Evening Star Newspaper, November 26, 1922, Page 71

THE' ‘SUNDAY STAR, WASHINGTON, CHECKING UP ON BIGGS. How the Glad Reunion Came to Bunnykins and Gladys After Years of Separation—Trilby May Takes the Advice of Uncle Nels to Find Out Something About the Help—Biggs Gets a Bump When Sent Out From the Handy Andy shop. BY SEWELL FORD. ES, there’'s a lot more to managing the Handy Andy Shop than just answering ‘phone calls and keeping time cards on from twenty to thirty near-mechanics who are out on odd jobs. You might think they were a poor lot, thesc Andys of mine, who are contented to be doing such work when most of ‘em might be making half as much again at their regular Frad As a macter of fact, most of them are drifters, for one reason er another. 0-goods, them,” Uncle Nels in- “Oughta be shut up some- where and kept at work steady. “Oh, T don't know," says I. “Maybe ¥hey have reasons for changing about. Tve seen plenty of jobs I wouldn't want to have hung on me as = life sentence. And then, bosses have a way of handing out blue tickets when work is slack, or production gets ahead of orders. They turn 'em out by the hundreds with no warning. Ko it's hardly fair to size up every wman you find on a park bench as a “HER, hobo. M can’t heip it “Huh!" says Uncle Nels. “They quit you, don’t they?" 1 had to admit that my force was shifty one, that some came and are or worse.” say: he. “You don't know what they've been. “True.” says I. “I seldom look into their past, or ask for a letter lcourse, there are girls who would ing if you'll ever show up again?’ demand | —that is, who aren’t in a position to | from their minister, or character referenc Do you think that would help in the odd job business?” I'd find out something before I took 'em on,” says Uncle Nels. At the time T merely hunched my shoulders and let it ride. He's a cagey old bo Uncle Nels, and becausc he got nicked by a smok- jng room shark Tor as much as three- fifty on his last trip back from Sweden, he's apt to loop slant-eyed at | meals; Gladys was. Her aunt run the ate kid. Only nineteen when I mar- any stranger. But you never can tell when a little hint like that is liable | up in Taunton, Mass. We got married didn’t mind that. Thought I was the | to sneak back into your head. NYWAY, * ok ok ¥ it couldn't have been JA more than a day or so later, as 1 was puzzling out how to attend to all the work my two bright young col- Jege hicks had drummed up ten-block district on the upper West Side, that into the office trickled this human string bean with the rat eves and the sneery nose. You get the sneery nose part, don’t You? Some noses are like that, pecially the long. thin omes. And this had the deep side furrows con- necting with the corners of his narrow-gauge mouth. The combina- tlon is often seen on head waiters, or ticket agents. tors, and other birds who are picked for their jobs, apparently, so they ran work out a chronic grouch on mankind. Only this one had dec- orated his upper lip with one of | those silly toothbrush mustache effects, and had sort of a hang-dog way of carrying his head on one side with the chin down, which made a curious blend of scorn and humility. T. ke an impudent beggar holding out his cup and leering at you. “Need any extra hands, asked, rather whiny. “If T didn't” says T, T put the sign out?” “Oh, well,”” says he, “you can't always tell. Generally they've just filled the place and forgot to take it Don't do any harm to ask, does Miss?” “why should ‘What's your line?’ says I “Inside wood finishin’,” says he, “wainscoatin’, mouldin’s, shelvin’ and so on.” “And you were let out last from ‘where?” 1 goes on. “Trunk factory,” says he. knockin’ wardrobes together.” “I see,” says L drawers that are stuck together with pins and library paste and covered with fancy cretonne—that kind that look so neat and solid in June and fall apart in September?” “Well,” says he, squinting at me sour, “what you women expect for thirty-nine fifty—a wreckproof steel safe? You want trunk bargains and vou get 'em. I didn't invent card- ‘board bottoms and tin hinges. I just put together the stuff they gave me.” “Until they gave you the run, eh?”" says I 7 “They didn’t give me no run,” say: he. “I walked out on 'em when the: posted that iast wage cut. .And as Td enough of Rochester anyway I takes & chance on breezin' down'to New York. tors want you to work for nuthin® on apartment house stuff.. Not for ‘me, Miss.” 5 “Think you could re-hang -sticky. doors,” says I, “and put up extra Xitchen shelves, and do odd jobs like that with fussy women standing over. pou?" Y - tBurel” aays he. “Been. “I could_do .}Iu or assistant audi- | he | “Making those cute | |¥sar I get restless. ‘| ben, But say, these contrac- work, all right, and maybe I could stand for the women. I'll give it a try if you say so.” “M-m-m!" says I, tapping the end of my chin with & pencil. “I'm not so sure you'd do. Our Handy Andys have to be able to kid the fair sex along more or less, and I judge you're not much of a ladies’ man.” “Oh, T don't know about that,” says he. ever been married, have you?" I asks. “What makes you Miss?" he comes back. K “Well, for one thing, if you don't mind my saying so,” says I, “you're no Apollo Apollinaris. face.” think that, ¥ ok ok % / DON'T deny that was rather a tough jab, but I didn't care at all for his sneering manner. In fact, he was the most irritating person I'd ever met and 1 was hoping that this left-hander would send h!m out with his ears pink. But it didn't. By screwing up one corner of his mouth he produced a smile that would have SAYS HE. “NO,” SHE LOOKS UP A be he's there because he 'curdled a can of condensed milk and (you did most of the drifting. the nose furrows scemed G “per. M1 to get be T ain’t the kind that gets laid out under a crab-apple tree with | \love letters sprinkled around me, !says he, “but I notice T didnt have such a hard time gettin' married |when I got ready. The first one I |esked took me up. | “How interestin, says I “Of |be fussy.” | “Thats so, too,” says he. “But the ‘one 1 picked was a good looker, a Imighty good looker.” “Nothing the matter with her.eve- |sight, either?” I suggested. | “No,” says he. “She wasn't blind, Inor I didn’t do all my courtin’ in the {dark. She'd seen me nearly every day for a year. boardin’ house where I took my | place. That was when I was workin' | there, and that's where we went to housekeeping’ in a little flat.” | “How romantic!” says I “Well, | T take it all back, Mr. —er— | “Biggs” says he. “Leonard Biggs {is my name.” “Thank you,” says I. “And may T in a lask, Leonard, if Mrs. Biggs is with| |vou in town “No, she ain't," says Biggs. | dunno where she is; and. beside: “y 1 ain't sure she is Mrs. Biggs any ‘more.” - | “You don't mean.” says I, “that in time Gladys found another man more +fascinating than you and ran off with |him 2" | “If anybody did any running,” says Biggs, “it was me.” “What was the idea?" 1 asked. ! For a minute or so Leonard Biggs {seemed to be staring back into the |past, as if trying to locate the exact spot where his romance hit the rocks, and figuring out the cause of the disaster. Then he indulged in another {of “those curdled smiles of his and gave me a shifty look. i~ “I didn’t plan to quit her for good when I left” says he. “We was gettin' along falrly well. Ceurse, she {wasn't much of a cook. Dressmakin’ was more in her line, and keepin’ up {with the styles. Say, she was a2 won- ider at that; always fixin's over her |dresses, and trimmin’ her hats dif- ferent, and doin’ up her hair a new iway. Course, I couldn't let her have |much to do it with. Took about all I could make to pay rent and buy |enough to eat. But somehow she'd always manage to keep herself fixed {up fancy and stylish. Not that I didn’t like to see her dressed well, too; but this comin’ home at night and findin' her all dolled up, and nothing but a little cold-meat and {bread and butter for dinner was poor istufr.” | ok ok ok 166470U should have married the aunt, eh?" says I could have, at that,” says he. “She was a widow and set a good {table. ‘But ‘I dian't find so much ifault with Gladys on account of her cooking. I never was a big eater. Where we didn’t hitch was about her wantin’ to stay in Taunton. It ain’t such a bad place, either; and I had a fairish job there. But somehow, after I've lived In & town more'n a You know— seein’ the same people every day, doin’ the same- work at the same old | , and--takin’ the -same streets home &t night. I.never was cut out toi.be- & stick-in-the:mud; I “expect. Every so often T've got to be on the 1 tried to tell Gladys-about 1-did-get her to go up to She " stood ends: and relatives were back. in Not with that | Table girl at the ' didn’t know “anybody,. and’ all "her |T noticed him there. | |Taunton, and anyway that was the only place fit to live in. “So finally we moved back for a spell. T couldn't Btick around there, though. Just couldn’t. I was plumb tired of Taunton. . And then I heard trom a foreman I used to work for who wanted me to go to Lynn. I told Gladys I'd fix up & nice little flat {for her there, and she'd be near the beaches and everything, and when I got settled I'd send for her. I did, too. But she wouldn't come. Then when I made another jump, down to Hartford, I sent for her again. She sent back word that she had a good place in a milliner’s shop and couldn’t leave.. We kept writin' back and forth for near a year after that; once {a month, maybe. But there ain't much satisfaction to that. So when I got as far off as Albany I kind of stopped. I did send her a Christmas card from there, I remember, with my address on it. But she didn't send anything back, and from then on I |ain't never heard a word from her. “As a movie title would put 1 suggested, “you drifted apart. Only | | [ ND SAYS. How | |long since the last Christmas card, |Leonara?” | | *“Must be three—no, four years this | “hristm says he. {ow careless of you!" says L | ou just naturally stroll off and lleave the little wife in the discards. {Ts that giving her a square deal? How do you think she feels, waiting |there in Taunton, Mass., and wonder- “I know it wasn't the right thing,” he confesses, tilting his head on on¢ side and looking down that long nose of his, “and I've felt sort of mean over it at times. T expect she's been | Always called me Bunnykins, | Glady did, explains Leonard: “especially when she'd sit on my knee nd smooth down my hair. Affection- ried her. I was thirty. But she ' greatest man in the country. She'd {do 'most anything in the world for |me—except leave Taunton. And I suppose she's still hoping maybe I'll get sick of knockin' around some {time and come back to her. Tough |luck, ain’t it? i or Gladys?” T asked. | urse, for her,” says Biggs. iall right, aln't 17" 'm | “You seem to lean towards that| {opi says I. | “Well. then,” says he. “now you |know the whole story. do I get the | {job?" ! “Think you could stay on it five or {six months without getting restless?” 1 asks. . | “Oh, T expect I can stand New {York that long.” says he. “I never |make no promises any more; not to |women, at least.” | “Let me set your mind easy |that point, Leonard,” says I {you should turn up missing some morning during the next month or| |80, T'll promise not to preak my | |heart grieving for you. “But just| |now I can use you. You'll be' No. 32 |on the books, and if you'll report at | 7:30 tomorrow morning I'll try to fit you out with a uniform and you can start in.” ¥ * x x k. { |TLJE was right on hand next day, and from the reports I got on him he was a perfect wizard with any. kind of wood-working tools. | Customers who'd had him for odd jobs ! thought up new things to have him do and would 'phone in asking to have him sent up again, He rebuilt a whole *set of library book shelves for one lady on Park avenue, and I found I could trust him to do work that none of the other Andys would dare tackle. So it was seldom that iLeonard Biggs warmed the bench here in the office. | Still, Uncle Nels thought he was the poorest looking specimen in the lot. “I wouldn't trust that feller to shingle a henhouse,” he remarked once, watching Biggs start to answer a call. “But he's the one man of them I protested, “that has told me the story of his life. I know every- thing_about him.” uh!* says Uncle Nels. be muck good.” “Well,” says I, “I'm not pinning any” medals ‘on him as a consistent husband. He: has a wife yearning her heart out up in Taunton, Mass, but.that doesn’t affect his usefulness as a crackerjack -odd job man. I hope. I can Keep him all winter.” And it must have been during his third week that Biggs reporeed back to the shop one night,'and instead of shedding his blue - denims, washing “It can’t Brockten: with: me, where I'd found |up and beating it when the others “She stood - it-. nearly.|did, he -still -sat ‘in: the .corner with three months, and.thén she claimedthis kit of tools:at his. feet and his she was homesick. I'd.find her with |chin in hls hands..-I was about to her ‘eyes:all Ted. and” she'd. say she}shut my desk and call it.a day when “Sick?" T asks.. | was there? “No,” says h 1 aint sick.” “Well, what's gone wrong with you?" I insists. YOh, nothin' much,” he mutters. But he makes no move to get up, and as he sits there with his shoul- Gers slumped he’s a doleful-looking object. He seems to have lost that perky air, and the nose lines are deeper than ever. “Sorry, Blggs,” says I, “but it's closing time and if you're set on holding a lodge of sorrow you'd bet- ter draw around to the undertaker's on the next block. Or was it something you had for lunch?’ “I—I got a bump, Miss Dodge, says he at that. “From a taxi?” I asks. He shakes his head. “You re- member -that last call you sent me out on?’ says he. * k k % “y ET'S SEE,” says I. “Oh yes. From-a duplex apartment up in the West Fifties. Some lady wanted to revise the window seats. Was she finicky about it?” “Oh, I done the work, all right,” says he. “It wasn't much of a job. She did stand around and do a good deal of bossin’, and warned me not to leave any marks on the hardwood floor, and made me clean up as I went along. But I didn’t mind that. I dld it the way she wanted and she—she gave me a dollar tip when I got through.” ‘Falr enough,” says I what shocked you—the tip “No,” says he. “It was who she was." “Eh?” says I “You couldn’t guess, ‘Was that could you?" he asks. “Not without a clue,” says I. “Well,” says he, letting it out draggy,” she—she was Glady he broken hearted cast-off! says “Gladys,” he repeats. “But I thought she was a fixture in Taunton?" says I “It was her, though.” says he. hat must have been rather a bump for you” says L “Something of an awkward situation for you both, T should say. I suppose she was a bit surprised, too. What did she have to say for herself?” “Not much,” says Biggs. “She let on not to notice who it was, at first; or maybe she really didn’t. The hall was kind of dark where she let me in. and she starts tellin’ me what she wanted done. Then we gets out into the light, by the window, and I says, ‘Yes, Gladys’, and of course she | knows then.” “Did she faint, that?” I asks. “Her?" says he. 0. She looks up and says, ‘Oh, It's you, is it!" and then goes on givin' off her orders, just as if—well, like she would to anybod. “Good for Glady couldn’t help the cheer. been on the spot T know have applauded. “And suggests. “Well,” says he, “I didn't say any more. Wasn't nothing for me to say, 1 got busy and done the job, just as she told me.” “And you did'nt ask her how she happened to be in New York, or when she left Taunton?” T demanded. “Not until T had finished up.” says he, “and she'd passed me the tip.” “Just how did you break the ice, Biggs?" says L “Why," says he, ting me out I say natural, seein’ you again, Gladys.' And she says, ‘Does it, Leonard? Then I remarked that she'd got a swell place to live in here and was lookin' pretty swell herself. She was, too. ‘Dressed just as stylish and expensive as any woman you'll see on 5th avenue, and her halr done fancy, and long danglin’ ear-rings on. She's a little heavier than she or anything like says 1. 1 If 1 had 1 should then?" 1 “as she was let- ‘Seems kind of older. I told her so, too.” “That was nice of you,” says I |“But go on. Did she call you Eunnykins? “No,” says he. “She said how she'd got in with a French woman up in Taunton, and they'd opened a shop of their own, and had good luck, and that a couple of years ago they'd come here and rented a little store and now they was doin’ a fine busi- ness and they'd just hired.this du- plex apartment to live in.” z “So she hadn’t divorced you and married again?” T asked. he didn't say,” says Biggs, T guess she ain’t.” “Then that was "all your reunion “but amounted to, was it?” says I “Yes,” says be. “I left after that." * * ok x “LJOW disappointing:” says L “There you two had a chance to cut loose with deep emotion. Why, just think what a dramatic situa. tion you had worked up! An aban- doned wife who, instead of pining away in poverty, becomes rich and prosperous. She sends for an odd job man and he turns out to be the husband who has cast her off. Does she weep or get panicky? Does she treat him with cold scorn? No. She says ‘Oh, it's you, is it? him a dollar tip. But that's real life for you. It seldom gives you the big punch that a play or a movie show never falls to develop. And now I suppose it's all over, eh?" “I expect so,” says Biggs. “I did get o bump, though. But I guess Il get over it. Might as well be goin’ along to the boardin’ house.” He gas taking off his jumper when the 'phone rang and I answered. “For you, Biggs,” says L “Some- one wants to know - if you're still here. Just a moment! Here you are.” “Me?’ says he, gazing stupid at the ‘phone. And I almost had to push the re- ceiver' into his hand. “Yes, it's me” says he. “Who? Oh! I didn't reco’nize your voice. Yes, I expect I ca Well, you know how puzsling it is’ listening to a one-sided telephone conversation. I hadn’t an idea what it was all about. But.seon he hung up and turned to me with that sneery smile once more in evidence. “It's Gladys,” says he. “Thought of something more to say to you, has she?’ I asked. “Yes”” says he. “Wants me to come back to her.” “Wha-at!" says L you go?” “And—and will [ he'll tell you that. ‘—and gives® D. C, NOVEMBER 26, 1922—PART ‘4 IOrg’anizecl Film‘ Players Make First Complaint to Supreme Arbiter Hays Gelatin Set Has Various Grievances, Some of Which Will Be Amusing to Disinterested Fans—Demand Greater Respect From Those With Whom They Are Associated—Attaches Have “Needless Insulting Demeanor”—Fight Scenes, Motor Wrecks and Other Similar Events Menace to Lives—Their Labor Stolen by Objectionable Contracts, They Charge. BY KARL K. KITCHEN. LTHOUGH nearly every class of workers seems to have its grievances, it surprised many people the other day when Frank Glllmore, executive secretary oi the Actors’ Equity Association, complained to Will Hays about the treatment of motlon picture actors by their employers. For the popular impression has been that of all work- ers motion picture players mot only are the best paid, but have the easiest jobs. That movie actors have a “class conscience” is well known, but that| they had a long list of grievances is something the layman never even dreamed of. However, their request for reforms i8 not a mere plea for better working conditions. It is almost a demand, and both Will Hays, who is the su- preme arbiter of the motion picture industry, and Jesse Lasky, who is one of the most powerful magnates in the industry, have already put their heads together to see what can be done aboyt it. Of course, individual motion picture actors have often made complaints about their treatment at the hands of the big producers, but this is the first time that an organized body of film players has put forth its grievances and demanded a better deal. As the film players are well organ- ized, and especially as the Actors’ Equity Association is affiliated with the American Federation of Labor, the movie magnates cannot dismiss these charges with a contemptuous laugh. The film-going public, how ever, can sit back and laugh—or cry— at the sad predicament of the gelatin set. Some film fans, of course, will probably sympathize deeply with | them. But the average layman, un- | less T am very much mistaken, will get a good chuckle out of their unique tribulations, for the grievances of film players have little to do with | salaries and untoward working con. | ditions, but a whole lot to do with | the mental attitude of their employ- | ers. ] In tact, the very first grievance that | s set forth in the Actors’ Equity As- sociation’s bill of particulars is that producers and directors do not con- sider business appointments with movie actors as definite business en- | gagements. Film players are often | kept waiting from thirty minutes to | several hours simply because their| employers don't take them seriously. | The attitude of the producers, it| seems, may be summed up in the ex- pression, “What's time to an actor?" The gelatin set dobsn't like that.! They want to be taken seriously, and | when Handsome Harold Huckleberry | has an appointment with Able Wog- glebaum at 3 p.m., he wants to be ad- mitted to his office ac that time and not told to come around tomorrow. * % ¥ X i HE film players assert that the attaches of most of the studios | and offices have a “needless insulting | demeanor” toward them. (I quote| trom the list of grievances which was forwarded to Mr. Hcys.) The actors say that even the gatemen and tele- phone operators at the studios act as if there was a definite program to humiliate them. The grievance presents a real prob- lem, for how Will Hays can make $10-a-week office boys and even $18- | -week telephone operators take $250 | and even $500 a week actors seri-| ously is beyond comprehension. Fir- | ing operators won't do any good. The ! new ones who have to be hired will have the same attitude. Mr. Lasky | and the other magnates may make their employes, even their gatemen, equals, but they won't be able to Ichange their mental attitude toward fillum folk. Even great gelatin stars who have | their own companies, stars like Doug- | {1as Fairbanks and Chaplin, cannot get | their employes to take them seriously. | {The workers around any studio re- |gard fim actors much as stage hands regard actors on the spoken stage. {They (the members of the profession) | inre looked upon as an inferior breed | lof people, who do little more than | iyawn and take “bows.” Ask any stage hand what he thinks of the, ihighest paid star on Broadway, and A telephone girl at the Fairbanks studlo, who was fired for being “fresh,” summed up the whole situation when she told the | star to his face: “Thank heaven, I'm not a movie actor.’ So Mr. Hays has a real problem on his hands. | 1f these were the only grievances of | the film folk it would be bad enough, | but there are any number of others. The actors complain that they dre often humiliated to find themselves | as supplicants before uninformed and ! even illiterate casting directors. They assert that too often they are judged by the cut of their clothes and not by their histrionic ability. In short, they demand dignified treatment as artists. To right this grievance the entire | moving plcture industry would have to be given a housecleaning, for the percentage of illiteracy among direc- tors is amazingly high. And as long as there are mofe actors than there are jobs, those players who are “be- tween pictures’” as “at liberty” fs called in the film world, are naturally In the position of supplicants. But it is & well known fact that the really good actors are mot placed in that | position. It is the bum actor, like the bum show, that usually has a bad season. * k% x HE complaint of the players that fight scenes, automobile wrecks “Oh, I expect I{will” says he, “She called me Bunnykind again. I kind of like that. Wants me to quit this job, too; so I guess I'd better, Miss Dodge. I—TI'm much obliged, though. I guess Gladys is, too. If it hadn’t been for you she might not have run across me, you know.” “I gasped. Then, when I caught my breath, I added; “You're both| welcome. And when you see Gladys ! tell her I congratulate her. “Sure!” says Biggs. “I will.” And what's more, I haven't the slightest doubt that he did. (Copyright, 1922, by Sewell Ford.) [ (naattiiny “THE WORKERS AROUND THE STUDIO REGARD FILM ACTORS AS AN INFERIOR BREED OF PEOPLE WHO DO LITTLE MORE THAN YAWN AND SIT AROLU and the like are often staged with utter disregard for their lives is ob. viously a just one. For while there are too many actors, it director's business to get rid of them by discharging high explosives behind thelr backs or forcing them to jum off high cliffs, despite the fact tha such little things add realistic touches ! to the films. As a matter of fact, no dircctor wants to Injure his leading or even his minor players, for the simple rea- son that their inability to act the next day would delay the completion of the picture and add to its cost. Mr. Hays won't have much trouble set tiing this grievance, for it is doubtful if any film player has beep injured intentionally by such methods. Of courte, all the high-priced actors have “doubles,” who are well paid for tak- ing desperate chances. Although the Equity Associa- tion does not Ssay so. its real fight is to force the establishment of an eight-hour day for actors. At present a basic forty-eight-hour weck is suggested, for among the chief grievances of the actors is being re quired to work overtime without ex tra pay. They assert that they are often obliged to work an extra hour or two, when they should be eating their dinner, and that in the course of a fow weeks these “stolen hours’ amount to several days. In fact, they dou't want to work at night unless they can slcep the next day or get extra pay. They point out that the is not the | aid for? If they are engaged to play ardinals or Indian guides for a pe riod of weeks, why should they objec to being made up? It seems to me fthat they haven't a leg to stand on as far as this grievance is con rned. here are alw oft seats for them round a studio. * % % 2 TATURALLY, some of the griev- N an of the in set are real Their complaint that the members of theif profession @re often at the merey of unscrupnlous agents is worthy of us consideration. they state: he mest agent in this industry fulfills an important mis- sion” (I quote verbatim from the tabulated grievanc sent to Mr. Hays). “as in the v form times o of employment agency when @ boma fide introdu with the and an much to th ion Kent's r salesmanship, How- acts ever, through various means the agency system has developed in some cases into mere politics; in others to downright extortion. The majority of studios employ casting directors, who are prov with the actor's name, addre: height, weight, age and | perience, in addition 1) photographs and his telephone nuiaber. in ome ¢ = carpepters and electricians around | the studio have an eight-hour day, and that even the ‘“extras” are pald extra if they work after 6 p.m. But they forget tq state that they are paid by the picture or for a stipulated number of weeks and that they draw their money, whether they are work- ing or loafing. It is generally admitted that an eight-hour day is long enough for any the motion picture actors haven't de cided whether acting before th camera is work or art. Any one who knows anything about | Sists in a double | making pictures knows that an eight- | to all appearances o | used to be, but she don't look a day ! act as if they regarded actors as their | hour day for actors is impossible. | physical organism to be pald, and advantage has to b taken of good weather later. Often times the sun hides behind a cloud for an hour or two. The actors have to loaf until it comes out. And they cannot drop their cigarette holders and the office boys and telephone |one to work. But the trouble is that | | 1ogical riding crops as workmen drop their | tools when a factory whistle blows. The scene has to be shot when the light is best. Pictures can't be made any pther way. * % % % T should be explained, however. that the eight-hour day is wanted more as a basis for collective bargaining than as an actual fact. For as the fil- lum players assert: “There has never been a contract for work given to the supporting player in this industry which Is worthy of the name. An in- ! equitable and probably illegal ‘one- sided’ agreement to accept a certain amount of salary under certain con- ditions, which are most indefinite, all that has been awarded him. And it is quite natural that some produc- ing companles take unfair advantage of a situation of this sort, there being as yet mo form of contract which could even be called ‘customary.’ “Among the flagrant forms which, after stating that ‘seven work- ing days shall constitute a week, further states that ‘no remuneration is to be given for nights, Sundays or holidays, etc’ Under, this it is possi- ble for a company to 'start an actor’s work on a Saturday and finish his part a week from the following day one week’s pay. It is possible under this regime for the actor to do two or three weeks' work in one wecek. During that time he must work day and night it so ordered. “If this sort of work is contem- plated by the management they do not so notify the actor when engag- ing him. They endeavor, first of all, to obtain by various means the very lowest salary quotation he will make under pressure. Sometimes this pres- sure involves the promize of. another plcture to follow up with right away—a promise that is seldom kept. Sometimes it Involves a promise of ‘featuring’ his name. This is seldom kept.” 8 In connection With the forty-eight- hour week the actors complain that often they must wait around in their make-up for hours before they are filmed. And I suppose it is annoying to stand around for hours dressed up like a cardinal or an Indlan guide.|Jouble creature). of | agreement now being offered is one | the casting 3 he s been Cidered b 1" the actor for an in- to which, that his firm to terview through an agency, tated of course, he must pay @ commission. “In other casc 1 actor who has just finished a picture with a pro ducer, and who isx being considered for another picture, the me studio, will receive a ‘call’ from an D. gent. even though the actor has talked the matter over already with the producer or director, or both. He will to inform the agent. Then the agent will proceed to ‘recommend’ some other player or else extort graft from the actor under consid- Sometimes two agents, or has happened, will ali ‘inform’ the actor of the engagement and all demand a commission. Tt has ¢ occurred that a plaver patd for one position, cosi- ut of his salary in all. t and the graft- should be ruled out. The director should call players But in t of work with employers quite possible 1 an hones nducted agency should be permitie it “It is also quite possible that an agent who 1 deavors to utllize salesmanship tled to a com- mission for the actor with some former er: but in the case of consecutive pictures at the udio, or in the case where the or Was own salesman, it seems 1051 unjust that the actor should be lealled upon o pay a commission.” This is & very aifferent grievance from finding fault with the “attitude” of o ana studio emploves Iy. and. in tae writer's humble a just one. hoys nion Whether Will Havs will be able to do much to alleviate the sad lot of these filum: folk I not.important—to e public.. Most people will be of the opinion that che movie actors ought to feel sw that they've got this off thei chests: for when any one has a grievance there's noth- ing like making it public. “Doubles” in the Animal World. HE most curious phase of anims ‘doubles.” perhaps. and cne that ecms 1o occur occasionally among the higher forms of life. as well as mong the lower, than phy! and which me in point ‘Weather conditions alone make that among the lower nima. the . fact obvious. If it rains when the chameleon. long famous for its power {actors are “on location,” they have!of changing color at will. a power vhich popular ageounts have often greatly exaggerated. It ture in many respects. nearly allied to no other and forming entirely by itself, To all appearanc to the researches capable of forming an opinion on the ubject, the nervous centers in one ateral half of this amimal go independently of 'those in the other. and it has two lateral centers of per- ception, sensation and motion. be- sides the common one, in which must reside the faculty of concentration. Notwithstanding the strictly sym- metrical structure of the chameleon as to its two halves, the eves move ndependently of each other and con- vey separate impressions as to their respective centers of perception. The consequence is that when the animal is agitated its movements resembic those of two nals. or, rather, per- menus haps, two -halves of animals glued together. h half wishes to go its own way and therc is no con- cordance of action. The chameleon, therefore, is the only four-legged vertebrate that is unable to swim; it becomes so frightened when dropped into water that all faculty of con- centration is lost and the creature tumbles about as if in a state of intoxication. When a chameleon is undisturbed every impulse to motion is referred to the proper tribunal and the whole and thus receive nine days' work for ! organism acts in accordance with its decrees. The eye, for example. that receives the+ strongest impression propagates it to the common center, which then prevails upon the other eye to follow that impression and direct its gaze toward the same spot. The clrameleon, moreover, may be fast asleep on one side and wide awake on the other. Cautiously ap- proached at night with a candle, so as not to awaken the whole animal at once, the eve turned toward the light will open, begin to move, and the corresponding side to change color, whereas the other side wiil re- main for a longer or shorter time in a torpid, motionless and un- changed state with its eve shut, In another type of double animal two individuals are born separately and afterward become one, as is the case with the marine parasite called Diplozoon paradoxyum (paradoxical It begins life as But, after all, isn't that what they're!two solitary and distinct individuals, con- | is certainly a remarkable crea- [ which naturalists termed *diporpa™ before their 1if iistury was known, and they were supposed to be adult specimens, Their appearanc this stage of their life is described by various authorities. A little while after they e left their strangely shaped eges, each of which parts ngar the top into two seations. to the upper one of which is attache a long tangle of thr the diporpa is ciliated and free swimming, and ex- | ercises its power of movement in roving about in search of a home, which it finds, if at all, on the gills of some fresh-water fish—the bream. the gudgeon or the minnow—from which it derives its nutriment. Meet- ing or being joined by others like itself, it selects companion, to which it is no figute of specch to ay that it becomes greatly attached. There is upon the 'k of cach of | the animals a sort of kncb, and oppo- !site to it a sucking apparatus by means of which it ix able togfasten itself securely to any surface 1o which it wish 1o adhe When two of the animals become a single ividual they do g so that each its ion. and thus situated they srow together and become one. Reversing Speech. is a curious phonographic E’I‘HE | instrument, the invention of Poulsen, capable of reversing the | sounds of a word or a sentence. A steel | piano wire, carried on two spools, passes | between the poles of a small electro- ! magnet so connected with a telepnone | transmitter that spoken words are mag- netically recorded on the moving wire |and reproduced in u receiving instru- ment. When the motion of the wire is direct, the words ars heard us in ordi- [nnry conversation, but if the motion is irfl.’ersrd. the sounds cowe to the car in reverse order, li./ words spelled backward. To represent the order in which the reversed sounds strike the ear, however, not only must the order of the letters composing a word be | reversed, but each letter must itself | be_reversed from right to left, as whea | reflected from a mirror. | | From Thunderstorms. IT wes Schreiber of the Haynald 1L observatory, at Kalocsa, in Hun- gary, who invented an electric appa- ratus for recording distant thunder. storms. An electric wave set in mo- tion by a flash of lightning Is regis- | tered by a detector resembling in its action that usell in the Marconi tele- graph system. The impulse is com- municated to & pen connected with a disk moved by clockwork, and when the pen makes its record a bell ix rung whose vibration resets the co- herer. Storms raging invisibly twenty miles away are thus recorded, and on one occasion, on a bright day. the apparatus made known the preva- lence of a violent storm™ in Budapest, sixty-eight miles distant. -