Frank Powell had a busy hour at the Ferry Building although Mr. Griffith was there also to see that all the company got on board. He had not anticipated too smooth an exit. Nor did he get it, even though he had taken well into account his temperamentalists. And sure enough, Arthur Johnson and Charlie West arrived breathless and hatless, fresh from an all-night party, just as the last gong rang.
And while David was nervously awaiting them and while dear relatives were weeping their fond farewells, the Pickford family chose the opportune moment to put on a little play of their own.
Ma Smith, it seems, had made up her mind that a last minute hold-up might succeed in forcing Mr. Griffith to raise Mary’s salary—I’m not sure whether it was five or ten dollars a week. So they held a little pow-wow on the subject, right on the dock, in the midst of all the excitement; and Jack began to cry because he wasn’t going along with his big sister; and Owen Moore between saying sad good-byes to Mary, hoped the boss might relent and give him the ten extra he had held out for, for Los Angeles.
For, much as Owen loved Mary and Mary loved Owen, he let a few dollars part them for the glorious season out in California.
Well, anyhow, little Jack’s tears and Mother Smith’s talk and pretty Mary’s gentle but persistent implorations did not get her the ten dollars extra. David had something up his sleeve he knew would calm the Smith family, and make them listen to reason, and he delivered it with a firm finality.
“Now I’ve got little Gertie Robinson all ready to come on at a moment’s notice. Mary goes without the five (or ten) or not at all.”
Mary went. Then Jack began to bawl. It was a terrible family parting. So Mr. Griffith compromised and said he’d take Jack and give him three checks a week, fifteen dollars. The company paid his fare, of course, for we had extra tickets and plenty of room for one small boy in the coaches at our disposal.
It was a pleasant trip, especially for those who had not been to California before. Some found card games so engrossing that they never took a peek at the scenery. Some, especially Mary and Dorothy West, oh’d and ah’d so that Arthur Johnson, thinking the enthusiasm a bit overdone, began kidding the scenery lovers. “Oh, lookit, lookit,” Arthur would exclaim when the gushing was at its height.
The “Biograph Special” we were. We had rare service on the train. We had every attention from the dining-car steward. Had we not been allowed three dollars per day for meals on the train? And didn’t we spend it? For the invigorating air breathed from the observation platform gave us healthy appetites.
At San Bernardino (perhaps the custom still survives, I don’t know, for now when I go to Los Angeles, I go via the Overland Limited to San Francisco instead) we each received a dainty bouquet of pretty, fragrant carnations. Flowers for nothing! We could hardly believe our eyes.