Boy's Cinema (1939-40)

tvery Tuesday "lie slapped mo!" soieoclioU liiuigone. "She slaijped mo I" shouted tituve. "She •aid " "Never mind what sho said!" Virginia iii- tcrnipted angrily. "You oitgiit to lie tishaiiied of yoiirsoin" Helen Foster had folloue<l-Virsiniu uii tho stairs to soo what till the trouble was about, and as she entered the uttie Iniopene flew to her, eryinfl:: "Mother, he slapped inr!" "Virginia," began Helen, "it seems to me llieio oiiarht to bo " "I'll puiiisli Stephen myself, Helen, if yon don't iniiul," said her sister-in-law, rather ' tartly, and InioRene wne marched ofl' by her mother. " Well, yon soo whftt you've done, don't yon?" Virgiiiiii rate<l at the .snp|>ose<l offender. "But, mother, she's always picking ou mo," defended .Stevo. "1 was in here, 'londinK to iny own business, «nd she came in and started "I don't care what she did oi- what .she said!" "But she said dad was crar.y! ,She called me a sponaer!" "A—a sponjfer?" That aavc Virf^-inia a jolt, "Yon nnist have misnnder.sluod her." "No—no, 1 didn't. She said: 'This is niy house, yon spoiiRcr!' And if (hat's the way they feel I don't want to slay here," "That's enouKh, Stephen!" Virginia swooped on tho chemical sot. "I told you not to pla.y with these chemicals in the house!" "I was just lookin' at 'em." "You deliberately disobeyed me, nnd for that you'll stay in this room." The chemical set was deposited on the top of !i tall chest of drawers, and (ho irate mother .went out and loc:ked the door. For some little while after she had {rone the boy sat miserably on the side of the bed, but resolution oveitame misery, and he ))ut on his tweed jacket and his o«ip and went to the window. It was a dormer windou', high above the Kround, but there was a cherry-tree out- side it. and ho had climbed the cherry-tree many times. He opened the casement and scrambled out on to a bouKh, and soon afterwards he was out in tho road, ninnins away from the house as fast as he could ro. His own home was more than fifteen miles nway. but he did not realise that because he had travelled alwoys by car. The run became a walk, the walk a trudge, and then lie began to thumb cars that overtook him, hoping for a lift. But all (he drivers of nil the cars ignored his mute ap))eal, and to make matters worse storm-clouds appeared in a sky that had been clear. A rumble of thunder was followed by drenchinff rain, and Hie storm was at its heipht and his clothes had become sodden when an ancient junk wagron, drawn by a bony horse, drew level with him. The driver, an old and wizened man in a battered hat and nondescript garments, saw the little upturned thumb and jerked his horse to a standstill. "Could I have a ride, please, mister?" im- plored Steve. "Where d'you think you're goin' to. huh?"' asked the old fellow gruffly but {{uite amiably. " I'm goiiiK to see my father," Steve told him—and gave the address. "Well, I'm headin' for the Bronx, and yon don't look so very big'. Maybe my boss can pull the both of us. Come up here." Steve climbed to a very wet driving-seat and sat beside the junk man. The bony horse was coaxed into renewed activity of a very leisurely kind, and tho boy expressed his thanks. "Don't mention it," said his benefactor, glancinf^ round over a pair of steel-riinmed spectacles ihat were nearly on the tip of his nose. "You don't look like a hold-up man, eh?" "Oh, no, I wouldn't do that." Steve was quite solemn. "Do they have hold-ups around here?" -"Yeah, I think they do, maybe. But I haven't got anything worth stealiiV." There was a canvas cover over the wagon, but it provided scant protection from the driving rain for the old man and the boy. A threadbare nig was shared. BOY'S CINEMA The boy's face was hardly any whiter than Stephen's, and it bore none of the signs ot suffering that Stephen's exhibited as he asked hoarsely : ♦• What do you think of his chances ? " "Are yo.i poor?" asked Steve. "Yes, I am, majbe," nodded tho junk-man. "But I'm happy—yeah, I'm very happy. You do.i't look happy, huh?'' Steve confessed that he was not happy. "I'm running avvay from home," he cimfided. "What?" The junk-mau nearly stojiped the horse, but the boy amended hastily: "Th.it is, not exactly. I'm really going to see my father," "Then what're you runnin' away from?" Steve explained. "Did you ever run away?" ho asked, "Yes, I think so. maybe," was the reply, "In fact, I know I did. But I don't think it's so nice for little boys to do so." "Maybe you didn't have a father you wanted to bo with so terribly as I do." "My father was mean," said (he junk-mau, " that's why I ran away from home. I ran a long, long way off—went on a big ship. And I got homesick, Bnl when I went back homo my father v,-as dead." "Oh!" Steve grieved for him. "How long did you stay awaj-?" "Thirty years." The wagon was in tho Bronx, close to Pelham Parkway, when a patrolman in a waterproof cape and leggings held up a hand and hailed the old fellow as "Chris." The horse was stopped, and the patrolman looked up at the boy in a fasliion that filled him with fear. "Good-evening, Mr. Murphy," greeted tho junk-man. "It's a bad evening for old men and little boys to be out," said the oflBcer. "Who's your passenger ?" "He's taking me to my father,'' blurted Stevo. "Yeah, I'm takia' him," confirmed llic junk- man. The palrolman resumed his beat; the wagon rumbled on again, and the storm had beaten itself out by the time the ramshackle vehicle turned into Atherton Avenue, though the rain persisted. TRAQEOY! STEPHEN was down in the laboratory with Jim Mayton, and they were looking at .sonio guinea-pigs in a hutch on one of the benches. "Well, here they are," rejoiced Stephen, who had just removed a cover from tho hutch. "Alive and kicking! This proves wo were right in the first place. Every other variation has failed." "That]s right." said Jim "You gave those guinea-pigs triple doses, and never a sign of anj- heart shock." '"Which shows that our formula had nothin/,' to do with that man's death. It was an unfair test—he wa; too far "one." Jim Mayton heaved a sigh. "Wlien I think of the time we've spent, and whit all t'nis has cost you " "Never n ir.d that, Jim." .Stephen clapped a hand on his assistant's shoulder. " Wc'vf proved that we're right and I)j-. Moiley'.-. wrong, and you ""an bet your life the next tost ivill be a fair one! I'm going !o make arrangc- monts with tho Medical Association. Well, wh.it do you .say we make it a day?" The hutch was covered over and Jim put on liis hat and macintosh and went oft whistling. He did not see the junk A\-Hgon because He turned to the left, outside the house, just before the wagon arrived from the ojiposife direction. Little .'^tcve clambered down from his perch besido the old man and waved a' hand fiom the pavement. "Much obliged, !Mr. Cliris," he said grate- full.v. " Maybe I can do as much for you some day." "Maybe," nodded the junk-man. who had come sevcr..l miles out of his way to deposit tho boy pract'cally on his doorstep. "Don't mention it. Oood-bye." He flicked the bonj- horse with a whip and chouted a "Giddap!'' and Stove darted in at the gate, sped through the rain to the porch, and rang the front-door bell. It was IMrs. Pearson who opened the door, February Sith. 1940.