Boy's Cinema (1930-31)

14 few pleasantries with liim. Then again tlic boy went on his way. llait an hour later Bob returned to the lower regions of the newspaper buildings. As he came down the wooden stairs into a small room in tlie basement that adjoined the machine- room, the compositors were streaming oat for the dinner hour. "Hallo, Bob!" called one genial fellow who had a groat liking for the boy. "You coming along?" "No, Dick!" Bob gave him a cheery smile and moved across to a row of clothes pegs where his hat and coat were hanging. "I'm on the dog- watch !" "Then I hope it keeps fine for you, boy." A wave of the hand ana the composi- tor was gone, mingling with a crowd of his fellow-workers as they swarmed up the stairs towards the street. From the pocket of his coat Bob took out a small brown-paper package, then crossed to a rough wooden bench, upon which he sprawled at full length, cup- ping his head in one hand. When he wa.S on duty during the dinner-hour, minding the maohiiics, it was his wont to perch there, munching the sand- widhes that liis mother had packed for him, dreaming of the success for which ho longed. But Bob was not left alone with his thoughts for long. Presently the door at the top of the wooden stairs crashed open, and a thick-set young man in the early thirties came staggering down into the room. Charlie Colhns, at- tached to the reporters' staff, clever in his work but possessing a weakness for bootleg whisky and a propensity for borrowing money which he seldom re- turned. "How are yuh, kid !" Collins grinned at the boy in a silly kind of way, took from his h'P pocket a flask which lie imcorked and raised to his lips. A long drink, a grunt of contentment, and then the flask was replaced. "But say, boy, what the dickens you doing down in this damji hole?" "I work here," Bob told him, and took a bite at the sandwich he held. "Well, if that isn't too bad." Collins cast a bleary eye around the small room ajid grunted disgustedly. "Gee, but .\ou'll sure catch your death of cold in this damp place. Still. I suppose you know your own darned business best." "Don't think I'm here because I like it." Bob shook his head so vigorously that he nearly choked himself with the piece of sandwich that was in his mouth. "I'd give anytliing to be shot of this hole—to become a reporter. Cce, if only I had the chance I'd " "No, no, no." Collins calmly picked up a -banana that was included with Bob's lunch, peeled it, and took a good liite, then vvag^'led what was left uiuler the boy's nose. "Dent do that, sou— it's n tlog's life !" "I'd like to be a reporter, anyway," Pol) smiled. Collins looked at him curiously, noticed the earnest expression on Bob's face, grinned inanely, then took an- o'ther bite at the banana. "Wli-wh-what ever made you wanna write, boy?" he said thickly. For a moment Bob was silent, gazing vacantly at the wall opposite as he chewed at his meal. "Oh, when I was a kid a—a little girl (lied, but just before she died she—she |)oinfed out of tlie window—and she had a beautiful look on her face." Tears were very close to Bob's eyes, fov that little girl of whom ho spoke had been his playmate at school, aud he had been very fond of her. "I guess to most people it was just a gestui'C of October lOtli, 1931. BOY'S CINEMA death—but I thought s)ie pointed to something. I suppo.se it sounds kind of silly, but ever since then I've wanted to write about it." Collins was looking very sheepish, for the sadness of the story had penetrated his maudlin brain, touched his heart. But he quickly recovered from the sud- den depression that had gripped him, stuffed the last piece of banana in his mouth, then patted Bob's knee. "No, it ain't silly, kid, it ain't silly. It's poetry—that's what it is—poetry. I wanted to write a play once, but the pencil broke." He grinned inanely, for the fumes of the bootleg whisky had taken a strong grip on his brain. " I never had a chance after that. But I'll Sue that yon get a chance, kid, you'll get a chance " He broke off at the sound of a feminine voice, and, glancing round, perceived through a small glass window, sot high in the wall, a pretty telephone operator busy at her switchboard. Again he grinned, then turned back to Bob. "Say, kid," he said eagerly, "you couldn't let inc have two dollars till pay day, could you ? You see, there's a girl I want to take out, and I'm stony." Bob smiled good-naturedly and nodded. The two dollars were pro- duced, which was about all the money Bob had at the moment, and they quickly changed hands. "Thanks." Collins readjusted his hat, which had slipped to the back of his head. "I'll sec that you get a chance, kid. A reporter you want to be ? Yeah, you'll get your chance all right— you'll get your chance." And, with another of his inane grins, ho went lurching up tho wooden stairs and disappeared. Bob Writes a Story. ^ CHARLIE COLLINS was as good as his word. .As star reported on "The World," he was in a posi- tion to ask for things and have his re- quests granted. Mr. Smithson knew it was the only way to retain his services, for many a rival paper would have given almost anything to number X!,'ollins among their staff. So Bob ^Marshall transferred from the printing side to the editorial oflices, and started as cub reporter at twenty dollars a week. But he was by no means satis- fied, for all his assignments were small— he wanted to do big stories—to earn the big salaries that his colleagues earned. He had been on the editorial side about two weeks, when one particular evening a beautiful girl tapped on the door of Mr. Winter's office, 'and, in answer to his "Come in," entered that sumptuous apartment, where the proprietor, garbed in evening-dress, was reclining at ease in a deep armchair. "How were the flowers, Myra?" William Winter was on his feet in a moment, and coming across to the girl he took her hands eagerly in his. "Did I guess rLglit ?" Myra Deane—blonde, pretty as a pic- ture in a gorgeous evening-gown of palest blue—smiled bewitchingly up at liim, and the smile liad a pleasing effect oii the man. For tho newspaper pro- prietor was madly in love witli this girl who held the important post of Societv Editor on "Tiio World." "You don't guess. Bill." There was a mischievous twinkle in Myra's blue eyes. " You know very well roses are my favourite flower." lie laugiied and kissed lier. Almost it seemed that she recoiled from the salutation, but in a moment she was laughing up at him again. Ho was twenty years her senior, douljlc her own' Every Tuesday age, and. girl-like, she felt that this was sufEcient barrier between friendship and something far greater. But he was very kind to her—she who was an orphan, and who had only been out of the orphanage little more than a year. He had given her a job and a home, and bestowed presents upon her, had taken her to cinemas, dances and theatres. She felt she owed him so much, and must humour him in consequence. "Look here, Myra," he said, releas- ing her hands to light a cigarette. "1 wish you'd write nie a good yarn about the International Ball to-night. One of those bright stories you used to turn out." "Slave driver !" Again the mischiev- ous twinkle was in her eyes. "But don't worry, old thing, I'm covering it." "Good!" ho enthused, his eyes spai-kling. She nodded and smiled, then with a cheery wave of the hand she swept from the room. Straight across the passage she went and into the editorial offices, where typewriters pounded at high pressure and pencils sped across paper. "Say, Frank"—she came up to the editor's desk and touched the big man's arm—" have you found an escort for me yet ? For the International Ball, you know." "But I haven't anybody," Smithson jerked his pipe from his mouth and glanced impatiently up at her. Then he replaced the pipe and let his eyes drift back to the typewritten copy he had been reading. " I thought I told you ten minutes ago that every reporter on the sheet is busy." "I believe you did, but that doesn't cut any ice. I must have someone. You can't expect me to go alone. Be- sides, I shall want to dance, and simply must have a partner." The editor grunted and paid her little heed—just went on reading tho "copy " for tlie next edition of "The World." With a frown, Myra cast her eyes about her, glancing at first one and' then another of the reporters busy at their desks. Eventually her gaze came to rest on Bob Marshall, and ihougli his head was bent over his work, and she could not see his face, she knew that ho was young and new to the office. "Well, Frank, what about that young man over there?" The editor looked up with a snort and followed the direction of her pointing finger. "Him?" Smith.son grinned up at-' Myra. The cub reporter. Of course 'j | she could have him if she wanted, but-. the editor was sure she would get bored, with such a kid.. Still, it was none of^ his business, and as she nodded her. head, he took liis pipe from his mouth', and bellowed; "Hey, you 1" f^ I Heads w-ere lifted on all sides of the room, but Smithson beckoned to Bob and the other reporters rosuincd their work. Wondering what was wanted of him Bob rose to his feet, came over*, j to the editor's desk and stood there re-, spectfullj', glancing with ill-concealed admiration at Myra, who smiled reJ' assuringly back at him. " You got a dress suit. Marshall J% | Smithson snapped at the boy. ■ ' "No, sir," replied Bob, somcwhai. puzzled, "Then get an order from the cashier and go and rent one. And be back here dressed as quickly as you 'can." Bob hesitated, scarcely knowing what to do—puzzling over this strange com- mand. The editor waved an impatient iiand. "Don't gape like that—drat you—get moving !"_ ho barkedj "Y'es, sir," m