READY, SHOOT!
“There she is! That girl in the blue sweater is Ruth Fielding!”
“You mean the one giving orders through the megaphone? She looks too
young to be a moving picture director.”
“Ruth Fielding won a fifty-thousand-dollar prize in an international
scenario contest, just the same,” broke in a third voice, low pitched
and intense, “and she was asked to supervise the filming of the picture
herself. They’re shooting one of the big scenes to-day. We were lucky to
get passes.”
The three girls who engaged in the half-whispered conversation at the
edge of the Fielding Film Company lot, gripped their precious passes
more tightly, and focused their eyes as one upon the scene before them.
Save for the huge electric lights which re-enforced the natural
sunlight, the artificial rocks, half-built houses, and the array of
cameras, the girls might have been looking into the very heart of a tiny
fishing village. Their attention centered upon an old church with
towering steeple.
The girls’ interest in the scene was typical of that of hundreds of
curious persons who each year visited Ruth Fielding’s Hollywood studio.
So intent were the visitors in watching the movements of the slender
figure in blue that they failed to notice that they, too, were under
observation by a fourth person who was seated upon a bench a short
distance away.
“Miss Fielding owns her own company and finances it herself,” the
conversation went on. “Isn’t she lucky? Wish I were in her shoes!”
“Lucky? It’s brains and pluck! I consider it a privilege just to say we
went to the same college she did, even if she graduated before we
entered.”
“Anyway, mentioning we were Ardmore College girls got us our passes,”
came the chuckle. “Not many visitors are allowed here while they’re
filming the important scenes. See! They’ve roped off the village to keep
folks from getting in front of the camera.”
The three girls relapsed into silence and watched the activity. Ruth
Fielding, megaphone in hand, was giving the scene a last careful survey.
She was absorbed in her work and did not glance in the direction of the
visitors.
The action for the picture had been rehearsed. Ruth was ready to signal
to the cameramen. She turned to the star with final instructions. Her
voice was pitched low, but was curt and businesslike.
“Remember, keep your face turned this way, Miss Brown! Register fear. A
storm is approaching—you’re afraid your sweetheart will never reach the
harbor. Ready, Markham! Start the propeller! All right, cameras!”
As Ruth nodded her head in his direction, Jack Markham, a young
aviator-actor, quickly obeyed orders. With the help of an extra, he
started the propeller of a small airplane which stood just out of range
of the cameras. As the engine began its steady and deafening roar, a
small hurricane struck the artificial village.
Ruth did not attempt to shout above the noise of the engine, but
signaled for the action to begin. She stood quietly at the side of one
of the cameramen and watched the actress critically. As the cameras
ground on, Ruth smiled with satisfaction, for Miss Brown was throwing
herself heart and soul into her part.
As she had been instructed, Miss Brown looked beyond the airplane,
apparently out toward an imaginary sea. She walked slowly forward,
nearer and nearer the revolving propeller.
Ruth watched her anxiously, for the safety of her company always came
ahead of her picture.
“Not too close!” she warned through the megaphone.
The actress did not hear. She was keyed up to the emotion she was
portraying, and the wind from the propeller seemed only to add to the
realism and not to warn her of the danger.
Ruth Fielding was distinguished for her ability to think fast. She
realized only too well that to break the scene would mean a delay and a
money loss, yet to continue it endangered the life of the actress.
Deliberately, Ruth motioned Markham to turn off the engine of the
airplane. He responded instantly, for he, too, had watched with alarm
the approach of Miss Brown to the whirling propeller. The cameramen
ceased their work.
As the wind suddenly died down, Miss Brown turned toward Ruth and a look
of wonder and surprise came over her face. For the first time, she
realized that she had been in danger of walking into the propeller. The
actors and cameramen could not help but laugh at the young girl’s
expression. Danger avoided was soon forgotten. It was all a part of the
day’s work.
“Your acting was wonderful,” Ruth assured her heartily; “but I was
afraid you would be hurt.” She glanced at her watch. “We’ve all had a
hard day and are pretty tired. We’ll not work any more until to-morrow.”
The actors and actresses moved away toward the dressing rooms, but Ruth
remained to give final directions to the workmen and Markham, the
aviator. Presently she turned toward a near-by bench where another girl
was seated. The serious expression left Ruth’s face as she greeted her
lifelong chum, Helen Cameron.
“Think I’d never get through?” she demanded. “You’ve stuck around all
afternoon, haven’t you?”
“I didn’t mind waiting. But you look tired enough to drop.”
“I think I will. Right now.” Ruth laughed, and sat down on the bench
beside Helen. “Did the scene bore you?”
“I should say not! Honestly, my hair stood right on end for a minute! If
I get a thrill like that every day, I’ll lose weight.”
“That’s an idea, Helen! Maybe I can use it in advertising. How would
this sound? ‘See the latest Fielding picture! Guaranteed to reduce——’”
“Pounds or money?” Helen, with a provoking grin, interrupted. “Never
mind, Ruthie,” she added soothingly. “I admire the way you can give
orders. I never could boss a man and get away with it.”
“Seems to me you make Chess Copley step around pretty lively,” Ruth
remarked dryly.
“Oh, Chess—” Helen glanced down at her engagement ring. “That’s
different. Anyway, he likes it.”
“I’d laugh if he heard you say that.”
While Ruth was speaking, her eyes were upon the fishing village set and
her mind continued to dwell on the day’s work. Helen noticed her
expression.
“I guess you’re in love with your work, Ruth Fielding. Perhaps more
deeply than with my brother!”
Ruth aroused herself with an effort and shook her head emphatically.
“You know better than that, Helen. I’m just out of sorts to-day, and
poor company. Seems as though one thing after another goes wrong, and
every delay means additional expense.”
“I know, Ruthie dear.” Helen, instantly sorry she had offered the
unpleasant suggestion, slipped an arm about her chum. “If I were you I
wouldn’t worry about the cost of this picture. Can’t you spend as much
as you like?”
“Yes, when I won the scenario contest and was asked to supervise the
filming, I was given ample funds. Just the same, I must give an account
of how I have spent the money, and it’s a matter of pride to make every
cent count.”
“That’s the tiny streak of Uncle Jabez Potter in you, Ruthie! But I
don’t blame you. And your picture is great! It will be the biggest thing
ever produced in this country, unless I miss my guess!”
“I hope you’re right. It ought to be great, after all the trouble I had
winning that international scenario contest.”
“You mean, after all the trouble you had trying to keep Dean Hollister
from winning the contest with the ideas he stole from you.”
Both girls smiled as they recalled the incidents connected with the
theft and how Fred Orman, a down-and-out young movie actor, had aided in
the recovery of the manuscript.
Ruth and Helen turned to face Helen’s twin brother, Tom Cameron, who had
slipped up behind them. His friend, Chess Copley, was dose at his heels.
“Ruth,” Tom went on, assuming a mock-serious expression, “I’ve just come
from the projection room, and there’s a flaw in one of your love
scenes.”
“What?” Ruth failed to note the twinkle in Tom’s eye.
“Absolutely. Your actor doesn’t know how to make love. Let me show you
how it should be done.” With a glance at Chess, Tom sat down on the
bench and slipped his arm around Ruth.
“Tom, you villain.” Ruth edged away. “Just because we’re engaged—” Her
voice trailed off.
“Can’t I even look at you? You work all the time now, so I can’t expect
to talk to you,” Tom grumbled. “As soon as this picture is out of the
way, you’ve got to take a rest, Ruth.”
“Where are you folks going this year?” Chess, who was standing near
Helen, asked. “I’d sort of like to tag along if I can arrange my
business.”
“Some quiet place where Ruth can’t find any work,” Helen put in. “Where
do you want to go, Ruth?”
Ruth did not hear the last, for her attention had been attracted to a
man who was walking rapidly toward the group.
“Here comes our director, Mr. Grimes. I must see him for a minute.”
She started forward, leaving the others to discuss vacation plans. At
one time, Ruth had worked under Mr. Grimes, and although she disliked
his disagreeable manner and pessimism, she admired his ability. He was
not a regular member of her company, but was helping Ruth with her prize
picture.
Ruth discussed plans for the next day’s work with Mr. Grimes, and
together they pored over the script which she had with her.
“We’ll shoot the rest of the big storm scene to-morrow,” Ruth explained.
“The part where the rascal attempts to run away with the child—the storm
overtakes him—the church steeple falls, burying him in the wreckage.”
“Suits me,” Mr. Grimes agreed. “How many extras will you need for the
mob scene?”
Ruth did not reply. She was looking beyond the director to the bench
where she had left her three friends. They were acting strangely. Tom
and Helen especially seemed excited. Then Ruth saw the messenger boy who
evidently had approached while her back had been turned.
She left Mr. Grimes abruptly and hurried toward her friends.
“What is it?” she cried. “Is it bad news?” A yellow envelope dropped
from Tom’s hand to the ground. His face was white and drawn.
“It’s from home,” he explained huskily. “My father is very sick. They
want Helen and me to come home at once.”
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