Chapter Five. PETER was silent all through dinner

PETER was silent all through dinner. He scarcely spoke two words throughout the entire meal. Esther wondered what was worrying him but kept tactfully quiet until he had finished eating. She knew him well enough to know that he would talk to her when he was ready.

"Doris brought home her report card today," she said. "She got an A in everything."

'That's nice," Peter answered absentmindedly.

She looked at him. Ordinarily he was much interested in Doris's report card; he would want to see it and would make a great fuss over signing it. She didn't speak again.

He got up from the table, picked up the paper, and went into the living-room. She watched him go and then helped the maid clean up. When she went into the other room, the paper was lying neglected on the floor while he stared into space.

She grew a little exasperated at his protracted silence. "What's the matter with you?" she queried. "Don't you feel good?"

He looked at her. "I feel all right," he replied. "Why do you ask?"

"You look like you're dying," she said. "All night long not one word do you say."

"I got things on my mind," he answered shortly. He wished she would leave him alone.

"So it's a big secret?" she asked.

"No." He was startled. Suddenly he remembered he hadn't told her about his decision. "I decided to make that picture that Johnny wanted. Now I'm worried."

"If you made up your mind, what are worrying about?"

"There's a big risk involved," he answered. "I could lose the business."

"You knew that when you made up your mind, didn't you?"

He nodded his head.

"So don't sit there like the world came to an end. The time for worrying was before you made up your mind. Now you got to do what you want, not worry over what might happen."

"But supposing I lose the business, then what will happen?" He puffed at his cigar. His mind clung to that one thought like a tongue to an aching tooth; the more he played with it, the more pain he felt.

She smiled slowly. "Nothing. My father lost three businesses and he always made out. We'll get along."

His face brightened a little. "You wouldn't care?"

She went over to him and sat down on his lap. She pressed his head against her bosom. "Business is not that important I should care about it. What I'm interested in is you. You do what you feel you must. That's important. Even if it's no good, you should do it. I'm happy if I got just you and the children' I don't care if we ain't got an apartment on Riverside Drive and a maid."

He put his arms around her and turned his head until it rested in the cleft between her breasts. He spoke in a low voice. "Everything I do is for you and the kinder. I want you should have everything."

Her voice was warm. This was what she wanted. She under­stood that success in business was very important to a man, but to her the way her man felt about her was important. "I know, Peter, I know. That's why you shouldn't worry. A man can do a better job without foolish worries on his mind. You'll do all right. It's a good idea and it's needed."

"You think so?" He looked up at her.

She looked into his eyes and smiled. "Of course it is. If it wasn't, you wouldn't have decided to do it."

Raising the money for the picture proved to be the easiest part of the whole project. The exhibitors whom Johnny spoke to were eager to put up money to have the picture made. They were tired of being gouged for poor combine-quality, routine pictures. Johnny received sums ranging from the thousand dollars he had obtained from Pappas down to one hundred dollars from a small exhibitor on Long Island.

It was the biggest open secret in the industry. Everybody but the combine knew about it.

The other independents watched Magnum carefully to see what would happen next.

Meanwhile Peter was quietly buying up all the raw stock he could lay his hands on and Joe was busy working with the playwright whipping the script into shape for a picture.

Warren Craig's dressing-room was crowded with people while he removed his make-up. In his mirror he could see the people talking excitedly, but that pretty little girl in the corner wasn't saying a word; she just watched him remove his make-up with an awed expression on her face.

He felt good. He had turned in a good performance tonight and he knew it. There were some nights when everything just seemed to go right and nothing you could do would spoil it, just as there were the other kind of nights. He crossed his fingers as he thought about it.

The girl in the mirror saw him do it and smiled tentatively at him. He smiled back at her. Her smile brightened.

With a flourish he wiped the last of the cold cream from his face and wheeled around. "And now if you good people will excuse me," he said in his rich baritone voice, "I’ll get out of this provincial costume."

The people laughed. They always did when he said that; it had become part of the performance. He was dressed in a cowboy costume and it flattered him. The bright colors of his shirt, contrasting with the dull color of the chaps, lent gentle emphasis to his broad shoulders and very flat hips.

He went behind a screen and appeared in a few minutes in regular clothes. It was the truth that he looked as well in evening clothes as he did in costume. He was an actor and he knew it. Everything he wore, everything he did and said, never let you forget that Warren Craig was the third generation of his family on the American stage.

He was ready now to receive their homage. He stood there easily in the center of the room, his head lightly inclined forward; he spoke a few words to each person as they came up and congratulated him. A cigarette in a long Russian holder dangled from his lips.

That was how Johnny first saw him as he followed Sam Sharpe into the dressing-room. Only Warren Craig wasn't happy to see Sam. Sam reminded him of the appointment he had made

reluctantly earlier in the day to talk to that flicker fellow, and he was trying to find an approach to make that pretty little girl in the corner have supper with him.

Craig smiled to himself philosophically. That was the trouble with being one of the foremost actors of the American stage, he thought, your time was never your own.

Gradually the room emptied. The last to leave was that pretty little girl. She stopped at the doorway and smiled back over her shoulder at him. He returned her smile with a helpless gesture that spoke as plainly as words. "I'm sorry, my dear," it said, "but being a great actor has its drawbacks. Your time isn't your own."

Her smile answered him. He knew just what it meant. "I understand. Some other time soon." The door closed behind her.

Johnny didn't miss the byplay. He had stood there quietly sizing Craig up. He had no doubt that Craig was a competent actor, but the man's vanity hung about him like a cloak. And he had reason to be vain. He was young, not more than twenty-five the way Johnny figured. He was handsome, with thin, even features and black thick curling hair that Johnny thought would photograph beautifully.

Craig turned to Johnny and really saw him for the first time. "Why, he's younger than I am!" was his first thought of shocked surprise. "And still he's a vice-president of a flicker concern." But as he continued to look at Johnny he could see other things, things that were not at first visible to the ordinary person. Being on the stage taught you to look for certain signs of character, things that were important if you wanted to project them to an audience. Johnny's mouth was wide and generous, but firm and determined. His jaw had a slightly aggressive tilt to it, but was controlled. The most unusual thing about him, however, was his eyes. They were dark blue, and deep inside them there seemed to lurk hidden flames. "An idealist," Craig thought.

"Hungry, Warren?" Sharpe asked in his thin little voice. Craig shrugged his shoulders. "I can eat," he said quietly, as if food meant nothing to him. He turned to Johnny. "These performances take so much out of one."

Johnny smiled sympathetically. "I understand, Mr. Craig."

Craig warmed to Johnny's voice. "I say, let's not be so formal. Warren's the name."

"Johnny to you," Johnny replied.

The two men shook hands again and Sam Sharpe smiled happily to himself as they left the dressing-room. That bonus and commission were beginning to look as if they had a chance.

Craig warmed the brandy in the goblet between his hands. Slowly he rolled the goblet back and forth. Despite his pro­testation of not being hungry he had performed a very trench­erman-like job on the large steak he had ordered. Now he was ready to talk.

"I understand you're with a flicker company, Johnny," he said.

Johnny nodded.

"Sam tells me that you're planning to film The Bandit."

"Right," Johnny replied, "and we would like you to play the lead. There isn't anyone else in the theater who could do justice to so difficult a role." He couldn't see any harm in flattery.

Craig couldn't either. He nodded his head in agreement. "But flickers, old boy," he said in a gentle derogatory voice, "but flickers!"

Johnny looked over at him. "Motion pictures are growing up, Warren," he said. "Now an artist of your talent can express himself more fully than on the stage."

Craig sipped at his brandy slowly. "I don't agree with you, Johnny." He smiled deprecatingly. "The other day I went into a nickelodeon and saw the most horrible things. They called it a comedy but, believe me, it wasn't funny. There was a little tramp and he was being chased by fat policemen and they were falling all over the place." He shook his head. "Sorry, old boy, I just can't see it."

Johnny laughed. He saw that the goblet Warren held in his hand was empty and gestured for the waiter to refill it. "Cer­tainly you don't think that's the kind of picture we're going to make out of The Bandit?" His voice expressed amazement that Craig should think of such a thing.

He leaned across the table. "Look, Warren, first of all, this picture will be the real thing. It won't run just twenty minutes, it will run more than an hour. Then there is something new that's just been developed.

It's called the close-up."

Johnny saw the blank look on Craig's face. "A man by the name of Griffith just worked it out. This is the way it works. Say you're playing a big scene—that scene with the girl in the garden. Remember that moment when you look at her and your face expresses your love for her without your saying one word? On the screen that would be magnificent. The camera would focus on your face and your face alone. That's all the audience would see. And every subtle expression, every tiny nuance that you, with your superb artistry, are capable of, would be brought forth for everyone to see, not just the people in the first few rows of the theater."

Craig looked interested. "You mean the camera would be on me alone?"

Johnny nodded his head. "And that's not all. It would be on you for most of the picture, for, after all, without you what is there to The Bandit?"

Craig was silent. He sipped a little more of the brandy. He liked that idea. After all, he was The Bandit. Then he shook his head. "No, Johnny, you tempt me very much, but I just can't do it. The flickers would ruin my reputation on the stage."

"Sarah Bernhardt isn't afraid that motion pictures would ruin her reputation," Johnny pointed out. "She can see the challenge to her artistry and goes forth to meet it. She knows that the new medium of motion pictures offers her as broad an opportunity for acting as the stage. Think of it, Warren, think of it Bernhardt in France, Warren Craig in America. The foremost artists on their respective sides of the ocean making motion pictures. Would you have me believe that you are afraid to meet the same challenge that Madame Bernhardt is facing?"

Craig tossed down his drink. The last few words had reached him. What was it Johnny had said? He liked the sound of it. Bernhardt and Craig, the foremost artists in the world. He rose to his feet a little unsteadily and looked down at Johnny. "Old boy," he said pompously, "you've convinced me. I'll do the picture! And what's more, I don't care what anyone in the profession thinks, even John Drew. I'll show them that a true artist

can meet the challenge and work in any medium. Even flickers!"

Johnny looked up at him and smiled. Under the table Sam Sharpe uncrossed his fingers.