Argosy and Railroad Man's Magazine — page 41: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

MUSTERED OUT. This was all. He was thankful that his face seemed quite unknown to her. II. REEVER KEENE was home again—Reever Keene, the great; Reever Keene, the man who had snapped asunder his fabulous contract a year ago in order to enlist as a private; Reever Keene, whose pictures were’ the greatest drawing-card in every theater of the country! He had sent no notice of his coming, but the studio knew of it and was ready. As the Overland drew in, sixteen automobiles were waiting, and these automobiles were the cream of motion-picture motordom. All Los Angeles knew that the aluminum car with purple trimmings was Reever Keene’s; that his director owned the pea-green Twin Duplex striped with canary; that his lead- ing lady had paid eleven thousand dollars for the screaming blue-and-gold roadster, and so forth. But a terrible thing happened at the station—a thing which, fortunately, was kept out of the papers by influence. As one of the lesser lights of filmdom grasped the hand of the great Keene he gave a raucous laugh. ‘For Heaven’s sake, Reever! you get the abalone sparkler? Look at it, folks; pipe the—” Reever Keene’s fist smashed him square in the mouth. The press-agent wanted to use the story, of course; but Reever Keene took the press- agent by the nape of the neck and kicked him hard. Influence did the rest—adver- tising influence. The story was killed. “T can’t understand what’s got into Keene,” said the director, riding back to the studios with the president of the com- pany. “And look at ‘the face of him! We'll have to paint him an inch deep to disguise that brick-red tan and make him come out like the old screen idol! Fortu- nately his profile is allright still.” The president grunted. He was a wise man, or he would not have been in his present position. ‘* Keene takes up his contract where he left off,” he returned. ‘ That’s all I’m worrying about! Let Keene run the whole Where’d Wow! 383 damned place if he wants. If you’d gone into the army, my son, instead of sitting on your draft-proof job, the Lord knows you’d be a damned sight better director!” The director looked at his leather puttees and said no more. ““Where’s. Lola?” asked Reever Keene, driving to the studios in his own car once more, his leading lady and chief supports gathered around him. ‘‘ Thought she might be around?” ‘She'll turn up at the studios,” was the ~~ response. ‘‘ Working on a location near Santa Monica to-day. They'll be back for dinner> We’re having a real celebration, old boy!” - “ Lola’s awful proud of that sparkler you gave her,” simpered the leading lady. ‘Heaven knows it was a beaut!” Reever Keene shivered a little. He was not sure why he shivered; nor was he sure why the warmth and cordiality of his reception at the studio left him cold and hard. He had not thought it would be this way. He had looked forward -to falling right back into the old rut, among the old friends, and he had anticipated swaggering like a good one—all kinds of publicity in it! But, somehow, he found himself landing with a horrible jar. He was damned glad, he reflected, to be done with the bare sim- plicity of the soldier’s life, with the saluting and uniforms and general prophylaxis; and yet— . Homesickness had glamoured all the ol life, but now that he was back in it, the glamour seemed unaccountably like tinsel. The directors, for instance, even his own director and old crony, with their puttees and riding-breeches, general superiority, and bustling business—well, maybe it was the puttees that grated. Keene had saluted leather puttees until he was heartily sick of it; but that was another story altogether. He wondered inwardly if he had ever been like the men now around him—good fellows, of course, but abominably artificial. These fancy tailored garments, these amber cigarette-holders and sodden cigarettes without a bite, these flashing jewels, and, worst of all, this breezy talk that moved in perpetual high lights— conniclooolks.conn