My Autobiography (24 page)

There was a camaraderie about the club which even the declaration of the First World War did not disturb. Everyone thought it would be over in six months; that it would last for four years, as Lord Kitchener predicted, people thought preposterous. Many were rather glad that war had been declared, for now we would show the Germans. There was no question of the outcome; the English and the French would lick them in six months. The war had not really got into its stride and California was far away from the scene of action.

About this time Sennett began to talk of renewing my contract, and wanted to know my terms. I knew to some degree the extent of my popularity, but I also knew the ephemera of it, and believed that, at the rate I was going, within a year I would be all dried up, so I had to make hay while the sun shone. ‘I want a thousand dollars per week!’ I said deliberately.

Sennett was appalled. ‘But
I
don’t make that,’ he said.

‘I know it,’ I answered, ‘but the public doesn’t line up outside
the box-office when your name appears as they do for mine.’

‘Maybe,’ said Sennett, ‘but without the support of our organization you’d be lost.’ He warned: ‘Look what’s happening to Ford Sterling.’

This was true, for Ford had not fared very well since leaving Keystone. But I told Sennett: ‘All I need to make a comedy is a park, a policeman and a pretty girl.’ As a matter of fact I had made some of my most successful pictures with just about that assembly.

Sennett, in the meantime, had wired to Kessel and Bauman, his partners, for advice about my contract and my demand. Later Sennett came to me with a proposition: ‘Listen, you have four months to go. We’ll tear up your contract and give you five hundred dollars now, seven hundred for the next year, and fifteen hundred for the following year. That way you’ll get your thousand dollars a week.’

‘Mack,’ I answered, ‘if you’ll just reverse the terms, give me fifteen hundred the first year, seven hundred the second year, and five hundred the third, I’ll take it.’

‘But that’s a crazy idea,’ said Sennett.

So the question of a new contract was not discussed again.

*

I had a month to go with Keystone, and so far no other company had made me an offer. I was getting nervous and I fancy Sennett knew it and was biding his time. Usually he came to me at the end of a picture and jokingly hustled me up about starting another; now, although I had not worked for two weeks, he kept away from me. He was polite, but aloof.

In spite of the fact, my confidence never left me. If nobody made me an offer I would go into business for myself. Why not? I was confident and self-reliant. I remember the exact moment that feeling was born: I was signing a requisition slip against the studio wall.

After Sydney joined the Keystone Company, he made several successful films. One that broke records throughout the world was
The Submarine Pirate
, in which Sydney contrived all sorts of camera tricks. As he was so successful, I approached him about joining me and starting our own company. ‘All we need is a
camera and a back lot,’ I said. But Sydney was conservative. He thought it was taking too much of a chance. ‘Besides,’ he added, ‘I don’t feel like giving up a salary which is more than I have ever earned in my life.’ So he continued with Keystone for another year.

One day I received a telephone call from Carl Laemmle of the Universal Company. He was willing to give me twelve cents a foot and finance my pictures, but he would not give me a salary of a thousand dollars a week, so nothing came of it.

A young man named Jess Robbins, who represented the Essanay Company, said he had heard that I wanted a ten-thousand-dollar bonus before signing a contract, and twelve hundred and fifty dollars a week. This was news to me. I had never thought of a ten-thousand-dollar bonus until he mentioned it, but from that happy moment it became a fixation in my mind.

That night I invited Robbins to dinner and let him do all the taking. He said that he had come directly from Mr G. M. Anderson, known as Bronco Billy, of the Essanay Company, who was a partner of Mr George K. Spoor, with an offer of twelve hundred and fifty dollars a week, but he was not sure about the bonus. I shrugged. ‘That seems to be a hitch with so many of them,’ I said. ‘They’re all full of big offers, but they don’t put up any cash.’ Later, he telephoned to Anderson in San Francisco, telling him that the deal was on, but that I wanted ten thousand dollars down as a bonus. He turned to the table all glowing. ‘The deal’s on,’ he said, ‘and you get your ten thousand dollars tomorrow.’

I was elated. It seemed too good to be true. Alas, it was, for the next day Robbins handed me a cheque for only six hundred dollars, explaining that Mr Anderson was coming himself to Los Angeles and that the matter of the ten thousand dollars would be taken care of then. Anderson arrived full of enthusiasm and assurance about the deal, but no ten thousand dollars. ‘My partner, Mr Spoor, will attend to that when we get to Chicago.’

Although my suspicions were aroused, I preferred to bury them in optimism. I had two more weeks to go with Keystone. Finishing my last picture,
His Prehistoric Past
, was a strain, because it was hard to concentrate with so many business propositions dangling before me. Nevertheless, the picture was eventually completed.

I
T
was a wrench leaving Kystone, for I had grown fond of Sennett and everyone there. I never said goodbye to anyone, I couldn’t. It all happened in a ruthlessly simple way. I finished cutting my film on Saturday night and left with Mr Anderson the following Monday for San Francisco, where we were met by his new green Mercedes car. We paused only for lunch at the St Francis Hotel, then went on to Niles, where Anderson had his own small studio in which he made his Bronco Billy Westerns for the Essanay Company (Essanay, a corruption, standing for the initials of Spoor and Anderson).

Niles was an hour’s drive outside San Francisco, situated along the railroad track. It was a small town with a population of four hundred and its precoccupation was alfalfa and cattle-raising. The studio was situated in the centre of a field, about four miles outside. When I saw it my heart sank, for nothing could have been less inspiring. It had a glassed-in roof, which made it extremely hot when working in the summer. Anderson said that I would find the studios in Chicago more to my liking and better equipped for making comedies. I stayed only an hour in Niles while Anderson transacted some business with his staff. Then we both left for San Franciso again, where we embarked for Chicago.

I liked Anderson; he had a special kind of charm. On the train he tended me like a brother, and at the different stops would buy magazines and candy. He was shy and uncommunicative, a man about forty, and when business was discussed would magnanimously remark: ‘Don’t worry about that. It’ll be O.K.’ He had little conversation and was very much preoccupied. Yet I felt underneath he was shrewd.

The journey was interesting. On the train were three men. We
first noticed them in the dining-car. Two looked quite prosperous, but the third looked out of place, a common, rough-looking fellow. It was strange to see them dining together. We speculated that the two might be engineers and the derelict-looking one a labourer to do the rough work. When we left the dining-car, one of them came to our compartment and introduced himself. He said he was sheriff of St Louis and had recognized Bronco Billy. They were transferring a criminal from San Quentin prison back to St Louis to be hanged, but, since they could not leave the prisoner alone, would we mind coming to their compartment to meet the district attorney?

‘Thought you might like to know the circumstances,’ said the sheriff confidentially. ‘This fellow had quite a criminal record. When the officer arrested him in St Louis, he asked to be allowed to go to his room and take some clothes from his trunk; and while he was going through his trunk he suddenly whipped round with a gun and shot the officer dead, then escaped to California, where he was caught burglaring and was sentenced to three years. When he came out the district attorney and I were waiting for him. It’s a cut-and-dried case – we’ll hang him,’ he said complacently.

Anderson and I went to their compartment. The sheriff was a jovial, thickset man, with a perpetual smile and a twinkle in his eye. The district attorney was more serious.

‘Sit down,’ said the sheriff, after introducing us to his friend. Then he turned to the prisoner. ‘And this is Hank,’ he said. ‘We’re taking him back to St Louis, where he’s in a bit of a jam.’

Hank laughed ironically, but made no comment. He was a man six feet tall, in his late forties. He shook hands with Anderson, saying: ‘I seen you many times, Bronco Billy, and by God, the way you handle them guns and them stick-ups is the best I’ve ever seen.’ Hank knew little about me, he said; he had been in San Quentin for three years – ‘and a lot goes on on the outside that you don’t get to know about.’

Although we were all convivial there was an underlying tension which was difficult to cope with. I was at a loss what to say, so I just grinned at the sheriff’s remarks.

‘It’s a tough world,’ said Bronco Billy.

‘Well,’ said the sheriff, ‘we want to make it less tough. Hank knows that.’

‘Sure,’ said Hank, brusquely.

The sheriff began moralizing: ‘That’s what I told Hank when he stepped out of San Quentin. I said if he’ll play square with us, we’ll play square with him. We don’t want to use handcuffs or make a fuss; all he’s got on is a leg-iron.’

‘A leg-iron! What’s that?’ I asked.

‘Haven’t you ever seen one?’ said the sheriff. ‘Lift up your trouser, Hank.’

Hank lifted his trouser-leg and there it was, a nickel-plated cuff about five inches in length and three inches thick, fitting snugly around his ankle, weighing forty pounds. This led to commenting on the latest type of leg-irons. The sheriff explained that this particular one had rubber insulation on the inside so as to make it easier for the prisoner.

‘Does he sleep with that thing?’ I asked.

‘Well, that depends,’ said the sheriff, looking coyly at Hank.

Hank’s smile was grim and cryptic.

We sat with them till dinner-time and as the day wore on the conversation turned to the manner in which Hank had been re-arrested. From the interchange of prison information, the sheriff explained, they had received photographs and fingerprints and decided that Hank was their man. So they had arrived outside the prison gates of San Quentin the day Hank was to be released.

‘Yes,’ said the sheriff, his small eyes twinkling and looking at Hank, ‘we waited for him on the opposite side of the road. Very soon Hank came out of the side door of the prison gate.’ The sheriff slid his index finger along the side of his nose and slyly pointed in the direction of Hank and with a diabolical grin said slowly: ‘I – think – that’s – our man!’

Anderson and I sat fascinated as he continued. ‘So we made a deal,’ said the sheriff, ‘that if he’d play square with us, we’d treat him right. We took him to breakfast and gave him hot cakes and bacon and eggs. And here he is, travelling first class. That’s better than going the hard way in handcuffs and chains.’

Hank smiled and mumbled: ‘I could have fought you on extradition if I’d wanted to.’

The sheriff eyed him coldly. ‘That wouldn’t have done you much good, Hank,’ he said slowly. ‘It would just have meant a little delay. Isn’t it better to go first class in comfort?’

‘I guess so,’ said Hank, jerkily.

As we neared Hank’s destination, he began to talk about the jail in St Louis almost with affection. He rather enjoyed the anticipation of his trial by the other prisoners: ‘I’m just thinking what those gorillas will do to me when I get before the Kangaroo Court! Guess they’ll take all my tobacco and cigarettes away from me.’

The sheriff’s and the attorney’s relationship with Hank was like a matador’s fondness for the bull he is about to kill. When they left the train, it was the last day of December, and as we parted the sheriff and the attorney wished us a happy New Year. Hank also shook hands, saying grimly that all good things must come to an end. It was difficult to know how to bid him goodbye. His crime had been a ruthless and cowardly one, yet I found myself wishing him good luck as he limped from the train with his heavy leg-iron. Eventually we heard that he was hanged.

*

When we arrived in Chicago, we were greeted by the studio manager, but no Mr Spoor. Mr Spoor, he said, was away on business and would not return until after the New Year holiday. I did not think Spoor’s absence had any significance then, because nothing would happen at the studio until after the first of the year. Meanwhile I spent New Year’s Eve with Anderson, his wife and family. On New Year’s Day Anderson left for California, assuring me that as soon as Spoor returned he would attend to everything, including the ten-thousand-dollar bonus. The studio was in the industrial district, and, at one time, had evidently been a warehouse. The morning I showed up there, no Spoor had yet arrived, nor were there any instructions left about my business arrangements. Immediately I sensed that something was fishy and that the office knew more than they cared to divulge. But it didn’t worry me; I was confident that a good picture would solve all my problems. So I asked the manager if he knew that I was to get the full cooperation of the studio staff and
carte blanche
for all their facilities.
‘Of course,’ he replied. ‘Mr Anderson has left instructions about that.’

‘Then I would like to start work immediately,’ I said.

‘Very well,’ he answered. ‘On the first floor you will find the head of the scenario department, Miss Louella Parsons, who will give you a script.’

‘I don’t use other people’s scripts, I write my own,’ I snapped.

I was belligerent because they seemed so vague about everything and because of Spoor’s absence; besides, the studio personnel were stuffy and went around like bank clerks, carrying requisition papers as though they were members of the Guaranty Trust Company – the business end of it was very impressive, but not their films. In the upstairs office the different departments were partitioned like tellers’ grilles. It was anything but conducive to creative work. At six o’clock, no matter whether a director was in the middle of a scene or not, the lights were turned off and everybody went home.