Motion Picture Story Magazine (Feb 1914 - Sep 1916 (assorted issues))

A TURN OF THE CARDS 73 tremulously. 4 'Silly! As if Why, I've had everything, Jack, everything worth while. ' ' "But Nan " She bent and kist him solemnly. "Every night, dear" — she whispered shyly — ' ' every night I pray and pray that she will grow up to be as good and noble as you are." And so, for the time, his ghost of a doubt was laid. But with the slow-passing days Bill Taylor, lounging disconsolately on his long-shanked stool, beside his superior, scowled greedily at the fat, round towers of coin and sheaves of greenbacks before him and bided his time. Sometimes the rankle of a sore memory sent a shiver down his spine, and for an instant his wrists grew unpleasantly cold, as if encircled with bands of steel. At such times Bill glowered resentfully at the stooping figure next him, and chewed his heavy under lip. But there was nothing to do but to wait. And then his chance came. The telephone bell tinkled in shrill, silly treble above the scratching of the office-pens. A strange thing, a telephone ! Impersonal as the voice of Fate itself, speaking of birth, business, love, gossip and death in the same unimpassioned tone, announcing a pleasant surprise and a heart-breaking grief with equal complacence. 'F'r you, Mr. Richards." Jack wiped his pen clean and clambered down from his perch. Six hundred dollars exchanged hands thru the grated window. The clock yawned the half-hour of release, and the clerks filed out, jovial at their brief respite. Taylor alone waited — whistling a "rag" under his breath. Then Jack came back. The change in him was so marked that Taylor stared. "What's up?" he gasped. Then, leaning forward in sudden stark terror, "What you lookin' at me like that? What've you heard — spit it out, man, cant you " His voice rose quavering, needle-sharp, piercing the other's daze. "It's Nan," breathed Richards, hoarsely. He put one fumbling hand to his head. "Nan, my doll, she's — she 's hurt — my God ! there 's no train home for an hour yet ' ' The craven figure beside him slumped suddenly with a gasp of relief. The assistant teller wiped his damp forehead. "Ah — your kid — tough luck," he muttered, in obvious effort at sympathy. "Is she bad?" "I dont know." Richards' voice was monotonous. "They've sent for a surgeon, May said — Dr. Graham, of the University " Taylor whistled. "Graham!" he cried. "Man alive, but you must be a Rockefeller in disguise. That sawbones asks a thousand to look at your tongue. ' ' "Five hundred, she said." Suddenly the stricken father lurched forward, burying his greying head in his hands. The bony shoulders beneath the worn coat heaved, but he was silent in terrible soundless throes of grief. A little green blaze flickered into the watching eyes. Taylor leaned forward, touching the lax arm with cautious fingertips. "WTiat's eating you?" he whispered— "the money? I thought so." Satisfaction curved the thick lips. "Well, what you ,in' to do?" "I'll— I'll beg it— I'll borrow it " "From whom?" "Grey!" Taylor laughed contemptuously. "The president of the Battery Bank isn't handing out coin. He'd tell you to go to h — , he would." Jack Richards raised his head, laughing hysterically. "I'd go there to save Nan — my little girl — my baby— " He broke off uncertainly — "Why, what " Taylor pushed the green packet closer, until it touched the knotted hand. "Why not?" he smiled— " nobody 'd miss it. I '11 show you how to juggle the figures. Why not?" "No!" Jack Richards was on his feet, backing away. "Man alive, I'm no thief!"