David Griffith was ready for any line of activity that would bring in money, so that he could write plays. He always had some idea in his inventive mind, such as non-puncturable tires, or harnessing the ocean waves. In the mornings, on waking, he would lie in bed and work out plots for dramas, scene bits, or even mechanical ideas. After an hour of apparent semi-consciousness, his head motionless on the pillow, he would greet the day with “I hate to see her die in the third act”; or, “I wonder if that meat dish could be canned!” meaning, could a dish he had invented and cooked--a triumph of culinary art--be made a commercial proposition as a tinned food, like Armour’s or Van Camp’s beans and corned beef. Pretty good field of activity, canned eats, and might have made David W. Griffith more money than canned drama! CHAPTER V THE MOVIES TEMPT Winter passed. Spring came. On the Rialto’s hard pavements, day in and day out, Mr. Griffith, his ear to the ground, was wearing out good shoe leather. But nothing like a job materialized, until, meeting up with an old acquaintance, Max Davidson, he heard about moving pictures. Since youthful days in a Louisville stock company these two had not met. And the simple confidences they exchanged this day brought results that were most significant, not only to David Griffith, but to millions of unsuspecting people the world over. Mr. Davidson had been going down to a place on 11 East Fourteenth Street and doing some kind of weird acting before a camera--little plays, he explained, of which a camera took pictures. “You’ve heard of moving pictures, haven’t you?” “Why, I don’t know; suppose I have, but I’ve never seen one. Why?” “I work in them during the summer; make five dollars some days when I play a leading part, but usually it’s three. Keeps you going, and you get time to call on managers too. Now you could write the little stories for the pictures. They pay fifteen dollars sometimes for good ones. Don’t feel offended at the suggestion. It’s not half bad, really. We spend lots of days working out in the country. Lately we’ve been doing pictures where they use horses, and it’s just like getting paid for enjoying a nice horseback ride. Anybody can ride well enough for the pictures. Just manage to stay on the horse, that’s all.” “Ye gods,” said the tempted one, “some of my friends might see me. Then I would be done for. Where do they show these pictures? I’ll go see one first.” “Oh, nobody’ll ever see you--don’t worry about that.” “Well, that does make it different. I’ll think it over. Where’s the place, you said?” “Eleven East Fourteenth Street.” “Thanks awfully. I’ll look in--so long.” * * * * * The elder Mr. McCutcheon was the director when David applied for a job at the American Mutoscope and Biograph Company and got it.