Picture Play Magazine (Mar-Aug 1916)

256 The Turmoil Sheridan. "It is a relic, very badly in need of paint " "But picturesque, dad. Compared with our house, it is a genuine thing of beauty." "No accounting for tastes." The big boss shrugged his wide shoulders. "They're elegant people, the Vertreeses, ,and I'm putting one over by marrying my son into society. Ever seen Miss Mary? She's a pippin !" "I have seen her," said Bibbs slowly. "I caught a glimpse of her in her garden one morning ; and she was not out of harmony with the flowers. I — I wrote a verse about her, dad. I called her 'The Rose Maiden.' " "Good for you ! We'll have it printed on cardboard and put in a classy frame and give it to the happy couple for a wedding present. Great idea, what ?" Bibbs flushed. "No, I wrote it for my own satisfaction, dad, and I — #ell, you wouldn't understand. But I don't think either Jim or Miss Mary would care for it." "Nonsense, my boy ! I know what's what. Well, I'm some little manager — yes? Even when it comes to matchmaking. I feel so good that I think I'll promote you. Do you like work any tetter ?" "I am sorry to say I don't, dad. But I'm trying to get your point of view; trying to understand why you should devote your life to the turmoil of getting and spending." "Keep on trying, son. You'll understand by and by. . But don't overdo it. You're not very strong. Better quit for the day; I'll make it O. K. with the foreman. Now I must run off and find Roscoe." In the suite of rooms set apart for Roscoe Sheridan, there were half a dozen men waiting to interview him. His father smiled upon the group, congratulating himself that at least two of his sons appreciated the value of the almighty dollar. He pushed open the door of Roscoe's private office, expecting to find his son engaged with a caller. Roscoe was alone — alone and sitting at his desk, still wearing his overcoat and cap. His hands were thrust deep in his pockets ; snatches of a song were on his lips. A half -empty bottle on the desk told its own story. His father stared at him in horror. "Roscoe! My God!" "'Lo. dad! 'Ave a drink?" Mr. Sheridan took up the telephone and called a number. "That you, Abercrombie? For God's sake, get down here to Roscoe's office right away " Out of his chair leaped Roscoe. He clamped the receiver on the hook and strove to wrench the instrument from his father's hand. "Don't disgrace me, dad." he pleaded tearfully, one hand over the old man's shoulder, the other grasping the telephone. "I've been try in' to drown my sorrows, 's all. My wife don't love me n' more. Sibyl's a fine woman, yesshir, but as a runnin' mate I'm 'way, 'way off. She'sh taken up with Robert Lamhorn " "You're drunk !" thundered Sheridan, and pushed Roscoe back into his chair. "You don't know what you're talking about." " 'S all true, dad," muttered Roscoe, somewhat sobered. "Sibyl and Lamhorn are great pals. Only the other night I came home and found them drinkin' my Scotch. I felt like throttlin' the fellow " "Go on ! Tell me what you think happened," said Sheridan wearily. "Nothing. They filled a glass for me, and Lamhorn said : 'Here'sh to our friendship — mine and your wife's. For,' says he, 'even if Sibyl's your wife, she's not under obligation to renounce her friends.' " "I don't know what to make of your drunken babblings, Roscoe. If any one had. told me that you had let liquor en