Photoplay Magazine, January 1921 (anuary 1921)

Photoplay Magazine 34 about the roses round the door." was the sort of clamorous ap- peal that was dinned into Emma's ears. Even the horn-spec- tacled pianist was ladling out songs. She was positively certain that Mary Pickford had never been called upon to do such a thing. The anxiety of the public to buy grew stronger as closing time approached. Emma then was almost swept off her feet. "How does this one go, miss?" would come from a lady with a baby in her arms, or "Just give us the hang of this," would be the prayerful plea of a thin gentleman in black. There was one period when Emma had so many songs in her hands—they had all been pushed on her by intending pur- chasers—that she could hardly see over the top of them. She was beginning to wonder whether there was not such a thing as too much success when the doors were finally closed. Her head was spinning. "The greatest moment in my career," mentioned the manager as he leaned against the wall, "was one day when a young lady, with a slightly Irish nose, crept to my side and whispered into my ear that she knew how to cause a riot in a music depart- ment. That, Emma, is the way I"m going to start the story of my life, when I write it." "Who told you to call me Emma?" asked the lady with the Irish nose. She stared at her employer, without resentment. "Didn't expect me to call you Mike, did you?" exclaimed the manager. "Emma's a good old- fashioned name, and goes well with Jim. That's mine—James Ferdinand Wilson, to be exact. The Ferdinand came from an uncle of mine who started an ironmonger's shop in High Street, Bulgaria. Feel like a bit of supper before we go home?" "We?" " 'Course. Don't think I'm going to lose sight of you, do you?" "You're very sure of yourself, Mr. Wilson." "Jim." corrected the manager. "J-I-M. It's a comparatively common name, and it is popular with coal-heavers and cabinet ministers, with plumbers and poets, with dustman and dukes, and with miners and managers. You'll have no difficulty in re- membering it. How'd a couple of well-trained sausages go. or a cutlet, or—well, anything you fancy?"' "M'yes," said Emma, thawing perceptibly. "I don't seem to have spent much time toying with food today. Besides, I don't want you walking on my shadow when I go home." "It'll be so much nicer holding your arm," mentioned Jim. "There's eight crossings between here and the cafe. Horribly dangerous suburb, this." Emma hadn't the faintest difficulty in holding down her new- job. In fact, the Home of Music became so popular that a man had to be employed at the top of the staircase to regulate the traffic. On an average she sang at least fifty times a day. It was heavy going, but she had a voice that was built for endurance, and a personality that eventually brought her under the gaze of Big Tom Powers, the proprietor of the Majestic Theater, and the big noise in the revue world. Prior to that, however, she had become the most popular person at Milford's. She had so many admirers that on early closing days they stood around in queues; the top of the piano had become a resting place for boxes of chocolates, and bunches of flowers, and gloves, and other presents. Had Emma so desired she could have lunched and dined a dozen times each day, and always with a different man. Where she particularly shone was in the rendering of a light song. She could make a thoroughly silly lyric richly humorous; she could compel a smile when another person would have merely forced bored tears to the eyes of the listeners. Emma, although she didn't know it at the time, had the gift of comic expression. Humor simply bubbled in her, and it was more often than not brought to the surface by Jim Wilson, who looked on life very lightly indeed. Jim rarely allowed troubles to weigh heavily on his mind. His philosophy was that if the sun wasn't shining today it would certainly break through the Perhaps this story- wins the first prise of $5,000 Read the conditions of PHOTO- PLAY'S $14,000 prize fiction contest on page 6 of this issue. clouds before the end of the week. Emma got to like him so very much that within a month of her first appearance in the Home of Music she frequently fell to sighing heavily when she looked down at a ring on one of her fingers. Jim had given her the ring, with a few appropriate words. "That's a standing advertisement," he told her genially, "that you're not one of the million surplus women the papers are talking about. As soon as I've saved enough money to buy a new overcoat, we'll fix the glad day." Emma hadn't by any means forgotten the swift passing of her father, but she was nevertheless moderately happy on the night when Wilson told her of the glory that had come to him. That was how he phrased it—possibly he had read it on the title page of one of the ballads in his department. Emma was very silent and very wistful that night. She could not have sung a funny song if she had been offered a fortune for so doing. It was her Big Moment, and it was not in the least spoiled by the fact that Jim told her of his longing between mouthfuls of poached eggs on toast. Jim was very eloquent, very loving, very, very eager for her answer. As for Emma, she simply wept quietly and without display. Why do girls cry when they're happy? It was all over the store next day that Emma and Jim Wilson were engaged to be married. Naturally the news caused a flutter—the horn-spec- tacled pianist immediately left her instrument and arranged her hair in a new way. It had pre- viously been brought to her notice that Wilson admired the style of hair-dressing favored by Pearl White. She had copied Miss White faithfully for a fortnight. When she came back to her piano in the Home of Music she really believed that any casual observer would mistake her for Violet Hop- son. Anyway, her bair was fixed in exactly the same way; and the young gentleman in charge of the hardware department was a fer- vent admirer of Miss Hopson. Wilson, from the pianist's point of view, had been swept off the face of the earth. He was no longer a person to be sighed over. He had been removed from the list of eligibles; his day was done. Emma would not have changed places with a princess just then. She knew that the other girls were viewing her with awed interest; discussing her, envying her the great good luck that had come her way. Becoming engaged to the good-looking manager of the Home of Music had been the ambition of quite a number of Milford's young ladies. As the day wore on they weren't quite certain whether they were glad for Emma or sorry for themselves. Wilson, however, was happy enough. He was whistling when he arrived to open his section of the big store, and his lips were still pursed about four o'clock in the afternoon when a fat man, with four chins in front and two at the back of his neck, waddled down the staircase and cast an interested eye around for the person who was making singing noises. Big Tom Powers had come in out of the rain, and it was while he was examining some new ideas in shaving utensils that Emma's voice floated down to him. She was trilling out the comedienne's song in a new and popular musical comedy. Powers stood and watched her as she interpreted the giddy little song as it was obviously meant to be interpreted. For the first time in her life Emma was acting as well as singing. Her deep contentment was responsible—she was so happy that she badly wanted to infect others with the wonder- ful joy that had come to her. Powers seemed to be fascinated. He was fresh back from the provinces, where he had been engaged in a vain search for a lady with a sense of humor, and now he had stumbled on the very sort of person he had all along had in his mind's eye. It looked too good to be true; he felt sure there was a catch somewhere. "Oi!" he called to Wilson, who happened to be passing. "Got a minute to spare?" "At your service, sir," said Jim. (Continued on page go)