Motion Picture Story Magazine (Aug-Dec 1913)

42 THE MOTION PICTURE STORY MAGAZINE ''Gee! I'm goin' t' have a swell time. Me 'n' my gen'lemun fren' an' another couple's goin' t' th' theayter an' then t' Jack's — some swell, eh?" ''Well, I gotta date myself, an' he 's a swell guy, b 'lieve me ! " "Hello, Rosser, how's this for a bird?" The floorwalker held up a great, ungainly bundle, out of which, starkly, protruded forlorn drumsticks. "Y' see, my boy, he's home from school, an' we're going to celebrate." "Fine, fine!" applauded the silkclerk. He drew his thin old coat closer around him and walked on, his ungloved fingers fumbling the change in his pockets wistfully, recounting, with a vague hope. Maybe as late as this they would be cheaper — a very small one would do. Josie was an adept at stretching things. But no; the tale of his pockets left no lurking doubt — he must go home emptyhanded. Floorwalkers got thirty-five a week, but, try as one vould, twenty spread thinly over the needs and wants of five. A swing-door on the corner opened out, spilling a jovial man into the street. Under one arm he hugged a knobby bundle. Rosser eyed him with a certain resentment. Billings, manager of the basement, a bachelor, and with a turkey! Why unto him who had not should it be given? "Why, evenin', Rosser!" the big man boomed genially, prodding his arm. "Didn't see you at first. Say, what d'ye think? The best little old joke ever!" He laughed richly, brandishing his turkey before the other's hungry eyes. "Stepped into Duffy's just now and found a turkeyraffle going on — took a chance — dime —just for fun— and blamed if I didn't draw a bird." He roared at the recollection, unnoting the start Rosser gave. "I got an old aunt in the Bronx — guess I'll take him up and eat dinner in the wilderness tomorrer What? Forgot somethin'? Too bad! Well, s 'long!" Rosser trudged back thoughtfully to the swinging door, the stale beer odors and green lights. A dime — it wasn't much. Maybe A group knotted at one end of the bar about an aproned attendant, waving a turkey on high, decided him. His round face flushed with excitement as he edged nearer and drew out his dime. Some one thrust a ticket into his hand, snatching the money. The great, bronze bird, unbutchered and unreconciled to his destiny, squawked and gobbled in the barkeeper's hold. Some one was spinning a strangelooking wheel upon the counter. "Forty-nine wins!" called a hoarse voice. "Who's got number fortynine?" The clerk drew a long breath. The hand that held the bit of pasteboard trembled. Somehow, it meant a ridiculous amount to him. With the dime he could have bought some nuts and raisins. His eyes fixed — stared. He gulped, throttling a wild yell as the number on his slip leered up into his face redly. Forty-nine ! ' ' Here ! " he called weakly. His neighbors pushed him forward, and the great bird was lowered into his hands. Henry Rosser blinked, looking vaguely about him. Like an Arabian Night 's Entertainment, the men about the counter had vanished. A rude hand fell on his shoulder heavily, with the weight of Law and Order behind it. "Here, youse, come along!" The clerk turned, then staggered pitifully, his young face whitening. The burly policeman beside him chuckled aloud. "Y' aint goin' t' be kilt, bye," he laughed good-naturedly. "On'y dis here guy wot owns dis joint 's been runnin' a gamblin' game, an' youse gotter come along t' th' station-house as a witness — youse an ' y er f rien ' dere ! ' ' He pointed to the turkey squawking in Rosser 's paralyzed arms. The pale clerk took a fresh grip on his burden. "But — I got to go," he cried out wildly. "Man alive! there's Josie and the kids — and I got a cow to milk and the coal to get — I got to go!"