Burns he had considered a fixture with the company. It had never entered his mind that he might possibly land within the Great Western’s high concrete wall,—and that other wall which was higher and had fewer gates, and which was invisible withal. That the great Dewitt himself should seek Luck out was just a bit staggering. He wanted to go out and tell the bunch about it, but he decided to wait until everything was settled. Most of all he wanted the Acme to know that Dewitt wanted him; that would be a real slap in the face of Mart’s judgment, a vindication of Luck’s abilities as a director.
What Luck did was to telephone the hospital and learn all he could about Burns’ condition. He was genuinely sorry that Burns was sick, even though he was mightily proud of being chosen as Burns’ successor. He even found himself thinking more about Burns, after the first inner excitement wore itself out, than about himself. Burns was a good old scout. Luck hated to think of him lying helpless in the grip of typhoid. So it was with mixed emotions that he went to see Dewitt.
Dewitt wanted Luck—wanted him badly. He was frank enough to let Luck see how much he wanted him. He even told Luck that, all things being equal, he considered Luck a better Western director than was Robert Grant Burns, in spite of the fact that Burns had scored a big success with his Jean, of the Lazy A serial. You cannot wonder that Luck’s spirits rose to buoyancy when he heard that. Also, Dewitt named a salary bigger than Luck had ever received in his life, and nearly double what the Acme had paid him. Luck spoke of his Big Picture, and when he outlined it briefly, Dewitt did not say that it seemed to lack action.
Dewitt had watched Luck with his keen blue eyes, and had observed that Luck owned that priceless element of success, which is enthusiasm for his work. Dewitt had listened, and had told Luck that he would like to see the Big Picture go on the screen, and that he would be willing to pay him for the scenario and let him make it where and how he pleased. He even volunteered to try and persuade Jean Douglas, of Lazy A fame, to come back and play the leading woman’s part.
“That’s one thing that has been bothering me a little,” Luck owned gratefully. “Of course I considered her absolutely out of reach. But with her for my leading woman, and the boys holding up the range end as they’re capable of doing—”
Dewitt gave him a quick look. “Yes, my boys are able to do that,” he said distinctly. “They have been well trained in Western dramatic work.”
Luck braced himself. “When I mentioned the boys,” he said, “I meant my boys that I brought from the Flying U outfit, up in Montana. They go with me.”
Dewitt did not answer that statement immediately. He inspected his finger nails thoughtfully before he glanced up. “It’s a pity, but I’m afraid that cannot be managed, Mr. Lindsay. The boys in my Western company have been with me, some of them, since the Independent Sales Company was organized. They worked for next to nothing till I got things started. Two or three are under contracts. You will understand me when I say that my boys must stay where they are.” He waited for a minute, and watched Luck’s face grow sober. “I have heard about your Happy Family,” he added. “There has been a good deal of discussion, I imagine, among the studios about them. Ordinarily I should be glad to have you bring those boys with you; but as matters stand, it is impossible. Our Western Company is full, and I could not let these boys go to make room for strangers,—however good those strangers might be. You understand?”
“Certainly I understand.” But Luck’s face did not brighten.
“Can’t they stay on with the Acme? From what I hear, the Acme’s Western Company is not large at best.”
“They can stay, yes. But they won’t. The whole bunch gave in their two weeks’ notice this morning.” There was a grim satisfaction in Luck’s tone.
“Left when you did, I suppose?”
“That’s just exactly what they did. I told them they better stay, and they nearly lynched me for it.”
“Have you made any agreement with them in regard to placing them with another company—for instance?”
“Certainly not. Some things don’t have to be set down in black and white.”
“I—see.” Dewitt did see. What he saw worried him, even though it increased his respect for Luck Lindsay. He studied his nails more critically than before.
“These boys—have they any resources at all, other than their work in pictures? Did they burn their bridges when they came with you?”
“Oh, far as that goes, they’ve all got ranches. They wouldn’t starve.” Luck’s voice was inclined to gruffness under quizzing.
“As I see the situatio
n,” Dewitt went on evenly and with a logic that made Luck squirm with its very truthfulness, “they left their ranches and came with you to work in pictures in a spirit of adventure, we might say. There is a glamour; and your personal influence, your enthusiasm, had its effect. Should they go back to their ranches now, they would carry back a fresh outlook and a fund of experiences that would season conversation agreeably for months to come. They will not have lost financially, I take it. They will have had a vacation which has in many ways been a profitable one. Should the question be laid before them, I venture the assertion that they would urge you to take this position with us.
“They would feel some disappointment of course—just as you would feel sorry not to be able to bring them with you. But no reasonable man would blame you or expect you to bear the handicap of six or seven inexperienced young fellows. You must see that your only hope of placing them would be with some new company just starting up. And this is not the season for young companies. Next spring you might stand a better chance.”
“Yes, that’s all true enough,” Luck admitted, since Dewitt plainly expected some reply. “At the same time—”
“There is no immediate need of a decision,” Dewitt hastily completed Luck’s sentence. “From all weather reports, this storm is going to be a long one. I doubt very much if you could get to work for several days. I wish you would think it over from all sides before you accept or refuse the proposition, Mr. Lindsay. Lay the matter before your boys; tell them frankly just how things stand. I’ll guarantee they will insist upon your accepting the position. I know, and you know, that it will give you a better opportunity than you have had in some time. And I am going to say candidly that I believe you need only the opportunity to make your work stand out above all the others. That is why I sent for you this morning. I believe you have big possibilities, and I want you with the Great Western.”
There was that instant of silence which terminates all conferences. Then Luck rose, and Dewitt tilted back his office chair and swung it away from the desk so that he was still facing Luck. So the two looked at each other measuringly for a moment.
“I certainly appreciate your good opinion of me, Mr. Dewitt,” Luck said. “Whether I take the place or not, I want to thank you for offering it to me. It all looks fine—the chance of my life; but I can’t—”
“No, don’t say any more.” Dewitt raised his hand. “You do as I suggest; tell the boys just what has passed, if you like. Let them decide for you.”
“No, that wouldn’t be fair. They’d decide for my interests and forget about their own. I know that.”
“Well, let’s just wait a day or two. You think it over. Think what you could do with Jean Douglas, for instance. I’ll try and get her back; I think perhaps I can. She’s married, but I think they’ll both come if I make it worth their while. Come and see me day after tomorrow, will you? We’ll say four o’clock again. Good-by.”
So Luck went away with temptation whispering in his ear.
CHAPTER NINE
LEAVE IT TO THE BUNCH
Not a word did Luck say to the Happy Family about his big opportunity. Instead, he avoided them half guiltily, and he filled the next day and the one after that by seeing, or trying to see, the head of every motion picture company in that part of the State. He even sent a night letter to a big company at Santa Barbara. Always he stipulated that he must take his own cowboys with him and have a free hand in the production of Western pictures—since he did not mean to risk having another irate author descend upon him with threats of a lawsuit.
By three o’clock of the day when he was to give Dewitt his decision, Luck was convinced that the two conditions he never failed to mention were as two iron bars across every trail that might otherwise have been open to him. No motion picture company seemed to feel that it needed seven inexperienced men on its payroll. A few general managers suggested letting them work as extras, but the majority could not see the proposition at all. They were more willing to give Luck the free hand which he demanded, had negotiations ever reached that far, which they did not.
The Happy Family, Luck was forced to admit to himself, was a very serious handicap for an out-of-work director to carry at the beginning of the rainy season. He did his best, and he spent two sleepless nights over the doing, but he simply could not land them anywhere. He talked himself hoarse for them, he painted them geniuses all; he declared that they would make themselves and their company—supposing they were accepted—famous for Western pictures. He worked harder to place them in the business than he would ever work to find himself a job, and he failed absolutely.
Dewitt’s eyes questioned him the moment he stood inside the office. Dewitt had heard something of Luck’s efforts since their last meeting; and although he admired Luck the more for his loyalty, he felt quite certain that now he was convinced of his defeat, Luck would hesitate no longer over stepping into the official shoes of Robert Grant Burns, who was lying on his broad back, and shouting pitifully futile commands to his company and asking an imaginary camera-man questions which were as Greek to the soft-footed nurse. Dewitt, having just come from a visit to Burns, had a vivid mental picture of that ward in the Sister’s hospital. But alongside that picture was another, quite as vivid, of Luck Lindsay standing beside Pete Lowry’s camera with a script in his hand, explaining to Jean Douglas the business of some particular scene.
“Well?” queried Dewitt, and motioned Luck to a chair.
“Well,” Luck echoed, and stopped for a breath. “No use wasting time, Mr. Dewitt. I can’t take any position that doesn’t include the Flying U boys. I’m certainly sorry that prevents my accepting your offer. I appreciate all it would mean for me and for my Big Picture to be with you. But—some things mean more—”
“You’re under no obligations to tie your own hands just because theirs are not free,” Dewitt reminded him sharply.
“I know I’m not.”
“Can you figure where it will be to their advantage for you to refuse a good position just because they happen to be out of work?”
“I’m not trying to figure anything like that. Some things don’t have to be figured. Some things just are! Do you see what I mean? Those boys didn’t wait to do any figuring. When I quit the Acme, they quit—just as a matter of course. If I were as loyal to them as they have been to me, Mr. Dewitt, I wouldn’t have taken two days to give you my answer. I’d have told you day before yesterday what I’m telling you now.”
Dewitt did not reply at once. When he did speak he seemed to be answering an argument within himself.
“I can’t let my own boys go to make room for yours. That is absolutely out of the question. There is a little matter of loyalty there, also.”
“I know there is. I don’t know that I should want you to let them go. We’re both in the same position almost. And we’re at a deadlock, Mr. Dewitt. I’m certainly sorry that I can’t sign up with you.”
“So am I, young man. So am I. Come back if things shape themselves so you can see your way clear to directing my Western company. I’ve an idea your boys will be going back to their ranches before the holidays. In case they do, let me hear from you.”
That was more than Luck had any right to expect, and he had the sense to realize it. He thanked Dewitt and promised, and went away with something of a load off his mind. He could go now and face the Happy Family without feeling himself another Judas.
He found them sitting around waiting for their supper and trying to invent new words to fit their disgust with the Acme Film Company. They greeted Luck as though they had not seen him for a month.
“Bully for you, Luck!” Andy shouted, and gave him an approving slap on the shoulder that sent him skating dangerously toward the table. “Best job in town just came a-running up to you and says, ‘Please take me!’—so they say. That right?”
“Yeah—what about this here Great Western gitting its loop on you first thing?” bawled Big Medicine gleefully. “By cripes, that’s sure one on the Acme bun
ch! They’ll wisht they wasn’t quite so fresh, givin’ that little tin imitation of an author so much rope. Me ’n’ Pink was over to the studio today; honest to grandma, they was a sick lookin’ bunch around there. Me ’n’ Pink sure throwed it into ’em too, about letting the only real man they had git away from ’em the way they done.”
“My gorry, son, I sure am tickled to see yuh light with both feet under yuh, like they say you done. I heard tell the Great Western’s going to let yuh put on your own pitcher; I guess them Acme folks’ll feel kinda foolish when they see it,” declared the dried little man, grinning over his pipe.
Luck was fighting his bewilderment and framing a demand for explanations when Rosemary bustled in from the kitchen.
“Oh, but we’re glad, Luck Lindsay!” she began in her quick, emphatic way. “We all feel like a million dollars over your good luck. We’re going to have fried chicken and strawberry shortcake for supper, too, just for a celebration. I knew you’d come out and tell us all about it. So sit right down, everybody, and keep still so Luck can tell us just what everybody said to the other fellow, and how Dewitt happened to get hold of him so quickly. Is it true? The boys heard you were going to get two hundred dollars a week!”
“Not get it—no.” Luck unfolded his napkin with fingers that shook a little. “I was offered it, but I’m not going to take it.”
“Not—why, Luck Lindsay!” Rosemary very nearly dropped her new percolator.
“Y’ ain’t?”
“Aw, gwan! Only reason I wouldn’t take two hundred a week would be because I’d drop dead at the chance and couldn’t.”
“Well, listen. There’s one point that hasn’t spilled into studio gossip yet,” Luck managed to slip into the uproar. “I didn’t take the place. There were some details we couldn’t get together on, so I thanked him and turned it down.”
There was silence, while the Happy Family stared at him.
“What dee-tails was them?” Big Medicine demanded belligerently. “Way I heard it—”
