The Moving Picture Girls | Page 4

bit afraid, either. Why, Russ is
just across the hall, and it was only the other day you were saying how
strong and manly he was. Have you forgotten?"
"No," answered Ruth, in a low voice, and again the blush suffused her
cheeks.
"Then don't be a silly. I'm not going down and ask Mrs. Reilley to
'phone for the police. That would cause excitement indeed. I don't
believe anyone else heard the commotion, and that was only because
our door flew open by accident."
"Oh, well, maybe it will be all right," assented the taller girl who, in
this emergency, seemed to lean on her younger sister. Perhaps it was
because Alice was so merry-hearted--even unthinking at times;
despising danger because she did not know exactly what it was--or
what it meant. Yet even now Ruth felt that she must play the part of
mother to her younger sister.
"Are you sure that door is locked?" she asked again.
"Positive! See, I'll slip on the chain, and then it would tax even a
policeman to get in. But, really, Ruth, I wouldn't go to Mrs. Reilley's if
I were you. She'll tell everyone, and there doesn't seem to be any need.
It's all over, and those below, or above us, seem to have heard nothing
of it."
"Oh, I wish daddy would come home!"
"So do I, for that matter. That's sensible. What did he say," asked Alice,

"when you went down to Mrs. Reilley's telephone to talk to him?" For
that neighbor had summoned one of the girls when she learned, over
the wire, that Mr. DeVere wished to speak with his daughters about his
good fortune.
"He didn't have time to say much," replied Ruth. "He just stole a
minute or two away from the conference to say that he had an
engagement that was very promising."
"And didn't he say when he'd be home?"
"No, only that it would be as soon as possible."
"Well, I suppose he'll come as quickly as he can. Let's see what we can
get up in the way of a lunch. We may have to resort to the delicatessen
again. I do want father to have something nice when he comes home
with his good news."
"So do I," agreed Ruth. "I'm afraid our ice box doesn't contain much in
the way of refreshments for an impromptu banquet, though, and I
positively won't go out after--after what happened. At least not right
away!"
"Pooh, I'm not afraid!" laughed Alice, having recovered her spirits. "On
the ice box--charge!" she cried gaily, waltzing about.
The girls found little enough to reward them, and it came, finally, to the
necessity of making a raid on the nearest delicatessen shop if they were
to "banquet" their father.
In fact since the DeVere family had come to make their home in the
Fenmore Apartment House, on one of the West Sixtieth streets of New
York City, there had been very little in the way of food luxuries, and
not a great deal of the necessities.
Their life had held a little more of ease and comfort when they lived in
a more fashionable quarter, but with the loss of their father's theatrical
engagement, and the long period of waiting for another, their savings

had been exhausted and they had had recourse to the pawn shop, in
addition to letting as many bills as possible go unpaid until fortune
smiled again.
Hosmer DeVere, who was a middle-aged, rather corpulent and
exceedingly kind and cultured gentleman, was the father of the two
girls. Their mother had been dead about seven years, a cold caught in
playing on a draughty stage developing into pneumonia, from which
she never rallied.
Ruth and Alice came of a theatrical family--at least, on their father's
side--for his father and grandfather before him had enviable histrionic
reputations. Mrs. DeVere had been a vivacious country maid--or, rather,
a maid in a small town that was classed as being on the "country"
circuit by the company playing it. Mr. DeVere, then blossoming into a
leading man, was in the troupe, and became acquainted with his future
wife through the medium of the theater. She had sought an interview
with the manager, seeking a chance to "get on the boards," and Mr.
DeVere admired her greatly.
Their married life was much happier than the usual theatrical union,
and under the guidance and instruction of her husband Mrs. DeVere
had become one of the leading juvenile players. Both her husband and
herself were fond of home life, and they had looked forward to the day
when they could retire and shut themselves away from the public with
their two little daughters.
But fortunes are seldom made on the stage--not half as often as is
imagined--and the time seemed farther