CHAPTER XII

BOBBY BECOMES FAMOUS OVERNIGHT

“Well, how is your ‘Imitation’ getting along?” asked the head of the scenario department in the Lantry Studio some three weeks later.

“Getting on!” repeated Compton. “Getting on is no name for it. Do you know, Moore, that, other things being equal, children are the finest actors in the world? You see, they are docile. You tell ’em to do a thing and how to do it; and if they get your meaning that’s enough. Of course we’re extremely fortunate; we’ve got together four of the brightest children in or out of movieland. And they are such pals! They all stand up for each other; they all help each other. Of course they have a little tiff now and then. Otherwise we wouldn’t know they were human. We might conclude that they were not descended from Adam.”

“Eh?” said the astonished Moore, taking his pipe out of his mouth. “Where did you get that sort of talk? I thought you were a giddy pagan, foolish but harmless.”

“Well,” laughed Compton, reddening slightly, “I hope I’m getting more sense.”

“You need it,” said Moore dryly, replacing his pipe and puffing comfortably. “But to return to our mutton—which one of your heaven-descended quartet is doing best?”

“That,” returned Compton, “is a question which Joe Heneman and myself discuss every day. Sometimes we think it’s Peggy. Those large, dark eyes of hers can be so wistful and, on occasion, so tragic. The next day we settle upon Francis. In dealing with Bobby in the play he can be so genial and smile upon him with the serene philosophy of one so much older, so much more intimately acquainted with the ways of the world. By the time we have settled upon Francis along comes Pearl with the sweetest smile and the most gracious manner. Bobby is in the running all the time. In the trick of imitating he leads them all. We haven’t come yet to the great scene, the scene where he meets his mother after an absence of four weeks. That, so far as the children are concerned, is the last scene. I’m confident that Bobby, if he performs it as I think, will bring tears to the eyes of millions; and if he does he will be the star of stars.”

“Did you know, Compton, that Bobby made his first screen appearance on the Broadways of the big cities yesterday?”

“That’s a fact! I had quite forgotten. Yesterday was the day of release. I hope they’ll like me in it.”

“I don’t think they’ll bother about you. It is Bobby they will like,” said Moore.

“And I forgot to look at the papers this morning,” mused Compton regretfully.

“I did not forget, but I haven’t had time. Wait a minute; there may be something about it.”

Moore returned shortly, wearing a smile and waving the Los Angeles _Times_.

“Say, that old thing of yours, ‘You Hardly Can Tell,’ has scored a tremendous hit. Look at these headlines!” And Compton looked and gasped. These were the headlines:

WHO IS THE STAR OF “YOU HARDLY CAN TELL?”

_Bobby Compton the New Juvenile Star or John Compton the Comedian? You Hardly Can Tell._

“Say,” exclaimed Compton, running his eyes down the review itself, “that’s good stuff! I’m a little jealous of my reputation, but there are a few persons in the world who may outshine me, and I’m glad of it; and Bobby is first of all.”

“I think,” said Moore, “that you’ll have plenty of chance to be glad, then.”

“The boy comes by his gifts honestly,” continued Compton. “His father was an actor, and as for his mother, though she never appeared upon the regular stage, she was a wonder, both at the convent school and later in society, as an amateur actress. Nothing could persuade her to go on the stage, though she received before her marriage most tempting offers.”

“You know a lot about her,” said Moore incredulously.

“I didn’t live in Los Angeles all my life,” returned Compton.

“Oh, say, uncle,” cried Bobby, all out of breath, “there’s a reporter man here and he wants to take my picture.”

The two men glanced at each other.

“Behold the entrance to the gates of fame,” exclaimed Moore, airily waving his pipe.

“Come on, Bobby,” said Compton, “I’ll go with you.”

“Say, uncle, what’s a Lothario?”

“Eh?” queried the amazed comedian.

“A L-o-t-h-a-r-i-o?” spelled the boy.

“Why, that’s the name of a person.”

“Is your name Lothario, uncle?”

“Certainly not. What makes you ask that?”

“Because I heard that new star with the doll face, Bennie Burnside, say that you were a gay Lothario.”

“Bennie Burnside,” said Compton severely, “on the outside is a fine figure of a man from the soles of his feet to the top of his head. On the inside he is absolutely perfect up to and including his neck. He is a matinee idol.”

“But, uncle, what is a gay Lothario?”

“It is said of the kind of fool who is soon parted from his money; it means a man whose most earnest endeavor is to make an ass of himself.”

“But you’re not a fool, uncle.”

“Thank you, Bobby. I will try to believe you. Anyhow, I may be a fool now, but I am not the forty-three varieties of fool I once was.”

Indeed, so great a change had come upon John Compton since the arrival of Bobby that all the world—the moving-picture world, at any rate—wondered. Nothing could persuade him to leave his quarters at night. The dance knew him no more; the hotel lobby, whither a certain set of foolishly joyous moving-picture men most did congregate, missed him from his accustomed place. A local magistrate wondered what had become of him. He had not been fined for speeding in five weeks. In a word, John Compton had suddenly abandoned his mad quest of pleasure, and, having abandoned the quest, was cheerier, happier than he had been since attaining his majority. Compton was known to be a man of more than ordinary intellect. His friends had for years expected great things of him. In college days he had given promise of developing into a writer of taste and imagination. But he had so far disappointed these high expectations. His pen had been barren, his life had been strewn with good intentions—till Bobby came.

And now it was so different. He had written a scenario, “Imitation,” which was new in matter, touching in treatment, and which, in the opinion of the Lantry Studio critics, gave promise to set a high mark for other scenario writers. He was already busy upon a second play. Bobby was almost his sole companion in these days, Bobby and Father Mallory, for whom he had conceived a strong liking, and whom he visited regularly every afternoon.

As the two made their way to an office where the reporter was cooling his heels there came swooping upon them, dressed for their respective parts, Peggy and Francis and Pearl.

“Hey, Bobby!” “Gee, Bobby!” “Oh, Bobby!” they shouted in a splendid enthusiasm, “you’re in the headlines.”

They had the morning paper between them, and in each one’s endeavor to show Bobby the place and the words they damaged the sheet considerably.

“And we’re all so glad!” said Francis, who had himself starred in five productions.

“We’re proud of you, Bobby,” said Pearl, smiling angelically.

“And we all love you,” chimed in Peggy, “and Mr. Compton,” she thoughtfully added.

“Just wait until I read this,” said Bobby. And while, moving his mouth in the slow pronunciation of each word, the lad read his own praises, Francis, in a dreamy ecstasy, seated himself, absently placing in his mouth the pipe he was later to use in the production, and gazed upon the loved one in happy and ungrudging admiration.

“Oh, just wait till they see ‘Imitation,’” said Bobby, after glancing over the text under the headlines. “Then they’ll have something to write about. I don’t mean me. I mean you, Peggy, and you, Pearl, and you, Francis.”

“And just think of the heaps and heaps of fun we’re having,” chortled Peggy. “People say we’re working during vacation. Do you call this work?”

“I should say not,” said the other three, one after the other in such quick succession that their words almost chimed together.

As they went on to chat gayly of their present joy and their future plans, Compton was in earnest converse with Joe Heneman.

“Look here, Heneman,” he said, “may I offer a suggestion?”

“I’ve known you to do it before and come away with your life.”

“Say, can’t you run the children through their parts right away and hold up all the other parts till the little ones have finished?”

“Why? What’s the big idea?”

“The big idea is this: the detective agency has a hunch that Mrs. Vernon is dead. They’ve sent me a story about some woman picked up dead near San Luis Obispo, and they claim it is Barbara. That is, they claim it’s Bobby’s mother. When I got that letter two days ago I nearly dropped.”

“Did you tell Bobby?”

“What kind of an idiot do you think I am? Of course I didn’t. And after the first shock I did not believe a word of it.”

“Why not?”

“I believe that she’s alive, because Bob is certain. You ought to see that boy pray! Why, that boy has all heaven on his side.”

“Well, I’ll be—” Not finishing his expression of astonishment, Heneman went on: “But what under the sun has this to do with hurrying the children through their parts?”

“Why, just this: Bobby’s picture is going into the papers. His mother will see or hear of it. She’ll trace him up. You know she thinks he’s dead. She’ll come here, and who can keep her from taking him away?”

“You’re not half as foolish as they say you are,” was Heneman’s comforting comment. “You’re right, Compton. Let me see. I think with full time we can get them through by next Monday afternoon.”

“Then go to it,” urged Compton.

At this very moment Barbara Vernon, propped up in bed, pale and weak, was for the first time since her collapse awakening to the existence of a world from which she had well-nigh departed.

“Oh, thank God, thank God!” little Agnes was saying. “This is the first time nurse let me in to see you. And she says you will be all right in a week or ten days at the most.”

“Agnes, I know I am going to get well. I had such a beautiful dream last night. My little son, my dear little son, appeared to me. He looked just as alive as when I last saw him. And he said, ‘Mother, sweet mother, faith can move mountains.’ And then he pressed his dear lips upon mine and disappeared. I awoke then, but I felt that he had been with me.”

“And do you now think he is alive?”

“I don’t know, my dear. But I feel so happy. O God, give me the faith that moves mountains!”

Hereupon entered the nurse, wearing the mien of one who had fought long and conquered.

“It is a happy day,” she said blithely. “The doctor will be along before noon, but we don’t need any doctor to tell that you’re getting well. Do you know, Mrs. Vernon, that you were calling for your little Bobby day and night all these weeks?”

“Was I?”

“Yes; and it was always in a tone of sadness or of despair. But last night it was different. You called his name but once, and your voice sounded as though you were gazing upon some heavenly vision, and your face grew beautiful and joyous.”

“I understand why,” said Barbara. “Agnes, do you tell her my dream.”

And Agnes, almost word for word, repeated Mrs. Vernon’s account.

“And now,” pursued the smiling invalid, “I’m going, with God’s grace, to wait in patience and faith till that day ‘when dreams come true.’”

“I think,” observed the nurse, “that there’s a lady outside that would like to see you. Come in, Mrs. Regan.”

And Mrs. Regan entered and fondly embraced the woman who had saved her life. Then came Louis and then the father; and all lavished upon the dear convalescent a wealth of simple, homely love.

“Upon my word!” said Barbara, as, after a few minutes of affectionate conversation, the visitors reluctantly departed, “I never imagined since I lost Bobby that I could be so happy.”