Part 11 (2/2)
Thus Pep dismissed the incident of the hour, so Randy went ”home,”
rather lonesome without his chum. Neither guessed for a moment that there was to grow out of the circ.u.mstance something destined to affect their whole business career.
CHAPTER X-THE PRESS AGENT
”I hardly know how to thank you, Mr. Vincent,” spoke Frank Durham.
”Don't try to,” replied the ventriloquist, in his usual offhand way.
Frank, practically a beginner in the profession, and Hal Vincent, a seasoned graduate, were saying good-bye to each other on the steps of the building which contained the offices and warerooms of the great National Film Exchange.
For several days the ears of our young hero had buzzed with little besides ”movies” chatter. When Frank had first gone into the business and had bid in at auction the outfit now at Fairlands, he had learned the basis of the trade through an interesting day spent at a motion picture supply house in the small city near his home. He found New York on a larger scale, however. Even within the few months that had elapsed since he and his chums had started the Wonderland photo playhouse there had been improvements, innovations and new wrinkles without number.
Frank now came in contact with these. It was a great advantage to him that he had Vincent to act as guide and adviser. The latter entered into the spirit of the occasion with the zest of an expert showing a novice the ground he has so often traversed. Vincent was not only active and obliging, but he was observant and shrewd. He knew the best supply sources in the city and how to handle them.
It embarra.s.sed Frank the first time Vincent, in his breezy showman's way, introduced him to the proprietor of the National Film Exchange.
According to the versatile and voluble ventriloquist, Frank and his chums, Randy and Pep, were young prodigies who had built up a mammoth photo playhouse enterprise at Fairlands out of nothing and had scored a phenomenal success. And still further, according to Vincent, Frank had secured a most favorable contract at Seaside Park, and was about to reap profits from a project that would set the pace in summer outing resorts for the season.
”Now this is confidential, Byllesby,” observed Vincent, b.u.t.tonholing the movies man and a.s.suming a dreadfully important air, as he glanced mysteriously about the place as if fearful of eavesdroppers-”this is probably one of a chain of shows Durham may manage. Don't lisp it to anybody, but one of his backers is a lady-well, I think she is rated at a cool half-million in real coin. You won't have to wait for your money from the Durham combination, so hand out only the best and latest on the closest terms-understand?”
As said, Frank found that even within the six months that had pa.s.sed since he had bought their original motion picture outfit science had been busy in the improvement of old and the invention of new devices.
Kinetoscopes, cameragraphs-all the varied list of projecting apparatus had progressed fast. It kept his mind on the alert to catch the explanations of the newest thing in condensing gla.s.ses, front and rear; jackets and tubes, transformers, shutters, iris dissolvers, knife switches and slide carriers. It was all part of an education in the line of business activity he had adopted, however, and Frank drank in lots of knowledge during that New York trip.
He was full of pleasant antic.i.p.ation and eager to rejoin his friends at Seaside Park, to go over with them his list of the wonderful things purchased and tell them about the satisfactory arrangements he had made for new feature films as they came along. He shook Vincent's hand heartily in parting. Frank added a word or two, telling how he hoped they would see the ventriloquist down at Seaside Park soon.
”I have a fair chance of getting something out of the road venture that burst up and left me stranded when I ran across Jolly,” explained Vincent. ”As soon as that is settled, which may be in less than a week, I'll be down at the new Wonderland-don't doubt it. Move on a bit; will you, Durham?” Vincent spoke in a quick undertone, his eyes fixed on an approaching pedestrian who at once attracted Frank's attention.
He was the typical tragedian out at elbows, but showing his consciousness of being ”an actor.” He wore one rusty glove. The other hand was thrust into the breast of his tightly b.u.t.toned frock coat. His hair was long, and his hat, once a silk tile, was dented and yellowed by usage. Frank's companion did not escape. The eagle eye of the oncomer was fixed upon him and would not leave him.
”Ah, Hal!” he hailed, extending his gloved hand with a bow of real elegance-”howdy. Off the circuit? So am I. I see you are eating,” and he glanced up and down the new suit of clothes Vincent had been enabled to purchase from his share in the bird house speculation.
”That's about all I am able to arrange for,” declared Vincent, bluntly.
”I expect a check,” proceeded the newcomer grandly. ”Avaricious, but wealthy relative. If I could antic.i.p.ate till to-morrow, now--”
”Not from me, I can tell you that,” interrupted Vincent definitely.
”Only a dollar. You see--”
”A dime wouldn't make any difference until I get my settlement from the people who sent me out to starve,” insisted Vincent.
Frank was interested in the odd, airy individual, who struck him as a rather obsolete type of the fraternity. He smiled, and this was encouragement for the frayed actor, who touched his hat again and extended his gloved hand, this time towards Frank, with the words:
”Surely we have met somewhere on the boards? Was it in Philadelphia, when I was press agent for the United Thespian? Perhaps that will a.s.sist your memory.”
Frank good-naturedly accepted and glanced over a very dirty and worn card bearing the inscription: ”Roderick James Booth: Press Agent.” Frank shook his head,
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