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.
eleven
IT 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.
