that sheltered his pal wife and the kiddies. Here he could be truly himself, a man’s man, loving the simple things of life. Here, in his library, surrounded by his books, or in the music room playing over some little Chopin prelude, or on the lawn romping with the giant police dog, he could forget the public that would not let him rest. Nor had he been spoiled in the least, said the interviewer, by the adulation poured out upon him by admiring women and girls in volume sufficient to turn the head of a less sane young man.
“There are many beautiful women in the world.” pursued the writer, “and I dare say there is not one who meets Harold Parmalee who does not love him in one way or another. He has mental brilliancy for the intellectuals, good looks for the empty-headed, a strong vital appeal, a magnetism almost overwhelming to the susceptible, and an easy and supremely appealing courtesy for every woman he encounters.”
Merton drew a long breath after reading these earnest words. Would an interviewer some day be writing as much about him? He studied the pictures of Harold Parmalee that abundantly spotted the article. The full face, the profile, the symmetrical shoulders, the jaunty bearing, the easy, masterful smile. From each of these he would raise his eyes to his own pictured face on the wall above him. Undoubtedly he was not unlike Harold Parmalee. He noted little similarities. He had the nose, perhaps a bit more jutting than Harold’s, and the chin, even more prominent.
Possibly a director would have told him that his Harold Parmalee beauty was just a trifle overdone; that his face went just a bit past the line of pleasing resemblance and into something else. But at this moment the aspirant was reassured. His eyes were pale, under pale brows, yet they showed well in the prints. And he was slightly built, perhaps even thin, but a diet rich in fats would remedy that. And even if he were quite a little less comely than Parmalee, he would still be impressive. After all, a great deal depended upon the acting, and he was learning to act.
Months ago, the resolution big in his heart, he had answered the advertisement in Silver Screenings, urging him to “Learn Movie Acting, a fascinating profession that pays big. Would you like to know,” it demanded, “if you are adapted to this work? If so, send 10 cents for our 10-Hour Talent-Prover, or Key to Movie-Acting Aptitude, and find whether you are suited to take it up.”
Merton had earnestly wished to know this, and had sent 10 cents to the Film Incorporation Bureau, Station N, Stebbinsville, Arkansas. The Talent-Prover, or Key to Movie-Acting Aptitude, had come; he had mailed his answers to the questions and waited an anguished 10 days, fearing that he would prove to lack the required aptitude for this great art. But at last the cheering news had come. He had every aptitude in full measure, and all that remained was to subscribe to the correspondence course.
He had felt weak in the moment of his relief from this torturing anxiety. Suppose they had told him that he wouldn’t do? And he had studied the lessons with unswerving determination. Night and day he had held to his ideal. He knew that when you did this your hour was bound to come.
He yawned now, thinking, instead of the anger expressions he should have been practicing, of the sordid things he must do tomorrow. He must be up at five, sprinkle the floor, sweep it, take down the dust curtains from the shelves of dry goods, clean and fill the lamps, then station outside the dummies in their raiment. All day he would serve customers, snatching a hasty lunch of crackers and cheese behind the grocery counter. And at night, instead of twice watching The Hazards of Hortense, he must still unreasonably serve late customers until the second unwinding of those delectable reels.
He suddenly sickened of it all. Was he not sufficiently versed in the art he had chosen to practice? And old Gashwiler every day getting harder to bear! His resolve stiffened. He would not wait much longer — only until the savings hidden out under the grocery counter had grown a bit. He made ready for bed, taking, after he had undressed, some dumbbell exercises that would make his shoulders a trifle more like Harold Parmalee’s. This rite concluded, he knelt by his narrow cot and prayed briefly.
“Oh, God, make me a good movie actor! Make me one of the best! For Jesus’sake, amen!”
CHAPTER III
WESTERN STUFF
SATURDAY PROVED ALL that his black forebodings had pictured it — a day of sordid, harassing toil; toil, moreover, for which Gashwiler, the beneficiary, showed but the scantest appreciation. Indeed, the day opened with a disagreement between the forward-looking clerk and his hide-bound reactionary. Gashwiler had reached the store at his accustomed hour of 8:30 to find Merton embellishing the bulletin board in front with legends setting forth especial bargains of the day to be had within.
Chalk in hand, he had neatly written, “See our new importation of taffetas, $2.59 the yard.” Below this he was in the act of putting down, “Try our choice Honey-dew spinach, 20 cts. the can.” “Try our Preferred Chipped Beef, 58 cts. the pound.”
He was especially liking that use of “the.” It sounded modern. Yet along came Gashwiler, as if seeking an early excuse to nag, and criticized this.
“Why don’t you say ‘a yard,’ ‘a can,’ ‘a pound’?” he demanded harshly. “What’s the sense of that there ‘the’ stuff? Looks to me like just putting on a few airs. You keep to plain language and our patrons’ll like it a lot better.” Viciously Merton Gill rubbed out the modern “the” and substituted the desired “a.”
“Very well,” he assented, “if you’d rather stick to the old-fashioned way; but I can tell you that’s the way city stores do it. I thought you might want to be up to date, but I see I made a great mistake.”
“Humph!” said Gashwiler, unbitten by this irony. “I guess the old way’s good enough, long’s our prices are always right. Don’t forget to put on that canned salmon. I had that in stock for nearly a year now — and say it’s 20 cents ‘a’ can, not ‘the’ can. Also say it’s a grand reduction from 35 cents.”
That was always the way. You never could please the old grouch. And so began the labor that lasted until nine that night. Merton must count out eggs and weigh butter that was brought in. He must do up sugar and grind coffee and measure dress goods and match silks; he must with the suavest gentility ask if there would not be something else today; and he must see that babies hazardously left on counters did not roll off.
He lived in a vortex of mental confusion, performing his tasks mechanically. When drawing a gallon of kerosene or refolding the shown dress goods, or at any task not requiring him to be genially talkative, he would be saying to Miss Augusta Blivens in far-off Hollywood, “Yes, my wife is more than a wife. She is my best pal, and, I may also add, my severest critic.”
There was but one break in the dreary monotony, and that was when Lowell Hardy, Simsbury’s highly artistic photographer, came in to leave an order for groceries. Lowell wore a soft hat with rakish brim, and affected low collars and flowing cravats, the artistic effect of these being heightened in his studio work by a purple velvet jacket. Even in Gashwiler’s he stood out as an artist. Merton received his order, and noting that Gashwiler was beyond earshot bespoke his services for the following afternoon.
“Say, Lowell, be on the lot at two sharp tomorrow, will you? I want to shoot some Western stuff — some stills.”
Merton thrilled as he used these highly technical phrases. He had not read his magazines for nothing.
Lowell Hardy considered, then consented. He believed that he, too, might some day be called to Hollywood after they had seen the sort of work he could turn out. He always finished his art studies of Merton with great care, and took pains to have the artist’s signature entirely legible. “All right, Mert, I’ll be there. I got some new patent paper I’ll try out on these.”
“On
