The Photo-Play Journal (Jul 1919-Feb 1921)

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May, i 9 2 o 'SCRATCH MY BACK" Fictionized from the Eminent-Authors-Goldwyn photoplay version of Rupert Hughes' short story By CHARLES ELIOTT DEXTER IF you had happened to be in London about ten years ago, and if you had happened to wander into the Hoxham Palace Theatre — just to pass the time of the day, you might have been mildly interested in a dance act which came about fifth on the program. It was just another one of those dance acts, girl in ballet skirt, pirouetting, m^mmBBBOBM^^B^KKKM twisting, turning, cast into the f;: air by her swarthy, darkskinned partner. Bills outside the theatre called the act, "The Great Jahoda and the Peerless Pirouetta." But you, if you have any taste at all, would probably have been bored, if not just a little disgusted by the cheapness and tawdriness of the performance. Back stage, however, was real drama, the kind you do not even see behind the proscenium lights. Jahoda remained Jahoda, a swarthy, wizened-face Italian. The Peerless Pirouetta however, dropped her tripping title and dissolved into plain Madeline Secor. The door of her dressing room stood open. It held the lithe body of Jahoda, clinging to it for support. His breath was heavy with the odor of intoxicants, his eyes glittered with a leer, petrifying the girl to her seat. Action came quickly. Jahoda advanced a step toward the girl. She rose from her chair like a young animal at bay. The crisis in the relations of the oddly assorted pair had come. He wanted her with all the brutality of the envenomed outcast of society. His gnarled hands reached out to embrace her, but she eluded him, ran into a corner, crouched away from him against the wall, and finally slipped into the corridor leading to the stage door, gaining momentarily on the drink-befuddled man. All this sounds like melodrama, but 1 once in a while, melodrama creeps into the best regulated lives. Madeline Secor, our beautiful heroine, once took a chance. She had grown just a little tired of studying French grammar in a French convent and quite without informing her father, who was a prosperous American business man with an office in Paris, had vanished one quiet summer night from convent regula | tions, French verbs, and bread and water for punishment. A trip to London, days without work, days during which her supply of money grew less and less, an advertisement in the London Times by "The Great Jahoda, Teacher of Ballet," and the scene was set for the melodrama. Now for the comedy. Relief came at last CAST Val Romney T. Roy Barnes Loton Lloyd T. Witlock (American Consul to Milan) Jahoda Cesare Gravina Madeline Helene Chadwick Director Sidney Olcott Once upon a time, in a town called New York, was a man, who had the elegant name of Val Romney. Val just wouldn't take himself seriously. In fact, he was just like most of the heroes of humorous short stories. His particular weakness was, a desire to do what he wanted to do, and the fulfillment of that desire. One evening, he was invited to a The Dansant on a yacht. He had a lovely time. He danced with fat dowagers and their skinny daughters ; he drank tea, and he talked to eligible young ladies who were looking for eligible young men and did all the tiresome things that a man must do when he goes to a The Dansant on a yacht, — that is, until he started to dance with Mrs. Henry Noxom. While dancing with her, his shoulder blade began to bother him. It itched. It annoyed him. It pricked him. It tantalized him, made him nervous, made him perspire, made him feel like an armless, bathless hobo. He excused himself from Mrs. Noxom's embrace. He went to the lower deck to try to scratch his back, but he couldn't. His arms weren't long enough. He tried to get the yacht to scratch his back. He leaned up against the wall, he squirmed, he wriggled, he had one helluva time until one of the crew came to his rescue, pulled up his shirt, inserted a trained finger, and scratched, and scratched, and scratched, until relief and a smile came to Val's face. 1* t "r "r *r Two years later, Val Romney was sitting in a box at a Broadway theatre. The show was a good one, but Val wasn't paying much attention to it, mainly for the reason that a young lady with one of those trick, backless evening gowns was sitting in front of him. You know how it is. You just can't make your eyes behave in a case like that. Neither could Val, who was always wondering whether her shoulder straps were going to fall and cause a calamity. When the first act was almost over, the young lady, who, up to that time, had been sitting decorously beside a grey haired gentleman, apparently her father, became restless. Her back, hitherto so placid, so quiet, so smooth and white, became a scene of an I intricate operation. Val didn't know whether she was trying to shimmy or merely scratch her back. He was amused, until he recalled the incident on the yacht two years before. His conscience began to trouble him. Perhaps she was undergoing the same annoyance ; perhaps she couldn't scratch her back. It would hardly do to turn to her companion and request him,