Alice put her head down on the table.

"There, dear, don't cry," urged her sister. "There must be a way out.

Father will get a loan--his voice will come back, and----"

"It will be too late," replied Alice, in a low voice. "We will be put out--disgraced before all the neighbors! I can't stand it. I'm going to do something!"

She arose quickly, and there was a look on her face that caused Ruth to give start and to cry out:

"Alice! What do you mean?"

"I mean I'm going to see Russ Dalwood and ask him if I can't get work in the movies. If father won't, I will! And I'll ask Russ for the loan of some money. I can pay him back when I get my salary!"

"Alice, I'll never let you do that!" and Ruth planted herself before the door.

For a tense moment the sisters confronted each other.

"But we--we must do something," faltered Alice.

"Yes, but not that--at least, not yet. We have some pride left.

Wait--wait until father comes back."

With a gesture Alice consented. She sank wearily into a chair.

It was tedious waiting. The girls talked but little--they had no heart for it. Around them hummed the noise of the apartment house.

Noises came to them through the thin, cheap walls. The crying of babies, the quarrels of a couple in the flat back of them, the wheeze of a rusty phonograph, and the thump-thump of a playerpiano, operated with every violation of the musical code, added to the nerve-racking din.

Ruth made a gesture of despair.

"Beautiful!" murmured Alice as the paper roll in the mechanical piano got a "kink," and played a crash of discords. Ruth covered her ears with her hands.

There was a step in the corridor.

"There's father!" exclaimed Ruth.

"I wonder what success he had negotiating a loan?" observed Alice.

Mr. DeVere entered wearily.

The girls waited for him to speak, and it was with an obvious effort that he croaked:

"I--I didn't get it. Mr. Cross wouldn't even see me. He sent out word that he was too busy. He is getting ready for the first performance of 'A Matter of Friendship,' to-night."

"A matter of friendship," repeated Alice. "What a play on the words!"

"I sent in my card," explained Mr. DeVere, "and told him I must have a little money. He sent back word that he was sorry, but that he had invested so much in the play that he could spare none."

There was a period of silence. The girls looked pityingly at their father.

"Something must be done," he declared, finally. "I can try elsewhere.

I will go see----"

A knock at the door interrupted him. Before Alice could speak Ruth had gained it. She tried to close it, but was not in time to prevent the caller from being heard.

"The boss says there's no use orderin' any more groceries, until youse has paid for what youse has got," said a coa.r.s.e voice. "Take it from me--nothin' doin'!"

"Oh!" Ruth was heard to murmur.

Mr. DeVere started from his chair.

"The insulting----" he began.

Alice touched him on the arm.

"Don't!" she begged, softly.

Mr. DeVere turned aside. He slipped his arm around Alice, and, as Ruth came in, with tears in her eyes, she, too, found a haven in her father's embrace. Then the actor spoke.

"Alice, dear," he faltered, "What is the address of that--that moving picture manager?"

CHAPTER X

THE MAN IN THE KITCHEN

Let it be said of Alice that, even in this moment of triumph, she did not gloat over her victory--for victory it was. Had she planned it, events could not have transpired to better purpose. The combination of circ.u.mstances had forced her father along the line of least resistance into the very path she would had chosen for him, and she felt in her soul that it was best.

But she did not say: "There, I knew you'd come to it, Daddy!" Many a girl would, and so have spoiled matters. Alice merely looked demurely at her father--and gave him the address.

The girl was perhaps wiser than her years would indicate, and certainly in this matter she was more resourceful than was Ruth. But then chance had played into her hands. That meeting with Russ had done much.

"Yes, I think I must come to it," sighed Mr. DeVere. "It is being forced on me--the movies. I never thought I would descend to them!"

"It isn't a fall at all, Daddy!" declared Alice, stoutly. "I'm glad you are going into them. You'll like them, I'm sure."

"The actors--and actresses--if one can call them such--who take parts in moving picture plays must be very--very crude sort of persons," he said.

"Not at all!" cried Alice. "I was there and saw them, and there were some as nice as you'd want to meet. They were real gentlemen and ladies, even if the men were in their shirt sleeves."

"But they can't act!" a.s.serted Mr. DeVere. "I have seen bills up advertising the moving pictures--all they seemed to be doing--the so-called actors, I mean--was falling off horses, roping steers--I believe "roping" is the proper term--or else jumping off bridges or standing in the way of railroad trains. And they call that acting!"

"Oh, you wouldn't have to do that, Daddy!" cried Alice, with a laugh.

"Mr Pertell is putting on some real dramas--just like society plays, you know. Of course all the scenes won't take place in a parlor, I suppose. You won't have to do outdoor work, though, and I'm sure you won't have to catch a wild steer, or stop a runaway locomotive."

"I should hope not," he replied, with a tragic gesture.

"But that is real acting, all the same," went on Alice. In that little while she had come to have a great liking and interest in the moving picture side of acting. "You should see some of the scenes I saw. Why, Daddy, some of the men and women were just as good as some of the actors with whom you have been on the road."