For a mountain fastness of arid Mexico, we journeyed not far from Edgewater, New Jersey. No need to go further. Up the Hudson along the Palisades was sufficiently Mexico-ish for our needs. There were many choice boulders for abductors to hide behind and lonely roads for hold-ups. New Jersey near by was a fruitful land for movie landscape; it didn’t take long to get there, and transportation was cheap. Small wonder Fort Lee shortly grew to be the popular studio town it did. In those days, movie conveyance for both actors and cargo was a bit crude. We had no automobiles. When Jersey-bound, we’d dash from wherever we lived to the nearest subway, never dreaming of spending fifty cents on a taxi. We left our subway at the 125th Street station. Down the escalator, three steps at a bound, we flew, and took up another hike to the ferry building. And while we hiked this stretch we wondered--for so far we had come breakfastless--if we would have time for some nourishment before the 8:45 boat. A block this side of the ferry building was “Murphy’s,” a nice clean saloon with a family restaurant in the back, where members of the company often gathered for an early morning bite. We stuffed ourselves until the clock told us to be getting to our little ferry-boat. Who knew when or where we might eat again that day? “Ham,” Mr. Murphy’s best waiter, took care of us. As the hungry breakfasters grew in number and regularity Mr. Murphy became inquisitive. Mr. Murphy was right, we didn’t work on the railroad and we didn’t drive trucks. So, who, inquired Mr. Murphy of Ham, might these strange people be who ate so much and were so jolly in the early morning? And Ham answered, “Them is moving picture people.” And Mr. Murphy replied, “Well, give them the best and lots of it.” We needed “the best and lots of it.” We needed regular longshoremen’s meals. Outdoor picture work with its long hours meant physical endurance in equal measure with artistic outpourings. Ham is still in Mr. Murphy’s service, but his job has grown rather dull with the years. No more picture people to start the day off bright and snappy. Now he only turns on the tap to draw a glass of Mr. Volstead’s less than half of one per cent. “But I want to ask you something,” said Ham as I started to leave. “Yes?” “Would you tell me”--hushed and awed the tone--“did Mary Pickford ever come in here?” “Oh, yes, Ham, she came sometimes.” “I told the boss so, I told him Mary Pickford had come here with them picture people.” Whether Mary had or hadn’t, I didn’t remember, but I couldn’t deny Ham that little bit of romance to cheer along his colorless to-days.