Motion Picture Story Magazine (Feb-Jul 1912)

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52 THE MOTION PICTURE STORY MAGAZINE and had grimly taken up the task of scouring deposits of grime from Joe's face. Sarah Simmonds was a veritable sea-nymph at scrubbing the living-room floor. Tiny waves of foam were sent out from her inexorable brush, much to the discomfort of the rocking-chair. Bill could understand cleanliness for a Sunday walking out, and artistic personal adornment, too, but this being a mariner in his own home, of mornings, got upon his nerves. "Blyme me, Sary," he growled, as a particularly vicious wave threatened to engulf him, "it's hawful the w'y you slop them suds aroun '. I dont 'arf like it. ' ' ". Ho ! " she snorted. ' ' Them 's as dont like it knows wot's agreeable." The seagoing chair containing Bill made a quick passage across the room. "'Ome's a bloomin' duck pond," he feebly commented. Just how far Mr. Simmonds' woes would have immersed him, I am unable to log, for a timid knocking came upon their door, to be repeated at a discreet interval. Sue opened it, and a strange figure of a little man stood on their doorstep, his face twisted between apology and fright. Suddenly he made a most elaborate bow, and bolted into the room. Sarah got up from her stiff knees and piloted him to the sofa. Bill continued to stare at the rare genus. "Does Mr. William Simmonds reside here?" began the stranger, and Bill 's emphatic ' ' That 's me" brought him to his feet in apologetic fright. "I have here a communication for you, sir," continued the caller, "that is fraught with the most pleasant consequences. ' ' At this, Mr. Simmonds slid his rocker to within the proper distance — not too close to be friendly, but near enough to appear unhostile. The stranger coughed behind his hand in the nicest manner, and summoned his courage for another interrogation. "You undoubtedly were well acquainted with your late uncle, the late John Simmonds of CamberwelH" he said. "Wot?" cried Bill, not noticing the ' ' late. " "A bloomin ' old swot is wot I call 'im!" The little man coughed deprecatingly again. "He has passed away," he asserted, solemnly, "and has left you sole heir to his villa at Camberwell, his chaise and donkey, and a considerable income." 1 ' Well, I 'm blowed ! ' ' admitted Bill. ' ' Wotever 'as come over 'im ? ' ' Then the astounding significance of the thing gripped him, and he looked weakly at Sarah. She, good woman, stood with mouth wide open, as if about to give voice to a scream. The bearer of the tidings, thinking it a good chance for an exit, whipped a card from his pocketbook and placed it in Bill's hand, with a bow. "Mr. Mallet, sir, of Cook & Mallet, solicitors. Always at your service. ' ' Then he was gone, with his manner quite like a rabbit, and they could hardly believe in his visit at all. .Mrs. Simmonds' painful expression finally emitted a drawn-out "Oh!" Her face softened considerably, and she looked at the former tenant of the rocker almost with affection. "You alius was a lucky 'and, Bill," she finally admitted. "That's wot comes o' bein' a Simmonds, ' ' Bill assured her. i ' I wonder wot came over Uncle Johnny ; 'e 'ated me like pysin." Contemplation turned to joy in the household. Bill could not contain himself. He jumped the frightened little Joey countless times ceilingward in pure excess of muscle. As the day wore on, Sue did not neglect her duties, tho, I am sorry to admit'it, Sarah was persuaded to by Bill. For long hours they disappeared from the house, and it was only as dusk began to spread its long skirts against the sun, and shadows gathered in the Road, that they returned. Sue was singing little Joe to sleep — some old song picked up from a Deptford sailor — and could scarcely grasp her parents' transformation. Mr. Simmonds entered his shabby home wearing a top hat of a delicate cream color; a pearl-shaded overcoat