What, he broke off to ask, did Pilkington think of the idea?
Pilkington thought the idea splendid. Miss Mariner, with her charm and looks, would be wonderful in the movies.
There was, said Uncle Chris, a future for a girl in the movies.
Mr Pilkington agreed cordially. A great future.
“Look at Mary Pickford!” said Uncle Chris. “Millions a year!”
Mr Pilkington contemplated Miss Pickford, and agreed again. He instanced other stars—lesser luminaries, perhaps, but each with her thousands a week. There was no doubt about it—a girl’s best friend was the movies.
“Observe,” proceeded Uncle Chris, gathering speed and expanding his chest as he spread his legs before the fire, “how it would simplify the whole matter if Jill were to become a motion-picture artist and win fame and wealth in her profession. And there can be no reasonable doubt, my boy, that she would. As you say, with her appearance and her charm — Which of these women whose names you see all along Broadway in electric lights can hold a candle to her? Once started, with the proper backing behind her, her future would be assured. And then. — Of course, as regards her feelings I cannot speak, as I know nothing of them, but we will assume that she is not indifferent to you — what then? You go to your excellent aunt and announce that you are engaged to be married to Jill Mariner. There is a momentary pause. ‘Not the Jill Mariner?’ falters Mrs Peagrim. ‘Yes, the famous Miss Mariner!’ you reply. Well, I ask you, my boy, can you see her making an objection? Such a thing would be absurd. No, I can se no flaw in the project whatsoever.” Here Uncle Chris, as he had pictured Mrs Peagrim doing, paused for a moment. “Of course, there would be the preliminaries.”
“The preliminaries?”
Uncle Chris’ voice became a melodious coo. He beamed upon Mr Pilkington.
“Well, think for yourself, my boy! These things cannot be done without money. I do not propose to allow my niece to waste her time and her energy in the rank and file of the profession, waiting years for a chance that might never come. There is plenty of room at the top, and that, in the motion-picture profession, is the place to start. If Jill is to become a motion-picture artist, a special company must be formed to promote her. She must be made a feature, a star, from the beginning. That is why I have advised her to accept her present position temporarily, in order that she may gain experience. She must learn to walk before she runs. She must study before she soars. But when the moment arrives for her to take the step, she must not be hampered by lack of money. Whether,” said Uncle Chris, smoothing the crease of his trousers, “you would wish to take shares in the company yourself —”
“Oo — !”
“— is a matter,” proceeded Uncle Chris, ignoring the interruption, “for you yourself to decide. Possibly you have other claims on your purse. Possibly this musical play of yours has taken all the cash you are prepared to lock up. Possibly you may consider the venture too speculative. Possibly — there are a hundred reasons why you may not wish to join us. But I know a dozen men—I can go down Wall Street tomorrow and pick out twenty men—who will be glad to advance the necessary capital. I can assure you that I personally shall not hesitate to risk—if one can call it risking—any loose cash which I may have lying idle at my banker’s.”
He rattled the loose cash which he had lying idle in his trouser-pocket—fifteen cents in all—and stopped to flick a piece of fluff off his coat-sleeve. Mr Pilkington was thus enabled to insert a word.
“How much would you want?” he enquired.
“That,” said Uncle Chris meditatively, “is a little hard to say. I should have to look into the matter more closely in order to give you the exact figures. But let us say for the sake of argument that you put up—what shall we say?—a hundred thousand? fifty thousand?— no, we will be conservative. Perhaps you had better not begin with more than ten thousand. You can always buy more shares later. I don’t suppose I shall begin with more than ten thousand myself.”