"Well, what can I do? I must do something. Poor daddy's voice has failed utterly. He can't take his new part in the play unless he does it in pantomime, and I'm afraid that would hardly be the thing. He simply can't speak his lines, though he can act them."

"That's too bad," said Russ, sympathetically.

"So they had to get another actor in his place," went on Alice, "and poor father has started out to look for something else to do. That's my errand this morning, also."

Russ was in deep thought for a moment. Then he exclaimed:

"I have it!"

"What? A place for me?" demanded Alice. "Tell me at once, and I'll hurry there."

"No, Alice, not a place for you; but a place for your father. You say he can't speak, but he can act?"

"Yes."

"Then the movies is the very place for him! He won't have to say a word--just move his lips. He can act parts in photoplays as well as if he never had a voice. I just thought of it. It will be the very thing he can do. Say, I'm glad I met you. We must get busy with this at once.

"Come on! I'm on my way now to see about my new patent, and I can take you to the manager of the film company. I know him well. I'm sure he'll give your father a place in the company, and it pays well.

If Mr. DeVere can't act at the New Columbia he can in the movies!

Come on!"

CHAPTER VII

ALICE CHANGES HER MIND

Filled with enthusiasm over his new project for aiding Mr. DeVere, Russ Dalwood caught Alice by the hand, and guided her steps with his.

She had been about to turn off at a corner, to carry out her intention of seeking employment in one of the many manicure parlors on a certain street. Now she hesitated.

"Well," asked Russ, impatiently, "don't you like the idea?"

"Oh, it's fine--it's splendid of you!" Alice replied, with fervor, "but you know----"

She hesitated, her cheeks taking on a more ruddy hue. There was an uncertain look in her brown eyes.

"Well, what?" asked Russ, smilingly. "Surely you don't mind going with me to the manager's office? It's a public place. Lots of girls go there, looking for engagements."

"Oh, no, it isn't that!" she hastened to a.s.sure him.

"Or, if you don't like going with me, I can give you a note to Mr.

Pertell, the manager. I know him quite well, as I've been negotiating with him about my patent."

"Oh, Russ, you know it isn't that!" she exclaimed.

"And, if you like, we'll go back and get Ruth. Maybe that would be better!" he exclaimed eagerly, and as Alice looked into his honest gray eyes she read his little secret, and smiled at him understandingly.

"Oh, never that!" she cried gaily. "Ruth would be the last one in the world to be let into this secret, until it is more a.s.sured of success. Besides, I guess when you walk with Ruth you don't want me,"

she challenged.

"Oh, now----" he began.

"That's all right. I understand," she laughed at him. "No, we won't tell Ruth."

"Then you'll go and see the manager--I know he'll give your father a trial, and that's all that's needed, for I'm sure he can do the acting. And they're always looking for new characters. Come on!"

Once more, in his enthusiasm, he tried to lead her down the street.

But she hung back.

"No, really, Russ," she said earnestly enough now, and her eyes took on a more grave and serious look. "It isn't that. It's only--well, I might as well tell you, though it may be rather mean after your kindness. But my father thinks the movies are so--so vulgar!

There--I've said it."

She looked at her companion anxiously. To her surprise Russ laughed.

"So, you were afraid of hurting my feelings; were you?" he asked.

"Yes," she answered, in a low voice.

"Nothing like that!" he a.s.sured her. "I've heard worse things than that said about the movies. But I want to tell you that you're wrong, and, with all due respect to him, your father is wrong too. There's nothing vulgar or low about the movies--except the price."

He was becoming really enthusiastic now. His voice rang, and his eyes sparkled.

"I'm not saying that because I make my living at them, either," Russ went on. "It's because it's true. The moving picture shows were once, perhaps, places where nice persons didn't go. But it's different now.

All that has been changed. Why, look at Sarah Bernhardt, doing her famous plays before the camera? Even Andrew Carnegie consented to give one of his speeches in front of the camera, with a phonograph attachment, the other day."

"Did he, really?" cried Alice.

"He certainly did. And a lot of the best actors and actresses in this and other countries aren't ashamed to be seen in the movies. They're glad to do it, and glad to get the money, too, I guess," he added, with a grin.

"I think it would be the very thing for your father. Of course, if his voice had held out he might like it better to be an actor on the real stage. But in the movies he won't have to talk. He'll just have to act. Then, when his voice gets better, as I hope it will, he can take up the legitimate again."

"Oh, I know his heart is set on that!" exclaimed Alice.

"But don't you think he'd consider this?" asked Russ. He was very anxious to help--Alice could tell that.

"I--I'm afraid he wouldn't," confessed the girl. "He thinks the movies too common. I know, for I've heard him say so many times."

"They're not common!" defended Russ, st.u.r.dily. "The moving pictures are getting better and better all the while. Of course some poor films are shown, but they're gradually being done away with. The board of censorship is becoming more strict.

"Common! Why do you know that it costs as much as $20,000, sometimes, to stage one of the big plays--one with lots of outdoor scenes in it, burning buildings, railroad accidents made to order, and all that."

"Really?" cried Alice, her eyes now shining with excitement.

"That's right!" exclaimed Russ. "I'm just at the beginning of the business. I've learned the projecting end of it so far. Almost anyone can put the film in the machine, switch on the light, get the right focus and turn the handle. But it's harder to film a real drama with lots of excitement in it--outdoor stuff--cattle stampeded--the sports of cowboys--a fake Indian fight; it takes lots of grit to stand up in front of an oncoming troop of hors.e.m.e.n, and snap them until they get so close you can see the whites of their eyes. Then if they turn at the right time--well and good. But if there's a slip, and they ride into you--good-night! Excuse my slang," he added, hastily.

"Did that ever happen?" she asked, eagerly.