Radio doings (Dec 1930-Jun1932)

ROMANCE /DISTANCE The romance of far places, the illusive charm of distance, the fantastic visions of other worlds — all these stand in the offing for the radio fan with enough persistency to swing his dial into the short hours of the morning. The years when it was believed short wave was essential to the reception of stations on the other side of the world are passed. It would, of course, be stupid to suggest that distance can be Had with the same ease on long wave as short wave; on the other hand the tremendous advances in recent years in the fields of technical radio arts make it possible for the average air enthusiast to receive literally hundreds of stations on an ordinary long wave set. For the radio fan of today, the world opens wide its arms. The vagaries of the hour can be realized. Calcutta is as near as Siam; Siam is as near as the Riveria; and the Riveria is as near as the station three blocks down the street. A quintet of Geisha girls, the intriguing music of an Oriental flute player, the tattoo of a Balallaka artist, even the quixotic strains of a Southern Spanish tango obligatto are as available as the blue singer on the local pork and bean program. Those pioneers who have tossed aside the worn conventions of radio entertainment and sought new fields and by Kenneth Ormiston far away places have found that distance is but a decadent term, have found that miles, yes even hemispheres are no longer to be conjured with. Back in those lost years when it was considered a feat to get Chicago, China was merely a vague name on some lost map. The cold reaches of Siberia, and the burning sands of Algeria were places that filled the romantic minds of dreamers. But today the radio fan has these and even more than these at his beck and call. He can tune in on RFM at Khavarovsk in the Far East, with the same ease that he can get Shenandoah, Iowa. Not long ago the writer of this article dropped out to the quaint hillside home of L. J. Wright and listened in while he twisted the dials to bring to our ears the romance of other worlds. It seems incredible that the gay rhythm from the strings of guitars at station KSU in Honolulu should be coming in with the same clearness of a jazz band on a station ten miles away. While Wright's lean and delicate fingers casually played over the dials of his set he talked to me in one breath of Calgary, Tokio, Sidney, Juarez, and Paris. His conversation was interspersed with snatches of melodies from distant town stations on the outposts of civilization. As the small hours of the morning broke and the shadowy light forewarning another day sifted through the silk curtains at the window, we stood entranced in front of the myriad of dials listening to three violinists who were drawing their bows over strings a half world away. The hours rolled on and we went further and further afield in search of distant stations. Part of the time Wright used his short wave set. He would get long waves broadcasting through what he termed "harmonic effect." (Continued on Page 39 J behind the big chair, awaiting my chance to see his face or perhaps get the drop on him first. The fellow crawled through the window and came into the big room. The rays of his flashlight aided his foot steps as he walked to the center and there stood surveying the premises. He started to walk towards me and as he kept coming straight I could have leaned out and touched him as he passed. I thought I would shove my gun in his back and say "How de do," but Fate interceded. As he stepped from the drawing room his arm brushed against a pedestal on which was sitting a large glass vase of flowers. The thing toppled over and crashed to the floor. When this happened I flicked on the lights in the room and told him to throw up his hands. His back was towards me. He turned like a flash and fired at the same time. I felt the whizz of the bullet as it passed my right cheek. Then I let go my shooting rod just for fun, and I saw him fall to the floor. He fell to the floor and in a second I was on him and had kicked his gun far from his hand. It was then I pulled the little black mask from his face and saw he was but a lad still in his teens. "Cooper!" he hissed. "No," I said, "I am just a yegg." It was no time for words or exchange of further credentials. I saw I had hit him in the right chest. I knew if we left at once there was a chance of getting away. As the house set well back from the street and there were no neighbors within a hundred yards, and I was sure they could not hear the sound of the shooting, I pulled the fellow to his feet and dragged him out the window. I had left a stolen car on the street. I threw him into the back seat and drove to a small ravine on the outskirts of the town. As best I could I gave him first aid treatment and fortunately my bullet had not hit a vital spot. As we sat alone beneath the overhanging trees in the machine, slowly watching his recovery I said: "Boy, when did you get into this game." "Not long ago," he answered. "This is my third job." ' Were you ever in a jam before," I asked. "No." he answered. "You were never in a penitentiary, then, or served time in a big house?" Again he said "No," and as he turned his head to me I could see from the bright moonlight his face was bathed in tears. "Mister, I am sure sorry that I shot at you tonight," he said. "You have been mighty kind to me, and I am glad that my bullet did not get you." "That's just it, Lad," I answered. "It's kids like you that are out on the streets holding up people and robbing homes and who have proven to be the worse criminals of the day. We old timers have seen it, just like the coppers see it. It's kids like you. who have never seen the inside of gray prison walls and watched the fellows in the death cells awaiting the time to go up the 13 steps, or sit in the chair. Yet, it's kids like you that shoot first and are sorry afterwards. "Now, Lad, I hope you get well; this is your last job. Take it from an old timer who knows the game doesn't pay, and by the way, what is your name and where are you from?" I asked. Again I seemed to touch a soft spot in his (Continued on Page 39) Page Thirty-three