Argosy All-Story Weekly, May 17, 1924 — page 128: what you’re looking at

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

278 risen to the position of saleswoman. She was now seventeen years old. Myrtle stood staring dully at the ruins. ‘“Gee, Myrt, what you gonta do?” “TL don’t know.” ‘It’s somepin fierce gettin’ a job this time of year.” “T know it.” “Wonder how long it’ll be before they open up again somewheres.”’ ‘I don’t know.” “Gee, somepin’s always handin’ us somepin!” “TI know it.” “Well, guess I’ll blow along, and rustle up somepin to fill in with. “By.” “* Good-by.”’ Several other girls asked Myrtle what she was going to do, and revealed plans of their own, but to all of them her replies were monosyllabic. It was one of the characteristics of Myrtle Skinner which re- pelled people. She couldn’t or wouldn’t talk. No one liked Myrtle—no one could —no one knew her. Her small world in ruins, Myrtle took the Pacific Electric back to Hollywood where she lived. She didn’t know what she was going to do, nor what steps to take, if she had known. She had no initiative— a little drab moth in a world of color and action—unarmored, unweaponed. ‘Tf you had any looks, Myrt, I might get you in the movies. “ This from the girl with whom she shared a room on Melexico Street, a shabby little thoroughfare hanging to the outskirts of opulent Holly- wood, like a secret patch on a gorgeous robe. “IT know I haven’t any looks,” Myrtle answered apathetically. “Vou ain’t, and that’s a fact. Gee, it’s too bad. If I make a hit in this picture I’m in, Fred Thorne says that maybe Bon- well will use me in his next one too.” “ That’s fine!” Myrtle brightened, she was a sympathetic, loyal little thing in spite of her seeming coldness and apathy. There was no room in her heart for envy, there was for admiration; she admired tremen- dously the dashing, smartly dressed Love Dora—a stage name—with an admiration well mixed with wonder that Love Dora ARGOSY-ALLSTORY WEEKLY, should allow her to share her room, and be a small part in her vivid life. Love Dora was only an extra now, but some day she might, probably would be—Myrtle believed loyally—a star. ‘““Come on, Myrt, ’m going over to the lot now. Another retake on that street scene. Fred Thorne just telephoned me. Myrtle accompanied her gratefully. Myrtle was always grateful; the slightest thing aroused her gratitude—she was grate- ful to the world itself, for tolerating her. “Gee, Bonwell’s certainly had a _ bad. break on that street scene—bum start for his new picture.” Myrtle made a sympathetic noise for Mr. Bonwell. ‘‘ Bob—he’s the camera man—must be sore as a pup about that static. I got a theory about static. I was saying to—”’ Love Dora’s theory about static brought them to the studio—a long, low building extending the length of a block. They went into the outer room of the casting department. Love Dora swept up to the window and addressed a young woman, the assistant casting director. “ Greetings!” The young Love.” “They sent for me for that retake of Bonwell’s.”’ ‘“T think he’s all ready to shoot now.”’ The young woman touched a button, a gate clicked. Love Dora pushed it open, and went through. ‘See you later, Myrt,” she called back over her shoulder. ‘“‘ Wait for me.” Myrtle sat down on the bench running around the room, among others whose eyes followed enviously the triumphant ingress of Love Dora. Then Myrtle relapsed into dreams. Myrtle led two distinct lives. The outer life which came in contact with the material world was shadowy, vague. Even her duties at the store had scarcely seemed real —she had gone through them mechanically. “Yes, ma’am, that ’ll wash. No, ma’am, we haven’t any of that left. This a better grade? I don’t know, ma’am—shall I call the floor manager?” woman smiled. “ Hello, Go NOOK (C@