Boy's Cinema (1930-31)

"Here," he said in a frituJly way, "put that inside you, buddy. Do you f-'ood! You know, you ouglit to be iishaniod of yourself, a great, big bull- calf like you trying to kill yourself." - Dixon gulped down the whisky-and- soda, and held up the empty glass with a trembling liand. "Can't you see I'm all shot to pieces?" lie complained. "I'm a wreck—a failure "If it's the money you lost to-night and last night, I'll see that you g'ct that back," interrupted Jim. "Do you think I'd let you give it me liack?" "Aw, forget it—I've got i)lcnty of money." He deposited the empty glass on a <lressing-table. Dixon was lying on the bunk whimpering like a woman, and that disturbed Jim badly. He found himself staring down at a framed photo- graph of a girl by the mirror—a beauti- ful girl, dark-haired, dark-eyed. He jiicked it up. "Sweetheart?" he questioned. Dixon looked round. "Sister," he blurted. "It was her money I lost to-night. It—it was the last of a lot more that went the same way. Oh, I tell you, I'm not fit to go on living!" Jim put the framed photograph back on the dressing-table and leaned over the writhing figure on the bunk. "Pull youreelf together," he ad- monished. "There's a lot better ways out than the one you tried just now. Say, it's kind of lonesome down my part of the ship—think I'll just stay here a while. That is, if you don't mind?" Dixon did not reply. "I'm staying," said Jim grimly. He went to the door of the cabin, opened it, and looked out into the long • orridor. Then he closed the door and bolted it, and seated Irimtelf resolutely in an easy-chair. "You'll feel better in the morning, young fellow," he .said calmly, "and I'm seeing that you live till morning. I've got a gun in my pocket!" He settled back in the chair. The whimpering somid gradually died away, and it seemed that the figure on the bunk had fallen asleep. With a sigh of relief Jim fished out paper and tobacco jnid rolled him.self a cigarette. It was towards dawn that he dozed. The quiet of the cabin, combined with 1 ho lap-lap of the water against the ^idcs of the vessel, lulled him to slumber. Ho woke with a start because someone was knocking at the door. INIorning sunlight was streaming through the two portholes of the cabin. "First call for breakfast!" called the \oico of a steward. Jim yawned, stretched iiis arms, and looked about him. The bunk was empty, the porthole immediately above it was wide open ! He himself could not have scrambled through that port- hole, but a determined inan of slenderer build .very well might! Ho gazed blankly about him, and, propped against the photograph on the ilressiiig-tahle, he found this note: " You tried to do me a good turn, but I can't go on. This leaves my sister all alone. She'll bo waiting for me on the <iuay—meet her and tell her in your own way what I've done.—H. D." Jim called a steward, who fetched a mate. The mate went off and fetched I ho captain. "I sure feel bad about this, captain," declared Jim, after he had explained matters for the third time. " I shouldn't have been so dog gone care- less as to drop asleep." " There's no roa&ou for you to feel JuJy llh, 1931. BOY'S CINEMA responsible," was the reply. "'J'hcsc things happen in spite of all of us." Beaver Pays a Call. THE Alloa was already passing through the Golden Cate into the big land-locked Bay of San Fran- cisco. In less than an hour she liad docked, and passengers were streaming down a gang-plank to the quay. Jim, dressed in tweeds, but with a big cow- hat on his head, made straight for a slim and graceful girl who was standing patiently there—the girl of the photo- graph ; ho would have known her any- whcre. A little felt hat covered most of her dark brown hair, and she was dressed qLiietly ill navy blue with a white collar. Her eyes were a luminous blue, and she turned them on Jim in surprise as he -wept off his hat before her. "Miss Dixon?" "Yes," she said, staring at him. "My name's Cardew. You sec, I'm— I'm supposed to meet you here. It's about your brother; he isn't on the boat." "Isn't on the boat?" she echoed blankly. "But he wired me that he would be. Please—has—has something happened ?" "Yes, ma'am," replied Jim. "He disappeared Last night." "I—I don't understand," she faltered. Jim fished the note from his pocket and handed it to her, hating his task. Her hands trembled as she read it; her head drooped. The sheet of paper fell crumpled to the stones, and she reeled. "Oh, I'm awfully sorry, miss," he said hocrsely, and caught her by the arm. "I'll take you home now, shall I?" She nodded gratefully, and he led her away to the road, where he hailed a taxi. She was living, it appeared, in a fur- nished flat on the Hunter's Point Boule- vard, and lie took her to it. Ho was clumsy of speech, perhaps, but there was a quiet strength and self-reliance about him which was very soothing to frayed nerves. She asked him into a pleasant sitting- room, and they talked. She confided to him that her brother had always been a reckless gambler, and she was not really surprised that he had decided to drown himself. Jim. irresistibly drawn towards her, iii\itcd her to have dinner with him a' the hotel where he proposed to stay ill San Francisco for a fe\y days, and much to his joy she promised. She seemed to have recovered fairly com- pletely from the shock when he left her, and she seemed almost radiant when he called for her in the evening. He had come lo San Francisco for a brief holiday with the avowed inten- tion of spending money and enjoying himself, but he had not bargained for making the acquaintance of a charming girl. He became a daily caller at her flat • he took her out and about, and he was'still at the Humberstone Hotel four weeks after he had landed ! I<>very morning, after that first meet- ing, she received a box of roses from a florist's with .a card: "To Miss Anno, from Jim." And every morning Jim arrived at the flat within an hour of the flowers. It was the first time he had ever been in love, and he was very self- conscious about it. She played the piano rather well, and he became particularly attached to a piece of MacDowcll's, called, "To a Water-lily." As she had played it on the second day of (heir acquaintance, he a>sociated it with her—asked her to play it every time he visited her. "That was mighty pretty, Miss Anne," he said to her oiie morning, Every Tuesday leaning over her at the piano in tho living-room. She smiled up at him. "You muist like it," she wiid, "I've played it for you every day!" He grinned shamefacedly. "You know," ho said, "I was sup- posed to be in town only two or three days—instead, I've been here a month." "It seems only a few days," she told him softly. "You've been wonderful to me, Jim. My brother's debts—and all that money." "It makes mc mighty happy if I've been able to help a little," he assured her. She got up from the piano, and, taking a rose from her waistband, put it in his coat. "You're a dear!" sho said. " Would you mind playing that piece again for me?" he asked. She laughed merrily, rc-scatcd lierself at the keyboard, and played the piece all over again. Two days later an obvious Westerner came to the Humberstone Hotel^a man with a scrubby chin and a drooping -moustache, whoso ready-made suit of serge looked as out of place on him as a bowler hat on the head of a baby. Ho was slightly bow-legged, as one who w as more at home on a horse's back than on his own feet. This visitor gave his name to the clerk in the inquiry ofhee as Robert Beaver, and he said that he had urgent business with Mr. James Cardew. A page-boy accompanied him in a lift to the fiftii floor, but there left him. " Xo. 407," he said pertly. "Bottom of that corridor on the left." The little man walked widely down the carpeted corridor, examining the rumbers on the doors. Before 407 he stopped short, rubbed his chin thought- fully, then stooped and applied an eyo to the keyhole. Inside the room—a sitting-room—Jim was kneeling at a chesterfield with a book in his left iiand, and his right hand raised as though in pleading. Beaver blinked, removed his eye from the keyhole, and applied an ear in its stead. He heard this remarkable utter- ance : "My beloved, have pity upon a heart that is tortured with love and longing— a heart that you csm crush with but an imkind look. From the first moment I looked into your heavenly eyes I became your slave. In token of my complete Beaver arose, turned the door-handle gently, and stepped into the room, gaz- ing with rapt attention at the kneeling figure. "And, knowing my nnworthiness to even so much as touch the hem of your robe, I offer you my heart and my hand !" "Them was sure purty words, Mr. Cardew!" exclaimed Beaver. Jim jumped violently, swung round, and sprang to his feet, dropping tho book. "What are you doing here, Beaver?" he cried, ashamed to have been caught ill such circumstances. "Purty words, Mr. Cardew!" guf- fawed Beaver, contemplating him. "Mighty purty words!" "Shut up and >it down!" barked Jim. " What do you v, ant ?" Beaver seated him.self on the chostor- tield and picked up the book. It was called "The Art of Making Love.'' Ho heaveii a sigh, i>ut it down beside him, and cleared his throat. "Well,"' he said s1o\*ly, "after a month had went by, and you hadn't showed up, the boys beg'an figgerin' something had happened. So they decided I'd better come along and find out."