The Moving Picture Girls in War Plays
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Laura Lee Hope >> The Moving Picture Girls in War Plays
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"All here, I think," answered Russ.
"Where is Carl Switzer?" asked the manager.
"He was here a minute ago," Alice said.
"Well, he isn't here now," remarked Mr. Bunn.
"And almost time for the train to start!" exploded the director. "We
need him in some of the first scenes to-morrow. Get him, somebody!"
"Hey, Mister! Does yer mean dat funny, moon-faced man what talks like a
pretzel?" asked a newsboy in the station.
"Yes, that's Mr. Switzer," was the answer. "Where is he?"
"I jest seen him go out dat way," and the boy pointed toward the doors
leading to the street in front of the ferry. This street led over to the
interned German steamships at the Hoboken piers.
CHAPTER III
HARD AT WORK
"Great Scott!" ejaculated Mr. Pertell. "I might have known that if
Switzer came anywhere near his German friends he'd be off having a
confab with them. Go after him, somebody! It's only five minutes to
train time, and it will take those Germans that long to say how-de-do to
one another, without getting down to business."
"I'll get him," offered Paul, hurrying off toward the swinging doors.
"I'll go wit' youse," said the newsboy. "I likes t' listen t' him talk.
Does he do a Dutch act?"
"Sometimes," laughed Paul.
"Youse is actors, ain't youse?" the boy asked.
"Movies," answered Paul, hurrying along toward the entrance to the
shipyards.
"I wuz in 'em onct," went on the lad. "Dey wuz a scene where us guys wuz
sellin' papes, an' anudder guy comes along, and t'rows a handful of
money in de street--he had so much he didn't know what t' do wit'
it--dat wuz in de picture," he explained. "I wuz in de scene."
"Was it real money?" asked Paul.
"Naw--nottin' but tin," and the tone expressed the disappointment that
had been experienced. "But we each got a quarter out of it fer bein' in
de picture, so we didn't make out so worse. Dere's your friend now," and
the newsboy pointed to the comedian standing at the entrance to one of
the piers, talking to the watchman. Both had raised their voices high,
and were using their hands freely.
"Hey, Mr. Switzer, come along!" cried Paul. "It's time for the train."
"Ach! Der train! I t'ought der vos plenty of time. I vant to see a
friend of mine who is living on vun of dese wessels. Haven't I got der
time?"
"No, not a minute to spare. You can see him when you come back."
"Ach! Maybe I neffer comes back. If I get in der war plays I may be
shotted."
"Oh, come on!" laughed Paul, while the newsboy went into amused
contortions at the exaggerated language and gestures of Mr. Switzer.
"See you later, Hans!" called the comedian to the watchman at the pier.
"Ach, Himmel! Vot I care!" the latter cried. "I don't care even if you
comes back neffer! You can't get on dose ship!" and he waved his hand at
the big vessels, interned to prevent their capture by the British
warships.
"I was having quite an argument with him," said Mr. Switzer, speaking
"United States," as he walked back to the station with Paul.
"Wouldn't he let you go on board?"
"No. Took me for an English spy, I guess. But I know one of der
officers, and I thought I'd have time for a chat with him."
"Mr. Pertell is in a hurry," said the young actor.
"Well, if we miss this train there's another."
"Not until to-morrow, and he wants to start the rehearsals the first
thing in the morning."
"Ach! Den dat's differunt alretty yet again, wasn't it so?" and Mr.
Switzer winked at the admiring newsboy, and tossed him a quarter, with
the advice to get a pretzel and use it for a watch charm. Whereat the
boy went into convulsive laughter again.
"What do you mean, Switzer, by going off just at train time?" demanded
the indignant director and manager.
"Train time is der time to go off--so long as you don't go off der
track!" declared the German. "But I vanted to go on--not go off--I
vanted to go on der ships only dey vouldn't let me. However, better late
than be a miss vot's like a bird in der hand," and with a shrug of his
shoulders and a last wink at the newsboy, Mr. Switzer went out to the
waiting train with the others.
It was a long and rather tedious ride to Oak Farm, which lay some miles
back in the hills from the railroad station, and it was late afternoon
when the company of moving picture actors and actresses arrived, to be
greeted by Sandy Apgar and his father and his mother.
"Well, I _am_ glad to see you all again!" cried Sandy, shaking hands
with Mr. DeVere, the girls and the others. "It seems like old times!"
"We're glad dot you are glad!" declaimed Mr. Switzer. "Haf you any more
barns vot need burning down?"
"Not this time," laughed Sandy. "One barn-burning is enough for me." A
barn, an old one, had been destroyed on the occasion of the previous
visit of the moving picture company--a burning barn being called for in
one of the scenes.
Oak Farm was a big place, and, in anticipation of the war plays to be
enacted there, several buildings had been built to accommodate the extra
actors and actresses, where they could sleep and eat. The DeVere girls
and the other members of the regular company would board at the
farmhouse as they had done before.
Hard work began early the next day. There was much to do in the way of
preliminary preparation, and Pop Snooks, the property man, with a corps
of assistants, was in his element. While Ruth, Alice and the others were
going through a rehearsal of their parts without, of course, the proper
scenic background, the property man was setting up the different "sets"
needed in the various scenes.
While they were working on one piece, Sandy Apgar came along on his way
to look after some of the farming operations.
"Hello!" he cried. "Say! you fellows did that mighty quick."
"Did what?" asked Alice, who stood near, not being engaged for the time
being.
"Why, dug that well. I didn't know you could strike water so soon," and
he pointed to an old-fashioned well with a sweep, which stood not far
from the house. "What'd you use--a post-hole digger?" he asked. "What
sort of water did you strike?"
Before any one could answer him he strode over to the well, and, as he
looked down into it, a puzzled look came over his face.
"Well, I'll be jiggered!" he cried. "'Tain't a well at all! Only an
imitation!"
And that was what it was. Some canvas had been stretched in a circle
about a framework, and painted to represent stones. The well itself
stood on top of the ground, not being dug out at all. It made a
perfectly good water-scene, with a sweep, a chain, a bucket and all.
"I'm supposed to stand there and draw water for the thirsty soldiers,"
explained Ruth, coming up at this point.
"Huh! How are you goin' to git water out of there?" demanded Sandy.
"It's as dry as a bone. Why, I've got a good well over there," and he
pointed to a real one, under an apple tree.
"That's in the shade--couldn't get any pictures there," explained Russ.
"The well has to be out in the open."
"But what about water?" asked Sandy. "Hang me if I ever heard of a well
without water!"
"We'll run a hose up to this one," explained Pop Snooks. "A man will lie
down behind the well-curb, where he won't show in the camera. As fast as
Ruth lowers her bucket into the well the man'll fill the pail with water
for the soldiers to drink. It'll be quicker than a real well, and if we
find we don't like it in one place we can move it to another. This is a
movable well."
"Well, I'll be----" began Sandy, but words failed him. "This is sure a
queer business," he murmured as he strode off.
The hard work of preparation continued. All about the farm queer parts
of buildings were being erected, extra barns, out-houses, bits of fence,
and the like.
In what are called close-up scenes only a small part of an object shows
in the camera, and often when a magnificent entrance to a marble house
is shown, it is only a plaster-of-Paris imitation of a door with a
little frame around it.
What is outside of that would not photograph; so what is the use of
building it? Of course in many scenes real buildings figure, but they
are not built for the purpose.
In one of the war plays a small barn was to be shown, and a soldier was
supposed to jump through the window of this to escape pursuit. As none
of the regular buildings at Oak Farm was in the proper location, Pop
Snooks had been ordered to build a barn.
He did. That is, he built one side of it, propping it up with braces
from behind, where they would not show. The window was there, and some
boards; so that, seen through the camera, it looked like a small part of
a big out-building.
Some hay was piled on the ground to one side, away from the camera, and
it was on this hay that the escaping soldier would land. Then Ruth was
to come to him, and go through some scenes. But these would be interior
views, which would be taken in the improvised studio erected on the farm
for this purpose.
Mr. Switzer was to be the soldier, and would plunge through the barn
window head first. He was called on to rehearse the scenes a few days
after the semblance of a barn had been put in position and the hay laid
out to make his landing safe.
"Are you ready?" asked Mr. Pertell, who was directing the scene. "All
ready, there, Switzer?"
"Sure, as ready as I ever shall be."
"All right, then. Now, you understand, you come running out of those
bushes over there, and when you get out you stop for a minute and
register caution. Look on all sides of you. Then you see the barn and
the open window. Register surprise and hope. You say, 'Ah, I shall be
safe in there!'
"Then you run, look back once or twice to see if you are pursued, and
make a dive, head first, through the open window on to the hay. All
ready now?"
"Sure, I'm ready!"
"How about you, Russ?"
"Let her go."
"All ready, then! Camera!"
Russ began to grind away at the film. Mr. Switzer had taken his place in
the clump of bushes, his ragged Union garments flapping in the wind. He
came out, looked furtively around, and then, giving the proper
"registration," he advanced cautiously toward the barn.
"Go on now--run!" cried Mr. Pertell through his megaphone.
The German actor ran. He made a beautiful leap through the window, and
the next moment there came from him howls of dismay.
"Donner vetter! Ach Himmel! Ach! My face! My hands! Hey, somebody! bring
a pail of water! Quick!"
CHAPTER IV
A REHEARSAL
Mingled in German and English came the shouts of dismay from Herr
Switzer inside the dummy shed, through the window of which he had leaped
on to the hay.
"Oh, what is it?" cried Ruth, clasping her hands and registering
"dismay" unconsciously.
"He must have fallen and hurt himself," ejaculated Alice. "Do, Paul, go
and see what it is."
"Stop the camera!" yelled Mr. Pertell through his megaphone. "Don't
spoil the film, Russ. You got a good scene there. He went through the
window all right, and his yells won't register. Stop the camera!"
"Stopped she is," reported Russ.
Then those of the players who had been looking on and wondering at Mr.
Switzer's cries could hurry to his rescue.
For it is a crime out of the ordinary in the annals of moving pictures
for any one not in the scene to get within range of the camera when an
act is being filmed. It means not only the spoiling of the reel,
perhaps, but a retaking of that particular action. When Russ ceased to
grind at the camera crank, however, it was the same as when the shutter
of an ordinary camera is closed. No more views can be taken. It was safe
for others to cross the field of vision.
"What's the matter?" cried Paul, who, with Ruth and Alice and some of
the others trailing after him, was hurrying toward the false front of
boards that represented a shed.
"Did a cow critter or a sheep step on you?" Russ questioned.
"Ach! My face! My clothes! Ruined!" came in accents of deep disgust from
the actor. "Never again will I leap through a window without knowing
into what I am going to land. Ach!"
"What happened?" asked Paul, trying to keep from laughing, for the
player's voice was so funnily tragic.
"What happened? Come and see!" cried Mr. Switzer. "I have into a
chicken's home invaded myself already!"
"Invaded himself into a chicken's home!" exclaimed Mr. Pertell. "What in
the world does he mean?"
"I guess he means he sat down in a hen's nest!" chuckled Paul, and this
proved to be the case.
Going around to the other side of the erected boards, the players and
others saw a curious sight.
Seated on the hay, his face, his hair, his hands, and his clothing a
mass of the whites and yellows of eggs, was Carl Switzer. He held up his
fingers, dripping with the ingredients of half a dozen omelets.
"The chicken's home was right here, in the hay--where I jumped. I landed
right in among the eggs--head first. Get me some water--quick!" implored
the player.
"Didn't you see the eggs before you jumped among 'em?" asked Mr.
Pertell.
"See them? I should say not! Think you I would have precipitated myself
into their midst had I done so?" indignantly demanded Mr. Switzer,
relapsing into his formally-learned English. "I have no desire to be a
part of a scrambled egg," he went on. "Some water--quick!"
While one of the extra players was bringing the water, Sandy Apgar
strolled past. He was told what had happened.
"Plumped himself down in a hen's nest, did he?" exclaimed the young
proprietor of Oak Farm. "Wa'al, now, if you folks go to upsettin' the
domestic arrangements of my fowls that way I'll have t' be charging you
higher prices," and he laughed good-naturedly.
"Ach! Dat is better," said Mr. Switzer, when he had cleansed himself.
"How came it, do you think, Mr. Apgar, that the hen laid her eggs right
where I was to make my landing when escaping from the Confederates?"
"Huh! More than one hen laid her eggs there, I reckon," the farmer said.
"There must have been half a dozen of 'em who had rooms in that
apartment. You see, it's this way. Hens love to steal away and lay their
eggs in secret places. After you folks built this make-believe shed and
put the hay in, I s'pose some of my hens seen it and thought it would be
a good place. So they made a nest there, and they've been layin' in it
for the last few days."
"More as a week, I should say!" declared Mr. Switzer in his best German
comedian manner. "There were many eggs!"
"Yes, you did bust quite a few!" said Sandy, critically looking at the
disrupted nest. "But it can't be helped."
"Well, the film wasn't spoiled, anyhow," observed Mr. Pertell. To him
that was all that counted. "You got him all right as he went through the
window, didn't you, Russ?"
"Oh, yes. It wasn't until he was inside, down behind the boards and out
of sight, that the eggs happened."
"No more eggs for me!" declared the comedian. "I shall never look a
chicken in the face again."
"Go on with the scene," ordered the director. "You are supposed to steal
out to the barn to give the hidden soldier food," he said to Ruth. "You
come out from the house, and are astonished to see a man's head sticking
out of the shed window. You register surprise, and start to run back to
the house, but the soldier implores you to stay, and you reluctantly
listen to him. Then he begs for food----"
"But don't bring me a hard-boiled egg, whatever you do!" called Mr.
Switzer.
"No funny business now," warned the director, with a laugh. "Go on now,
and we'll see how you do it."
After one or two trials Mr. Pertell announced himself as satisfied and
the filming of that part of the war drama went on.
So many details in regard to the taking of moving pictures have been
given in the previous books of this series that they need not be
repeated here. Suffice it to say that the pictures of the players in
motion are taken on a long celluloid strip of film, just as one picture
is taken on a square of celluloid in a snap-shot camera.
This long reel of film, when developed, is a "negative." From it a
"positive" strip of film is made, and this is the one that is run
through the projection machine throwing the pictures on the white screen
in the darkened theatre. The pictures taken are very small, and are
greatly magnified on the screen.
So much for the mechanical end of the business. It may interest some to
learn that the photo-play, as seen in the theatre, is not taken all at
once, nor in the order in which the scenes are seen as they are reeled
off.
When a play is decided on, the director or one of his helpers goes over
the manuscript and picks out all the scenes that take place in one
location. It may be in a parlor, in a hut, on the side of a mountain, in
a lonely wilderness, on a battlefield, on a bridge--anywhere, in fact.
And several scenes, involving several different persons, may take place
at any one of these places.
It can be understood that it would involve a great deal of work to
follow the logical sequence of the scenes. That is to say, if the first
scene was in an office showing a girl taking dictation from her
employer, and the next showed the same girl and her employer on a
ferryboat, and the third scene went back to the office, where some
papers were being examined, it would mean a loss of time to photograph,
or film, the first office scene, then take every one involved in the
act to the ferryboat, and then back to the office again.
Instead, the two office scenes, and possibly more, are taken at one
time, on the same film, one after the other, without regard to whether
they follow logically or not. Afterward the film is cut apart, and the
scenes fitted in where they belong.
So, too, all the scenes pertaining to a hut in the wilderness, on a
bridge, in the woods, in a parlor--it makes no difference where--are
taken at the same time. In this way much labor and expense are saved.
But it makes a queer sort of story to an uninitiated person looking on;
and sometimes the players themselves do not know what it is all about.
So Mr. Pertell wanted to get all the scenes centering around the shed at
the same time, though they were not in sequence. And Ruth and Mr.
Switzer and the others in the east went through their parts with the
shed as a background.
In one scene Ruth had to discover the hidden soldier. Then she had to
steal out to him with food. Later, at night, she was to help him to
escape. Then, a week later, she was to go out to the same shed and
discover a letter he had hidden in the hay. That ended the scenes at
the shed, and it could be taken away to make room for something else.
"Oh, Ruth, you did that splendidly!" exclaimed Alice, as her sister
finished her work and went up on the shady porch to rest.
"Did you like it? I'm glad."
"Like it? It was great! Where you discovered that letter in the hay,
your face showed such natural surprise."
"I'm glad it didn't register merriment."
"Why?"
"Because, as I picked up the letter, I found a big blot of the yellow
from the hens' eggs on it. I hope it doesn't show in the picture. I had
all I could do to keep from laughing when I thought of Mr. Switzer in
the omelet scene."
"Oh, well, you know they want all white stuff yellow when they make
pictures."
"In the studio, but not outdoors."
This is a fact. As the scenes in the studio are taken in the glare of a
special kind of electric light, all white objects, even the collars and
cuffs of the men, are yellow in tone, though in the picture they show
perfectly white. This is due to the chemical rays of the lights used.
Out of doors, under sunlight, colors are seen in their own hues.
"You did very well in that funny little scene with Paul," said Ruth to
her sister.
"You mean in the swing under the apple tree?"
"Yes."
"I was so afraid he would swing me too high," Alice went on. "He was
cutting up so. I told him to stop, but he wouldn't."
"It was very natural. I think it will show well. Hark! what's that?"
cried Ruth, leaping to her feet.
"Thunder," suggested Alice, as a distant, rumbling noise came to their
ears.
"Sounds more like big guns."
"Oh, that's what it is!" agreed Alice. "They are going to rehearse one
of the battle scenes this afternoon, I heard Mr. Pertell say. The
soldiers must have come, and they're practising over in the glen. Come
on over and watch. We're in on the scenes later, but we can watch now."
"All right," agreed Ruth. "Wait until I get my broad-brimmed hat, the
sun is hot up here."
Presently the two sisters, with Paul Ardite and some other members of
the company, were strolling over the fields toward the scene of the
distant firing. As they came in sight of several hundred men and horses,
they saw the smoke of cannon and heard the shouting of the director and
his assistants who were using big megaphones. It was the rehearsal of
one of the many battle scenes that were to take place about Oak Farm.
"Oh, look at that girl ride!" suddenly exclaimed Alice, pointing to a
young woman who dashed past on a spirited horse. "Isn't she a wonder?"
"She is indeed," agreed Ruth. "I wonder who she is?"
"One of the extras," said Paul. "A number of them have just arrived.
We'll begin active work soon, and film some big scenes with you girls in
them."
Alice gazed across the fields toward the figure of the girl on
horseback. There was something spirited in her riding, and, though she
had never seen her before, Alice felt strangely drawn toward the new
player.
CHAPTER V
A DARING RIDER
"Come on now, Confederates!"
"No, you Union chaps hold back there in ambush. You're not to dash out
until you get the signal. Wait!"
"Keep that horse out of the way. He isn't supposed to dash across,
riderless, until after the first volley."
"Put in a little more action! Fall off as though you were shot, not as
though you were bending over to see if your horse had a stone under his
shoe! Fall off hard!"
"And you fellows that do fall off--lie still after you fall! Don't
twitch as though you wanted to scratch your noses!"
"If some of 'em don't stay quiet after they fall off they'll get stepped
on!"
"All ready now! Come with a rush when the signal's given!"
Mr. Pertell and his men were stationed near a "battery" of camera men,
who were ready to grind away; and the director and his assistants were
calling their instructions through big megaphones. To reach the soldiers
in the more distant parts of the field recourse was had to telephones,
the wires of which were laid along the ground in shallow trenches,
covered with earth so that the trampling of the horses would not sever
them.
"Get that battery farther back among the trees!" cried Mr. Pertell to
one of his helpers. "It's supposed to be a masked one, but it's in plain
sight now. Even the audience would see it, let alone the men it's
supposed to fire on. Get it back!"
"Yes, sir," answered the man, and he telephoned the instructions to the
assistant director in charge of a battery of field guns that had been
thundering away--the sound which had brought Ruth and Alice to the
scene.
"Do we have any part in the battle scenes?" asked Ruth.
"Yes, quite big parts," Paul informed her. "But you don't go on to-day.
This is only a rehearsal."
"But they've been firing real powder," remarked Alice, "and it looks as
though they were going to fire more," and she pointed to where men of
the masked battery were ramming charges down the iron throats of their
guns.
"Yes, they're firing, and charging, and doing all manner of stunts, and
the camera men are grinding away, but they aren't using any film," went
on Paul. "It's just to get every one used to working under the
excitement. They have to fire the guns so the horses will get so they
don't mind them when the real time comes."
Hundreds of extra players had been engaged to come to Oak Farm for these
battle scenes in the drama, "A Girl in Blue and A Girl in Gray," and
some of them were already on hand with their mounts. As has been said,
special accommodations had been erected where they were to stay during
the weeks they would be needed. There were more men than women among the
extra people, though a number of women and girls were needed in the
"town" scenes.
Most of the men were former members of the militia, cowboys and
adventurers, all of whom were used to hard, rough riding. This was
necessary, for when battle scenes are shown there must be some "killed,"
and when a man has a horse shot from under him, or is shot himself,
riding at full speed, even though the cartridges are blank, the action
calls for a heavy fall, sudden and abrupt, to make it look real. And
this is not easy to do, nor is it altogether safe with a mob of riders
thundering along behind one.
Yet the men who take part in these battle scenes do it with scarcely a
thought of danger, though often many of them are hurt, as are the
horses.
In brief the story of the play in which Ruth was to take the part of a
girl in Blue, and Alice of a girl in Gray, was this. They were cousins,
and Ruth was visiting Alice's home in the South when the war broke out.
Alice, of course, sided with her people, and loved the gray uniforms,
while Ruth's sympathies were with the North.
Ruth determined to go back North and become a nurse, while Alice,
longing for more active work, offered her services as a spy to help the
Confederacy. Though on opposite sides, the girls' love for one another
did not wane.
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