WHEN I was eighteen, in the early autumn of 1925, two film companies, MGM and Paramount, offered me a five year contract.
Not knowing what to do about either of these acting jobs which would separate me from my dream of becoming a great dancer, I went to my best friend Walter Wanger for advice. At that time I was portraying a bathing beauty in The American Venus being filmed at Paramount's Long Island studio in Astoria, and Walter Wanger was an executive in Paramount's New York office. How sweet he was then: a brilliant, laughing young man of the world whose heart remained so tender. He had taken me under his protection after meeting me in the Ziegfeld Follies and discovering that my blase insolence was a masquerade. It amused him to find that my decadent black and white Aubrey
Beardsley make-up covered a sprinkling of Kansas freckles. It aroused his sympathy to find that my bold decolletage of glittering white sequins barely covered my childish insecurity.
If, at this crucial moment in my career, Walter had given me some faith in my screen personality and my acting ability, he might have saved me from further mauling by the beasts who prowled Broadway and Hollywood. Instead, never guessing I put no value on my beauty and sexual attractiveness and could not use them as a means to success, he advised me from this viewpoint as if my career depended on nothing else.
Having supper in Walter's apartment while I told him about the two film offers, I was so sure he would advise me to sign the Paramount contract that the emotional impact of his unexpected response has kept the scene vivid in my memory. I can still take pride in my new black velvet suit and emerald cuff links, still smell the russet chrysanthemums in their crystal vase, still see the glowing reds and purples of the fruit compote set in a silver bowl of ice. The fruit compote I never tasted. Just as I picked up my spoon, Walter said, "You must sign the contract with MGM". I sat back in my chair speechless. "Don't you see", he said as I began to cry, "that your friendship with me would put you in a dangerously vulnerable position at Paramount? Everybody would assume that you owed your contract to me and all the producers would treat you accordingly. If you sign with MGM you will start fresh -completely independent -on your own".
But I did not see. "You just say that because you don't want me at Paramount", I sobbed, "and you think I am a bad actress". Laughing as he dried my black mascara tears with his handkerchief, he protested, "No, no, no, it's because you can't take care of yourself. The fact is you ought to get married". "Get married!" I cried, bursting into fresh black tears. "There, you see, you don't even like me".
My total misconstruction of Walter's advice and warning made it inevitable that I would sign the Paramount contract. And for a time he proved a false prophet. I was always welcome in his office where my studio problems were solved with more gaiety than serious consideration. In July 1926 he blessed my marriage to the director Edward Sutherland with a sterling silver cocktail set from Cartier. In 1927 he persuaded me not to feel lost and afraid when the Astoria studio was closed and I was sent from its intimate friendliness to the factory coldness of the Hollywood studio. But then in the early part of 1928 Walter left Paramount and I had no sympathetic studio contact whatever. The head of production was B. P. Schulberg whom I did not know. He had been catapulted into this position because under personal contract to him was Clara Bow, who, after the release of Mantrap and It, became Hollywood's top feminine box-office star.
In April I divorced Eddie Sutherland, leaving the charming house in Laurel Canyon, where we had given so many delightful parties for a lonely suite in the Beverly Wilshire Hotel. Staring down at my name in lights on the marquee of the Wilshire Theatre was like reading an advertisement of my isolation. Some day, I thought, I would run away from Holly wood forever. Not just the temporary running away I did between the making of all my films - but forever.
In May, when the studio wanted me to start production on Beggars of Life under the direction of William Wellman, it was necessary to track me from Hollywood to New York to Miami to Havana to Palm Beach to Washington where I was visiting George Marshall, owner of the professional football team, the Redskins. While waiting for the capture of a seemingly reluctant actress he had never met, Billy Wellman came to the unfortunate conclusion that, since I did not follow the pattern of the actors who haunted the studio, panting after film roles, I did not care about making films at all. This conclusion set up a coldness between us which neither of us could dispel because he did not know that sycophancy had no merit in the New York studio where I had begun my career, and I was unaware that prudent Holly wood actors wooed producers, directors and writers with flattering attention.
Neither did my hard work and willingness to do dangerous stunts under his direction alter Billy's conclusion. In 1932, at the bar of Tony's restaurant in New York, the last words I ever heard him speak were: "But you always hated making pictures, Louise". That was after this intricate man had offered me a part in Public Enemy which he passed on to Jean Harlow when I turned it down in order to make a trip to New York. Bewitched by his own success there, he could not imagine my hating Holly wood.
When we met for the first time on the set where I was to make a test with Richard Arlen for Beggars of Life, it was not surprising that Billy greeted me with more suspicion than cordiality. On my part, I was suspicious about making the test. For no previous film had I been required to make a test. Billy explained that Benjamin Glazer, who had written the screenplay and was supervising the film, thought my forehead was "too high" to photograph well without my bangs which were unsuitable for my disguise as a boy. To test my naked brow Billy chose a scene from the film in which Dick and I spend a chaste night together in the hollow of a haystack.
During the Twenties no director was any good who could not make his actors cry real tears; and no actor was any good who could not shed real tears on demand. Tears without facial contortions, if you please! Luckily I had acquired this art from my mother, whose soft hazel eyes could overflow at any suggestion from burning the beans to a Wagner leitmotif. However, Billy wasn't interested in my tears in the scene. He wanted Dick to cry too and Dick was not a spontaneous weeper. He had come on the set with his tramp clothes lovingly dirtied and an enthusiastic three days' growth of beard, but he couldn't squeeze out a single tear before the camera. While the hot lights converted the hollow of the haystack into an oven, Billy shot the scene again and again, determined to make Dick cry if it took all day -which it did. It was after six when he resorted to the invention of Dick's dying mother. Richard wept. Thankfully, Billy directed the scene so well that it went into the picture without a retake and my "too high" forehead was forgotten.
The first ten days of production were spent at the studio shooting the interior of a farm house. I play the adopted daughter of a repulsive old farmer who, as I serve him breakfast on a summer morning, tries to rape me. Breaking out of his grasp, I grab a shot gun and kill him. As I prepare to run away disguised as a boy, a young tramp (Richard Arlen) appears at the screen door, looking for a handout. After I explain the circumstances of the farmer's death, Dick decides to befriend me and together we begin the flight from the bill-posters carrying my photograph and the notice, WANTED FOR MURDER.
Billy directed this opening sequence of Beggars of Life with a sure, dramatic swiftness lacking in the rest of the film. Its pace did not accord with Glazer's artistic conception of the tragedy and thereafter the action grew slower without increasing the film's content. Only Wallace Beery's entrance into the film saved it from Glazer's cultured supervision. Neither God nor the devil could have influenced Beery's least gesture before the camera. Having been briefly a tramp as a boy, he developed his character with authority and variety. His Oklahoma Red is a little masterpiece.
On the last day of May, Wally drove me to Jacumba, California, high in the Jacumba mountains near the Mexican border, where we were to shoot sixteen days of the film's thirty nine days' schedule. Always, I had been scared stiff when anyone drove faster than forty miles an hour. But sitting beside that bear in his open black Packard purring with content as it raced up the treacherous mountain curves, I enjoyed one of the most exhilarating experiences of my life. Wally drove with perfect ease as if he and the Packard constituted a single unit of control and power. When, to avoid hitting a dog, he skidded off the road for an instant, my composure amazed me. "You must be the best driver in the whole world", I said. "Not only the best", he agreed, "but the safest". Sure now that Wally was a man of courage, I said, "Some directors call you a coward". Unperturbed, he said, "That's because I won't do the stunts and fight scenes my double is hired to do. Have you got a double for location?" I said I had. "Then don't let that crazy Wellman talk you into doing any stunts yourself because he says it will make the picture better. That's a load of bunk Nobody seeing the picture will know the difference, while you are liable to be dead or in a wheelchair".
It was six o'clock and boiling hot when we stopped in front of the Jacumba Hotel, which was a blistered, grey, two-storey building with a sagging porch. Wally gave a grunt of disgust as we entered the shabby lobby. While I went with my Russian maid, Anna, who had arrived by train with my trunks, to inspect my primitive bedroom and bath on the ground floor, he went to inspect his bedroom on the second floor. When I returned to the lobby he was talking to a man about Jacumba's auxiliary airfield. In 1927, when we had made a Beery and Hatton comedy, Now We're in the Air, Wally had learned to fly and bought a plane. Now, deciding that he could never endure two weeks in the Jacumba Hotel, he arranged to fly up from Hollywood for each day's work. As I sat on the sagging porch, watching him and the Packard speed away, I felt like one abandoned. Mr. Vaughn, who owned the hotel, said it would be some time before the rest of the company, driving at less magical speeds, could arrive.
Mr. Vaughn also owned all three-hundred acres of the town and provided employment for its four-hundred inhabitants. He had built Jacumba in 1919 as a summer resort where the farmers of the Imperial Valley might escape from the desert heat, and bathe in its mineral springs. Situated on the railroad running between San Diego and Yuma, it was an ideal location for Beggars of Life because only four trains ran daily on its track, leaving many hours free for our private freight train to go before the camera. Photographically, spinning down the mountains among the deep canyons, the track was superb.
About eight o'clock Billy Wellman, with his wife and Dick Arlen, arrived in a company car. The crew and a caravan of trucks arrived about nine o'clock. The bus carrying the remaining members of the cast unloaded about ten o'clock. They were twenty riotous hobos selected by Billy from among those outcasts who financed their leisurely drunks by working as extras in films. They were watched with sombre disapproval as they ploughed into the pool hall next to the hotel. Its proprietor, Carlos, was also the town bootlegger. In spite of the money to be made out of "those picture people", the inhabitants strongly resented our taking charge of their town. The entrance of the hobos not only intensified their resentment -it spread the spirit of conflict among the members of the company. To throw together a group of people with incompatible social backgrounds in that tiny, remote community was an invitation to mischief. By the time our work on location was finished, only our private freight train remained an object of admiration and respect.
We fell in love with her on the first morning when locomotive 102 gave two long and two short blasts on her steam whistle to call us to work from breakfast in the lunch room. An indulgent train, she let us ride all over her -astride the cow catcher, in the engine cab, atop box cars, inside gondolas and on flat cars. I chose to ride in the caboose with its cozy bunks and fat little black stove which glowed red in the cold mountain nights. When every- one was accounted for by the assistant director after a warning ring of her bell, away she skipped up the canyons on the hour trip to Carrizo Gorge which was the central point from which we operated. If work finished at sunset she returned to town in a frolicking mood with clanging bell and blasting whistle. If work finished at night, she coasted to town on the breeze with all of us lying out on the flat cars, looking up at the stars shimmering in the black sky.
She was a train to make her engineer, her fireman, and her brakeman proud. Under Billy's expert guidance she learned numerous tricks of changing speed and direction, of starts and stops with perfect timing. The difficulty of the work taught the train crew to respect ours, which was hard and dangerous and, to them often foolhardy. They were dazed by the unconcern with which the runaway flatcar and the caboose were plunged into the gorge, taking with them the second camera, missing the second cameraman by inches. They were dismayed when Billy persuaded me to take the place of my double, Harvey, and hop a fast moving freight car, which nearly sucked me under its steel wheels.
So intrigued was I by the quiet sadism practised by Billy behind the camera, especially in his direction of women, that I began to investigate his past life. From him I learned nothing because he was extremely shy in conversation with women. A slim, handsome young man, more than a director he resembled an actor who was uncertain in his part. It was from Richard Arlen who had worked many months with Billy on Wings, that I obtained Billy's history.
Having finished with our particular scenes early one night, Billy sent Dick and me back to town in the cab of 102. While I was getting my mail at the hotel desk, Dick surprised me by darting to the pool hall, returning with a bottle of whisky, and asking me to have a drink. I was surprised because Dick was the undefiled type who did not touch booze. I was surprised because his winning smile concealed a strong dislike for me which was not fully explained by the fact that when we made Rolled Stockings together in 1927 his vanity had made him quickly aware that I did not admire his acting. With a motive of my own added to my curiosity about his motive, I sat down with him on the greasy brown-leather couch in the lobby. The night clerk placed a pitcher of ice water and two glasses on the old piano bench which served as a coffee table. Dick poured two powerful drinks and began a worshipful account of Billy's career.
In 1917, like many other untried heroes of nineteen, Billy was captivated by the glorious publicity given the Lafayette Escadrille, the Squadron of American pilots fighting with the French in World War I. Those highly-coloured tales of super-heroes, calculated to help bring the United States into the war, led Billy to join an ambulance corps which, not requiring him to swear allegiance to France, did not require him to forfeit his American citizenship. After transferring to the flying corps and shooting down "some" German planes, he returned to the United States in 1918 to instruct cadets at Rockwell Field in San Diego. His Croix de Guerre and the fame of the Lafayette Escadrille, which made him a hero in Hollywood, were the foundation upon which he built his career. From an actor he became an assistant director, then a director of Westerns until 1926 when he was selected to direct the World War I film, Wings. Its spectacular success established him as a top director and coupled his name forever after with the Lafayette Escadrille.
In September 1927, 'Motion Picture Magazine' published a Wings article, "Warriors of the Sky", stating that the director, "William Wellman, a former member of the Lafayette Escadrille, had been wounded and decorated in the war". By the time Ezra Goodman's Wellman interview, "Roman Candle of MGM", appeared in the March 1953 issue of 'Esquire', Billy's experiences with the Lafayette Escadrille had become escapades of surpassing wonder. Then, in 1964, Random House published Herbert Molloy Mason Jr.'s "The Lafayette Escadrille". Nowhere in the text does the name of William A. Wellman appear. In the back of his book Mason lists American pilots who flew with French operational escadrilles other than the Lafayette Escadrille (Neiuport, 124). Among these pilots listed is Sgt. William Wellman, who served with the escadrille Spad 87 and shot down two German planes.
Billy ended his career in 1958 with the direction of a film written by himself, Lafayette Escadrille [British title: Hell Bent for Glory]. Two years after the publication of Mason's "Lafayette Escadrille" an interview with Wellman appeared in the July 1966 issue of the Beverly Hills magazine 'Cinema'. Asked about his film, Lafayette Escadrille, Billy said it had nothing to do with the Lafayette Escadrille. Asked whether he was in the fabulous Lafayette Escadrille, he said, "I was a member of the Lafayette Flying Corps".
But even as Dick related the Wellman history in 1928, I did not quite believe it. My heroes did not advocate the abuse of women. My heroes were men of action who pursued death as unyieldingly as did Billy's own hero in Spad 87, Tommy Hitchcock, who died at last as the result of a fall on the polo field in 1939. Sensing my lack of enthusiasm, Dick attempted to strengthen his position as an authority on flying heroes by adding that he himself had flown with the Royal Air Force in World War I. I laughed at him. "Really, Dick, it's hard for me to believe that you, an American boy, born in 1900, could have flown with the RAF in a war that ended in November 1918".
Combined with the unaccustomed doses of bootleg whisky, this remark was all that was needed to release his prepared assault. His jaw muscles twitched as he hunched closer to me to deliver his monologue. "It sure is too bad about your getting a divorce from a swell guy like Eddie Sutherland -and a swell director. Now that you're not his wife any more, every body expects Paramount to fire you. They don't know you're a pet of the front office". He paused for a philosophic sigh. "Funny thing -I've been working at Paramount for three years -a damned tine actor too -and I make a stinking four hundred dollars a week while you ride around in your damn Lincoln town car with its damn 'black satin' finish. You -why you can't even act! You're not even good-looking. You're a lousy actress and your eyes are too close together". Having concluded his curse upon me and my Lincoln town car, Dick stood up, snatched his bottle of whisky, and swaggered from the lobby.
The following morning Dick and 1 did not work. When we met at the huge cement swimming pool round which the town was built, his nice-guy grin was back in place and nothing was said then or ever about the incident of the night before. To confirm his self approval, he gave a diving exhibition from the springboard while Jack Chapin and I sat on a bench and watched. Jack was the seventeen-year-old brother of Billy's wife, Marjery, who was also our script girl. Like her, Jack was a tall, pretty redhead. Engaged as a hobo extra on the film, he had attached himself to me as a sort of page and decided not to work when I did not work. The hobos openly condemned him for taking advantage of his relationship to Wellman, as did my double, Harvey, who joined us at the pool while Dick was performing. Estimating Dick's skill in a glance, Harvey climbed to the top of the thirty-foot tower and began a series of dives which retired Dick to our bench and left me enchanted. His vulgar little face and mind formed no part of this Harvey who executed aerial turns and twists comparable in grace to that of some capricious bird in flight. When he was satisfied with his triumph over Dick, he joined us for a Coca-Cola. "How come you are not out on location with the rest of the hobos?" he asked Jack. Jack said he was not a hobo, and besides he had hurt his back. "Yeh?" Harvey sneered, punching him between the shoulders, "It looks okay to me".
That night we worked in the hobo "jungle", a deep pit in Carrizo Gorge. In its centre a rock fireplace had been built, before which we gathered when we were not needed for a scene. The hobo Tiny, who weighed four hundred pounds, occupied a rock seat which had been built for him beside the fireplace. Because he moved with great difficulty, Billy had thought fully appointed him keeper of the fire and brewer of the coffee kept steaming in an enormous granite-ware pot on a grille placed over the fire. As a sideline, Tiny collected and disseminated all the company gossip. Jack and I were listening to his report of how the hobos had become enraged by the rise in the price of liquor at the pool hall and badly beaten Carlos with his own pool cues, when someone yelled, "Jack -Jack!" from the top of the pit where Billy was shooting a scene with Wally Beery. Thinking that Billy wanted him, Jack scrambled up the steep incline and disappeared in the glare of the arc lamps just as Robert Perry joined us before the fire. Ordinarily unmoved by anything (including his fine performance as the Arkansas Snake), he was childishly happy now as he produced a quart of Scotch whisky, from his coat pocket. "I sneaked this across the border from Mexicali", he said. "That thief Carlos closing the pool hall can't keep me from drinking". Then with a sly smile, he added, "I saw a beautiful picture of you there too". "Oh, where?" I asked. "In one of the cribs over this Mexican girl's bed. She's a big fan of yours".
The sound of crashing scrub oak and falling rocks turned our attention to the steep incline. We saw Jack stumble to his feet on the canyon floor while voices jeered from the top, "How's your back now, Jackie-boy!"
A few minutes later Billy and Wally came down to the fire for coffee. Billy was amused by Jack who was near tears, mumbling, "They tripped me, the dirty rats, they tripped me". Wally was disgusted with the trick. He loathed the gags that added needless hazards to filming on location. Besides, the distraction of the noisy trick had ruined his last scene. Away from work a honey bear, Beery was the meanest bear alive on the set; and when he growled that he hated working at night, that it was cold and the box lunches were rotten, Billy immediately called the night's work finished. Much wiser than directors who tried to dominate Wally, Billy let him play his scenes as he liked and, as often as possible, let him work when he liked.
To shoot the most dangerous and difficult stunt in the picture, Billy waited until the engineer and 102 had become professional in their response to direction. In this scene the brakeman, discovering Dick and me hiding in a gondola, forces us to climb outside on the iron ladder and jump from the speeding freight train. Dick's double had a comparatively easy fall because he jumped of his own accord to a spot a short distance below the track. My double, Harvey, was asked by Billy to make a thrilling plunge deep into the canyon, made more dangerous since Harvey must appear to fall after the brakeman has brought down his club on his hands clinging to the ladder. A hundred foot dive into water was a routine stunt for Harvey. A twenty-five foot dive into a rocky canyon was another matter. He agreed to do it on condition that he do the stunt just once. No rehearsals. No retakes. Just once.
In preparation, 102 and Billy and Harvey cruised up and down the track to find the right spot for the fall. Then Harvey, with the company crew, cleared the rocks and scrub oak from his path down the incline and dug up a soft bed of soil at the spot where he intended to land. After that, the cars were hooked on to 102, Henry Gerrard mounted his camera on top of the freight car next to the gondola, and the train went forward and back until the speed of the train and the moment and the spot of the fall were synchronized. 102 was to give a sharp toot as she passed the spot, Billy was to count so many seconds, yell "Go", and Harvey would take the plunge.
Next, the shot of me clinging to the ladder was filmed to make sure my background would match the background of Harvey's fall. Then he took his place on the ladder, 102 backed up again and started forward gaining speed rapidly until the whistle tooted, Billy counted the seconds, yelled "Go", and Harvey fell away down the gorge. Nobody spoke while the train returned to the spot where Harvey lay sprawled motionless upon the incline. Nobody spoke on the motionless train until Billy cried, "My God, I've killed him!" At that, pleased with his joke, Harvey got up laughing and waving his arms to indicate his unbroken bones. With his safe return to the gondola, all of us except Billy, who had taken the pledge for the duration of production, celebrated the success of the single shot with toasts drunk to Harvey's skill and courage; to Billy for his mastery in stunt direction; to Henry Gerrard and his camera which had followed every inch of the fall; and to the engineer and darling 102.
On the trip home that night I lay out on a flat car between Jack and Harvey. As the bell clanged the approach of town, I turned to Harvey, whispering, "At one o'clock come round to my bedroom window. I'll open the screen and let you in".
The next morning Billy worked alone with the freight train. Harvey and some of the hobos were lounging on the hotel porch when I crossed it to return to my room after breakfast. "Just a minute, Miss Brooks", Harvey said in a loud voice as he rose from the porch rail and sauntered over to me, "I've got something to ask you". Holding the door shut with one hand while his other hand held my arm, he said, "I guess you know my job depends on my health". Naming a high film executive whom I had never met, he went on, "Everybody knows you're his girl and he has syphilis and what I want to know is do you have syphilis?" Following an impressive moment of silence, he ended by saying, "Another reason I want to know is my girl is coming up at noon to drive me back to Hollywood". Looking round to get the effect of his performance upon the hobos, Harvey saw Robert Perry moving quietly towards him. Quickly dropping his hands, he sauntered off the porch as I opened the door and fled to my room.
At one o'clock, praying that everyone had eaten and gone, I went to the lunch room. It was empty except for two people sitting at the counter -Harvey and his girl. She was a fat slattern in a yellow house dress. When Harvey nudged her, she swung round on her stool to stare at me and giggle while he spoke to her in an undertone. Just as I finished my ice cream and was preparing to make my escape, Billy came in from location and sat down at my table for lunch. When Harvey came to say goodbye to him, it was obvious that Billy had heard every detail of our sordid affair from the bedroom entrance through the window to the denouement on the hotel porch. He could not resist a small leer in my direction. How the grand Louise Brooks had fallen! It was a sequence he could have directed with relish.
On the last day of location I was snoozing in a bunk in the caboose when a burning sensation on my thigh awakened me to find a lighted cigarette in my pants pocket. Next to lighting newspaper fires under people sitting in canvas chairs, it was the favourite company gag. I sat up to pull the cigarette from my smouldering pocket, saying, "Who the hell did this?" as the front door of the caboose closed on the prankster and the back door opened to admit Robert Perry. During the filming of Beggars of Life we had become good friends and now he had come to say goodbye. That reminded me of Jack and I said I hadn't seen him all day. Robert said, "Your boyfriend had a little accident -"My boyfriend?" I interrupted. "That's what he thinks he is", Robert said, giving me a curious look. But I was too anxious to hear about Jack's accident to pause over such a ridiculous notion. The day before, Robert told me, Jack was cavorting over the locomotive near the whistle when someone blew it, giving him a nasty steam burn on his bare back. That afternoon he was sent to Hollywood in the car with the boys who were taking the rushes, the day's work, to the laboratory.
One evening a month later the telephone operator in the Beverly Wilshire Hotel rang my suite to announce that Jack Chapin was in the lobby. I told her to send him up. He entered my sitting room, strange and formal, dressed in a blue coat and white pants, his red curls slicked down with some strongly scented oil. He did not talk, he did not drink the bacardi cocktail I mixed for him. He sat on one sofa before the fireplace, staring at me sitting on the opposite sofa until, without warning, he leaped at me and grappled me in his arms. Too astonished to be angry, I shoved him away, saying, "Are you trying to make love to me?" "Why not?" he said furiously, jumping up and backing away to the door to make his exit. "You go to bed with everyone else -why not me!"
BEGGARS OF LIFE (1928) Dir: William A. Wellman. Sc: Benjamin Glazer, Jim Tully (titles: Julian Johnson) (the novel by Jim Tully). Ph: Henry Gerrard. Ed: Alyson Shaffer. Prod: Benjamin Glazer for Paramount. Both part-talking plus music/sound effects and silent versions. 9 reels. With Wallace Beery (Oklahoma Red), Louise Brooks (Nancy), Richard Arlen (Jim), Edgar Washington (Black Mose), H. A. Morgan (Skinny), Andy Clark (Skelly), Mike Donlin (Bill), Roscoe Karns (Lame Hoppy), Robert Perry (Arkansas Snake), Johnnie Morris (Rubin), George Kotsonaros (Baldy), Jacques Chapin (Ukie), Robert Brower (Blind Sims), Frank Brownlee (Farmer), Guinn Williams (Driverebakeres cart) .