Photoplay Magazine, January 1921 (anuary 1921)

This is the first of two original short stories which inaugurate PHOTOPLAY'S great $14,000.00 fiction contest that has aroused the interest of the literary world. Next month two more. fate handed me the push. What is it, fair lady? Do you want me to tell you where flies go in the chilly weather? It's a favorite question in this basement." Emma looked at him coldly. "No wonder you've been discharged," she remarked, with dignity. "You're too rapid. Fair lady, indeed." "I wasn't until this morning," murmured the manager. "But what is one to do when one has had the push. It's a hard world. But don't tell me, please don't tell me, that you want to purchase a song." "Would that be so strange?" exclaimed Emma. "Strange!" The young man rolled his eyes. "Strange! The last person who bought a song in this establishment died in Australia twelve years ago. You know what people would say if the moon suddenly walked down Broadway. They'd call it a most unusual occurrence. It would be equally phenomenal if anyone bought a song in this delightful resort." "I don't wonder at it," sniffed Emma—she had a feeling that eared, unintelligent, blingumitty lot of actors and actresses in all his born days. she liked the man who had been "pushed" despite his flippancy. "Oh!" he exclaimed, as he strangled a half-grown yawn. "Got something stirring in your mind, have you? I'm listen- ing." Emma came to the point at once. "How many people know music well enough to read it?" she asked. "How many people are there in the place now who can pick up a song and know what it's all about by simply glancing at it? About one in fifty." "I'm with you so far," said the manager brightly. "What you want," said Emma, "is someone who can show them what a song is like. Up by the piano there ought to be a small platform, and on it there should be a girl with a mezzo- soprano voice. That's the way to sell songs. People won't buy things they know nothing at all about." "I'm ahead of you now," remarked the manager, as he lifted himself to his feet. "You disengaged?" "I'm looking for a job," said Emma. "That's what I meant. Pretty certain, aren't you, that this little brain wave of yours is going to prove a winner?" "I've faith in it." "So have I. Care to show me what you can do? We'll talk about terms after- ward." Emma walked straight to the piano. She felt a bit fluttery, and she had a vague idea that her mouth had gone suddenly dry. The horn-spectacled pianist gave her the kind of look that she fondly believed was employed by all the best film actresses. "Yes?" she inquired, loftily. "Play anything the young lady selects," chipped in the manager, "and try and get a good gTip of the soft pedal." He sat down himself and closed his eyes. If a miracle was about to happen he wanted to observe it when it was fully created; he had no w'ish to see it approach. So he closed his eyes. He did not yawn. Emma picked a song that had a lot to do with somebody's yearning for a cottage by the sea. It suited her—suited her mood and most certainly suited her voice. The Home of Music—as the basement was called—halted in its stride, forgot to breathe, and paid instant and unprece- dented attention. Emma concluded on a soft little note that was much like the trilling of a bird. The manager opened his eyes to see a thoroughly pleased crowd fumbling with its pocket money. "It's the moon walking down Broadway," he communed with himself. "There'll be a deputation of directors waiting on me tonight, imploring me to accept a raise in salary. Emily"—this to a pig-tailed young lady who had long since given up hope of ever selling a song—"gallop upstairs and tell 'em I want assistance down here. We're going to be busy." It was two hours later before Emma moved out of the ranks of the great army of unemployed. The crowded hours had been given up to singing and to the handing out of songs. Milford's had never known such a happening in its existence. The Home of Music had been positively snowed under with frenzied requests for ballads. "Gimme the last one you sang—that one 33