Merton of the Movies

by Harry Leon Wilson

“It’s all jake,” Baird assured him. “Don’t feel worried. Of course we’ll trick the bit where you hit the saddle; the camera’ll look out for that.”

One detail only troubled Merton. After doing the leap from the high window, and before doing its finish where he reached the saddle, Baird directed certain changes in his costume. He was again to don the false mustache, to put his hat on, and also a heavy jacket lined with sheep’s wool worn by one of the cowboys in the dance-hall. Merton was pleased to believe he had caught the manager napping here. “But Mr. Baird, if I leap from the window without the hat or mustache or jacket and land on my horse in them, wouldn’t it look as if I had put them on as I was falling?”

Baird was instantly overcome with confusion. “Now, that’s so! I swear I never thought of that, Merton. I’m glad you spoke about it in time. You sure have shown me up as a director. You see I wanted you to disguise yourself again—I’ll tell you; get the things on, and after we shoot you lighting in the saddle we’ll retake the window scene. That’ll fix it.”

Not until long afterward, on a certain dread night when the earth was to rock beneath him, did he recall that Baird had never retaken that window scene. At present the young actor was too engrossed by the details of his daring leap to remember small things. The leap was achieved at last. He was in the saddle after a twenty-foot drop. He gathered up the reins, the horse beneath him coughed plaintively, and Merton rode him out of the picture. Baird took a load off his mind as to this bit of riding.

“Will you want me to gallop?” he asked, recalling the unhappy experience with Dexter.

“No; just walk him beyond the camera line. The camera’ll trick it up all right.” So, safely, confidently, he had ridden his steed beyond the lens range at a curious shuffling amble, and his work at the Come All Ye Dance Hall was done.

Then came some adventurous days in the open. In motor cars the company of artists was transported to a sunny nook in the foothills beyond the city, and here in the wild, rough, open spaces, the drama of mother-love, sacrifice, and thrills was further unfolded.

First to be done here was the continuation of the hero’s escape from the dance-hall. Upon his faithful horse he ambled along a quiet road until he reached the shelter of an oak tree. Here he halted at the roadside.

“You know the detective is following you,” explained Baird, “and you’re going to get him. Take your nag over a little so the tree won’t mask him too much. That’s it. Now, you look back, lean forward in the saddle, listen! You hear him coming. Your face sets—look as grim as you can. That’s the stuff—the real Buck Benson stuff when they’re after him. That’s fine. Now you get an idea. Unlash your rope, let the noose out, give it a couple of whirls to see is everything all right. That’s it—only you still look grim—not so worried about whether the rope is going to act right. We’ll attend to that. When the detective comes in sight give about three good whirls and let her fly. Try it once. Good! Now coil her up again and go through the whole thing. Never mind about whether you’re going to get him or not. Remember, Buck Benson never misses. We’ll have a later shot that shows the rope falling over his head.”

Thereupon the grim-faced Benson, strong, silent man of the open, while the cameras ground, waited the coming of one who hounded him for a crime of which he was innocent. His iron face was relentless. He leaned forward, listening. He uncoiled the rope, expertly ran out the noose, and grimly waited. Far up the road appeared the detective on a galloping horse. Benson twirled the rope as he sat in his saddle. It left his hand, to sail gracefully in the general direction of his pursuer.