So we “set up,” and got our scenes; and, work finished, looked about for our man, wishing to thank him. Feeling sorry for him, we went one better and tendered him a twenty-dollar gold piece. When he saw that money, he began to curse us so hard that we were glad when we hit the highway. At the garage in the village we made inquiries and were enlightened. The man of the dirty blue jeans was none other than the millionaire owner of the oil well, an oil well that was gushing one fair fortune per day. And though he refused our money as though it were poison, three times a week that man walked to Santa Ana, ten miles distant, where he could buy a ten-cent pie for five cents. Still more atmosphere we recorded in a picture called “As It Is In Life”--the famous old pigeon farm located near the dry bed of the San Gabriel River. Shortly after the time of our picture, the winter storms washed away this landmark and we were glad then that we had so struggled with the thousands of fluttering pigeons that just wouldn’t be still and feed when we wanted them to, and insisted upon being good, quiet little pigeons when we wished them to loop the loop. It seems we paid little attention to sea stories. Perhaps because we had our own Atlantic waiting for us back home, and we had done sea stories. We produced only one, “The Unchanging Sea,” suggested by Charles Kingsley’s poem, “The Three Fishers.” Charlie Ogle, who had worked in a few old Biographs but had been signed up with Edison before Mr. Griffith had a chance to get him, said to me one day out at the Lasky lot last winter--1924: “What was that wonderful sea picture you played in? My, that _was_ a picture, and you did beautiful work. I’ll never forget it.” “You couldn’t remember a sea picture I played in, Mr. Ogle. Heavens, that was so long ago you must mean some one else.” “No, I don’t, and I remember it very well. What was the name?” “Enoch Arden?” “No.” “Fisher Folk?” “No, now what _was_ that picture?” And at that moment we were interrupted in our game of guess as Leatrice Joy, whom we had been watching, came off the scene to revive from the heavy smoke of a café fire, before doing it over again. “I’ve got it--‘The Unchanging Sea.’” “That’s it, that’s the one. I’ll never forget that picture.” “As I remember, it was considered quite a masterpiece.” The fishing village of Santa Monica was the locale of this story. At this time there was but a handful of little shacks beyond the pier, places rented for almost nothing by poor, health-seeking Easteners. No pretentious Ince studio as yet meandered along the cliffs some nine miles beyond. The road ran through wild country on to Jack Rabbit Lodge where a squatter had a shack that tourists visited occasionally and for twenty-five cents were shown an old Indian burial ground.