New York’s Central Park awoke one February morning to find her leafless trees and brush all a-glisten with a sleet that made them look like fantastic crystal branches. When the actors reported at the studio that morning, they found Mr. Griffith in consultation with himself. He did not want to waste that fairyland just a few blocks away.
A hurried look through pigeon-holed scripts unearthed no winter story. “Well,” announced our director, “make up everybody, straight make-up. Bobby, pack up the one top hat, the one fur coat and cap, I’ll call a couple of taxis, and on the way we’ll change this summer story into a winter one.”
So was evolved “The Politician’s Love Story” in which were scenes where lovers strolled all wrapped up in each other and cuddled down on tucked-away benches. Well, lovers can cuddle in winter as well as summer, and we were crazy to get the silver thaw in the picture; and we got it, though we nearly froze. But we had luxurious taxis to sit in when not needed, and afterwards we were taken to the Casino to thaw out, and were fed hot coffee and sandwiches in little private rooms.
“The Curtain Pole” and “The Politician’s Love Story” started the grumbling young Mack Sennett on the road to fame and fortune. Like the grouchy poker player who kicks himself into financial recuperation, Mack Sennett grouched himself into success.
CHAPTER XII
ON LOCATION—EXPERIENCES PLEASANT AND OTHERWISE
Before the first winter drove us indoors there had been screened a number of Mexican and Indian pictures. There was one thriller, “The Greaser’s Gauntlet,” in which Wilfred Lucas, recruited from Kirke La Shelle’s “Heir to the Hoorah” played the daring, handsome, and righteous José. And Wilfred Lucas, by the way, was the first real g-r-a-n-d actor, democratic enough to work in our movies. That had happened through friendship for Mr. Griffith. They had been in a production together.
For a mountain fastness of arid Mexico, we journeyed not far from Edgewater, New Jersey. No need to go further. Up the Hudson along the Palisades was sufficiently Mexico-ish for our needs. There were many choice boulders for abductors to hide behind and lonely roads for hold-ups. New Jersey near by was a fruitful land for movie landscape; it didn’t take long to get there, and transportation was cheap. Small wonder Fort Lee shortly grew to be the popular studio town it did.
In those days, movie conveyance for both actors and cargo was a bit crude. We had no automobiles. When Jersey-bound, we’d dash from wherever we lived to the nearest subway, never dreaming of spending fifty cents on a taxi. We left our subway at the 125th Street station. Down the escalator, three steps at a bound, we flew, and took up another hike to the ferry building. And while we hiked this stretch we wondered—for so far we had come breakfastless—if we would have time for some nourishment before the 8:45 boat.
A block this side of the ferry building was “Murphy’s,” a nice clean saloon with a family restaurant in the back, where members of the company often gathered for an early morning bite. We stuffed ourselves until the clock told us to be getting to our little ferry-boat. Who knew when or where we might eat again that day?
“Ham,” Mr. Murphy’s best waiter, took care of us. As the hungry breakfasters grew in number and regularity Mr. Murphy became inquisitive. Mr. Murphy was right, we didn’t work on the railroad and we didn’t drive trucks. So, who, inquired Mr. Murphy of Ham, might these strange people be who ate so much and were so jolly in the early morning?