Radio and television mirror (Nov 1939-Apr 1940)

OUR GAL ■ Presenting for the first time in thrilling st^ form, radio's engross. ing drama of Our Gal Sunday, an orphan gjr| who thought she had found love and riches and instead became a bride without a groom I Thli i, a fictionlzatlon of the CBS •erlal, Our Gal Sunday. I DON'T like his looks," said Jackey firmly. "Sunday, you keep away from that galoot." "But—" Sunday began, and then stopped— because Arthur Brinthrope had warned her not to tell Jackey or Lively that he was going back to his home in England, and wanted her to go with him. A tiny frown of worry appeared between her violet eyes. Of course she was only eighteen, and Jackey and Lively were so much older, and they were always right— had been ever since she could rememberbut they couldn't be expected to understand how she felt about Arthur 12 "What's the matter with Bill Jenkins?" her elderly guardian grumbled now, chewing bitterly at the ragged fringe of his sandy mustache "Fine a young feller as any you'd find in the state o' Colorado " "Oh-Bill!" Sunday sighed. Bill s all right, but— but— " "But you've known him all your Me, and he lives right here in Silver Creek,' Jackey finished for her „:eP^graSS 'S always greener in the other feller's back yard Well now, I tell you, Sunday—" ' "But Jackey darling, you don't teula1tedn0W ArthUr'" SUnday expos" "Don't need to know him. I know his kind, all right. And I don't want him fussin' around you. Told him so, too, yesterday when I caught him comin' up the trail." And with this parting shot, Jackey marched out of the cabin. So that, Sunday thought, was the reason Arthur had waited for her down in the pine grove by the river, instead of coming up to the cabin — and the reason, too, why he had asked her to meet him there at sunset today. She was conscious of a brief pang of regret — a shadow on her mind, nothing more — that he hadn't defied Jackey and come to RADIO AND TELEVISION MB«»" heard Monday through Friday, sponsored by American Home Produeti. the cabin anyway. But of course it was only because he wanted to spare her any unpleasantness. Did she really want to marry him and go to England to live? It was so hard to decide! England would be lovely, of course — the great Brinthrope manor Arthur had told her about, and the gay times they had there, and Arthur himself always at her side, handsome, polished, devoted. But it would mean leaving Jackey and Lively — and worse than leaving them: running away from them. It would be just like leaving your father and mother, because, hard-bitten old miners that TOlRUARY, 1940 they were, they'd been father and mother to her since long before she could remember. The sun was out of sight already, behind the tall pines that surrounded the cabin. In a few minutes it would be touching the peak of Old Baldy, and Arthur would be at the river, waiting for her answer —an answer she didn't have. If only she didn't have to tell him right away! If only she could talk it over, sensibly, with Jackey and Lively, without running into their stubborn conviction that Arthur was a "no«ood, smooth-talkin' galoot!" ° Still undecided, she went down through the sweet-smelling woods to the grove by the river; and, as she had known he would be, Arthur was there waiting for her. At sight of him she felt a tingle of excitement. He was always so clean, so well-barbered — not at all like the Silver Creek men, who shaved only for special occasions. Not Bill, of course — but Bill would be as bad as the others, given another five years in Silver Creek. Arthur Brinthrope heard her light step and jumped down from the rock where he had been perched. "Sunday darling," he said tenderly, "I was afraid you weren't 13