There were whispers about that Lubin in Philadelphia needed a director. So David wrote them a letter telling of all his varied experiences, which brought an answer with an offer of sixty dollars a week for directing and a request that he run over to Philadelphia for an interview.
Now one had to look like something when on that sort of errand bent. I had to get our little man all dressed up. Could afford only a new shirt and tie. This, with polished boots and suit freshly pressed, would have to do. But, even so, he looked quite radiant as he set forth for the Pennsylvania Station to catch his Every-hour-on-the-hour.
But nothing came of it. Lubin decided not to put on another director or make a change—whichever it was. The husband of Mrs. Mary Carr, the Mrs. Carr of William Fox’s “Over the Hill” fame, continued there, directing the movies which he himself wrote. After dinner each night he would roll back the table-cloth, reach for pad and pencil, and work out a story for his next movie.
Back to the dingy “A. B.” for us. Strange, even from the beginning we felt a sort of at-home feeling there. The casualness of the place made a strong appeal. What would happen if some one really got on the job down there some day?
And so it came about shortly after “The Snow-man” that the elder Mr. McCutcheon fell ill, and his son Wallace took over his job. He directed “When Knights Were Bold”; directed Mr. Griffith in several pictures. But Wally was not ambitious to make the movies his life job. He soon made a successful début in musical comedy. Some years later he married Pearl White, the popular movie star.
It began to look as though there soon might be a new director about the place. And there was. There were several.
No offer of theatrical jobs came to disrupt the even tenor of the first two months at Biograph. It was too late for winter productions and too early for summer stock, so there was nothing to worry about, until with the first hint of summer in the air, my husband received an offer to go to Peake’s Island, Maine, and play villains in a summer stock company there.
Forty per, the salary would be, sometimes more and sometimes less than our combined earnings at the studio. To go or not to go? Summer stock might last the summer and might not. Three months was the most to expect. The Biograph might do as much for us.
How trivial it all sounds now! Ah, but believe me, it was nothing to be taken lightly then. For a decision that affects one’s very bread and butter, when bread and butter has been so uncertain, one doesn’t make without heart searchings and long councils of war.
So we argued, in a friendly way. Said he: “If I turn this job down, and appear to be so busy, they soon won’t send for me at all. Of course, if this movie thing is going to last and amount to anything, if anybody could tell you anything about it, we could afford to take chances. In one way it is very nice. You can stay in New York, and if I can find time to write too—fine! But you know you can’t go on forever and not tell your friends and relatives how you are earning your living.”