Pictures and the Picturegoer (Jan-Dec 1924)

DECEMBER 1924 Picture s and Pic hjre&oer 57 It was his Next Masterpiece that was doing it. Up and down, up and down, up and down . . . You'd have thought that if he'd kept on at that rate much longer he'd have worn a hole in the world and dropped through and had to pay his passage all the way back from Melbourne. Frowning and groaning and beating his brow . . . Up and down, up and down ... It made you miserable to watch .him. Ceven o'clock chimed — eight — nine. It wanted but three hours to Christmas itself. But Meredith would not leave off. Still he paced and beat his brow. One by one the actors and the stage hands departed. He observed not. They wished him a Merry Christmas, but he did not hear. They wished him something else, but he did not hear that either. That was the one they did not wish aloud. At last there was only the Night ^^ Watchman to say good-night and go. The Night Watchman did not stay on his job all night. Nobody was likely to pinch anything from W. W. F. Inc. Studios. I mean to say, everything there had been pinched from somebody else first. The other people didn't want 'em any longer. So the Night Watchman said " Goodnight. Merry Christmas." Meredith did not respond. He had not heard. He continued to pace up and down the floor of the empty, silent studio. Alone ! Thinking about his next, his Sixth Masterpiece. Alone ! At ten o'clock ! And then at eleven o'clock. Doesn't it make you want to read it out aloud, just so you don't get the shudders? But the puling hours were nothing to Meredith, pacing there with lus Next Masterpiece on his mind and shoulders. If he was aware of them at all, it was as ages. Yes, it seemed to him, perhaps, that ages were passing Ikfore him. Ages and agos. As long as between one Chaplin and another .... Suddenly, in a flash, almost as quickly as it used to take Joe Beckett to win/lose a thousand, it was midnight. Midnight on Christmas Eve ! And Meredith Butterdrop was there in the studio alone ! But the next minute he wasn't . . . Hark ! Hist ! What was that? jWIeredith dropped his hands from his beaten brow and spun round. There was something . . . surely, there whs something . . . what could it be? And then HE SAW ! It was there, right before his eyes ! And what a sight ! So spectral and thin and awful ! Thin? Why! the right side of its face was the left side as well. And sepulchral and rattly and — transparent ! Transparent? Why! you could see right through it. It was hollow and nasty and empty and altogether devoid. Talk about putting the wind up you ! Meredith Butterdrop stared at the visitation and then glanced round It the empty, silent studm; and he more than shuddered a bit to find himself alone ! Who — w.ho are you " he man to gasp. " What are you?" And at this the Nasty Thin and Hollow Thing raised its clammy hand aloft and said : " I am that which haunteth this studio. I am its spectre. I am I InGhost Of A Plot ! And as It uttered these words the ** hand of Meredith Butterdrop shot out and grasped Its, and the world's greatest (American) director cried gladly : "At last! At last! At last! Great! Great ! Great ! Boy, it was sure just bully of you to hike alarng right et this marment. / been lookin' for you all night . . ." It zvas there, riynt before his eyes, and what a sight ! So spectral, and thin, and awfull You could see rialit through it. Meredith Butterdrop stared at the visitation. "Who — ivho are you," he managed to gasp. "What are you?"