Photoplay (Jul - Dec 1939)

THE ENTHRALLING LIFE HISTORY OF A FIGHTING IRISHMAN Brief interlude — Constance Worth as th afternoon, when her knock brought him uneasily to the door of his room. "Y'r an Irish laddie, hmm?" she muttered, her eyes on her work-yellowed hands. "Originally," he said, trying to keep the rich rolling brogue out of that "r." He thought: It's a trap, maybe. He saw the corners of the proprietress' mouth draw down imperceptibly in disbelief. "If you'll just take this money," George added, "and get me a paper of tobacco at the corner shop — " When she returned he had gone, with his luggage. She invoked the Diety aloud as she took off her apron, and was quite out of breath from running when she reached the police station. But the shadows of the warehouse George had found were deep and cluttered with waiting sealed boxes; he pried one open and put his bag and coat inside, so that when, at ten that night, the crates were carried aboard the trawler he was one of the shirt-sleeved dock hands, helping. He simply stayed on deck when the others left. At Land's End the trawler was hailed by a small motorboat and took aboard a party of police. George, crouching tense by the pilothouse, recognized the leader of the little knot of men as they stood forward, talking earnestly with the captain. Against the boy's ribs a triphammer heart beat hard, sending excitement coursing through him; here was the hour at last, and its name was zero. He braced himself. Then, as the captain turned, George jumped for the rail. He clambered down the ladder, bringing up in the motorboat's cockpit with a crash. The motor was thudding at ease under the long nose of the craft and George's fingers tore at restraining lines . . . He heard the shouting above him and the sharp interpolative explosions might have been exhaust — or guns. He did not look back to see. The freighter, standing a mile or two out, was turning slowly and black smoke wisped from its funnels. It was just under way when George drew alongside, his arms frantic semaphores, his throat raw from yelling. A floppy ladder came overside as the freighter slowed; and a minute later the little police craft was bobbing, empty, in its wake. George had had to make the jump with his Gladstone in one hand. On deck he waited, panting. The thought struck him that he did not have the least idea what this boat was, nor her destination, nor her captain's affiliations. To get so far, by such thin margin, only to find himself in irons — "Holy Mother," his heart prayed. "Please!" And, "By all the Saints!" said Captain Johnny Flaugherty, striding up. "Are you the man? 'Twas a close one, George — that time." Captain Johnny had been George Nolan's friend for two years. A Broadway break that backfired — George with Alice Brady and Glenda Farrell in "Love, Honor and Betray" (above) Fame and happiness — for a while — in the arms of Ruth Chatterton, former co-star and wife (right) lOU are one of the apostles of liberty," Captain Johnny said. He took his pipe out of his mouth and gestured with the stem at the dark smoking mass that was Montreal. "You'd be hanging from the gallows in Dublin this day except for your wits." "And some blackguard the richer by a hundred pounds'," said George fiercely. "Richer than I at that, y'know." "Collins paid you well?" "Yes. But escape is bought dear." "You can have your passage money back," Captain Johnny said quickly. George grinned at him. "I don't regret the (Continued on page 87) h"'">~<C°'-9e; , 67