Screenland (Nov 1937-Apr 1938)

Bill struck a couple of new chords. He said — "What folks want and what folks get isn't always the same thing. You can't pick up blonde girl babies in a couple of hours. I did the best I could — " Katrine said — -"Oh, yeah?" And waited. After a space measured by eternity and nothing less, Bill went on. "The kid's swell," he said, "a regular soldier. Did you see him bite his lip to keep from crying when you were torturing him?" "If he's such a soldier," Katrine said indifferently, "he can stand the gaff. How soon will you make the return trip?" All at once Bill laughed. His laughter held no mirth at all. "Peter isn't going back, Big Girl," said Bill. "Know why? Because you've adopted him in front of every newspaper man and woman on the West coast. You've cracked him over the head with a bottle of champagne, so to speak, and launched him. You may hate his guts — but you've got to go through with it." Katrine walked over to the piano and stood beside Bill. He played another chord, lingeringly, before she dashed his hand aside. "You're the one that got me in this box," she said, "and you can get me out of it. See?" Bill told her — "I can't. You've hooked Peter, for better, for worse — " Katrine began to play chords herself. The effect was strangely ecclesiastical. As Peter had said, she looked like an angel in a church. "I could murder you," she said at last, "and bathe in your blood. But I see your point, Bill — the kid's got to stay. A while, at least." "Bully for you !" applauded Bill. "I knew you'd see the light." "The light be darned!" said Katrine. "You can make me keep him, but you can't make me like him . . . How'd you happen to pull such a boner, anyway?" Bill said: "Sit down, and take a drink. Yes, this is the millennium — I'm asking you to take a drink!" Katrine rang. When one of her servants came she let Bill order Brandy sodas without interference. When they each had a tall frosted cylinder, she said — "Well, spit it out. I'm waiting." Bill took a long drag from his glass. He needed it. He said : "In the first place I couldn't get a blonde baby. There weren't any blonde babies nearer than the Cradle in Evanston — and that would have taken too much time." Katrine asked, "Why didn't you go to Central Casting?" Bill said, "You're just dumb enough to think of that. Most of your trick publicity has flopped lately — you couldn't afford a big expose about a phony adoption. Xo — I wanted to make something stick. I went to this orphan home I'd heard about, and fiddled around tying red tape into a million knots — " Katrine murmured, "You would." Bill continued. "As I've already told you, there weren't any blonde babies to be had," he said, "that sort don't stay in asylums. They're as much in demand as silver fox furs on West End Avenue." Katrine took a sip and said — "Oh, yeah ?" Bill said: "Not being able to get a blonde baby girl, I went after the next best thing. And that's where Peter comes in — " Katrine murmured, "I see your point. A red headed kid with a black eye is undoubtedly the next best thing to a blonde babv . . ." Bill said savagely, "Sarcasm won't get you anywhere. I'll admit I fell for Peter, personally. I like him. He's the kind of a kid I'd want, myself. And he had a bum break, too, before he was an orphan. He had a mother who drank and a father that wouldn't come through with a ring . . . Luckily they both died, and Peter was put in a home." "Luckily for him," said Katrine, "but not for me !" Bill went on, just as if she hadn't said a word. "When the matron took me through the asylum — and it was as bare as a prison," he said, "I saw lots of kids. Some were pretty — not many — and a few were cute. But when I came to the bed where Peter slept, and saw him sitting on it in those faded blue overalls, he got under my skin . . ." Katrine asked, "Wras it the black eye that sold you?" And Bill answered briefly — "He didn't have a black eye — then . . ." * * * There was a moment of silence. Somewhere, far off, a clock chimed, but neither Bill nor Katrine bothered to count the chimes. The gardener had finished with the scattered flower bed. It looked neat and trim again, almost as if none of the radiant blossoms had been smashed. Bill sighed and said — "Some things are so darn easv to straighten out. But take this child, Peter. Shot from one tragedy to another, and nuts about you. too." Katrine said : "None of your soft soap, Bill. What gives you the idea that the boy is nuts about me ? Oh, I know you rehearsed him — that angel in church stuff was too pat to be funny, but — " Bill interrupted. "As God is my witness." he said, and there was nothing profane in the vehement expression, "I didn't rehearse him . . . Where'd I leave off, Katie? Oh, I'd got to the place where I saw the kid sitting on his bed. Well, guess what was pinned to the wall over that bed?" Katrine laughed. Her laughter was suddenly careless. "Probably a baseball mitt and a scalp from Sitting Bull's collection," she said. "What do you think I am, psychic?" Bill >aid, "What I think you are isn't the point of this discussion. The kid had half a dozen pictures of you pinned to his wall — that's what. Among them was the one with the Borzoi that you gave away when you got tired of it . . ." Katrine said, "Where'd he find the pictures ?" and Bill answered — "The Lord only knows. I guess he cut 'em out of fan magazines and newspapers, and they were pretty ratty. You could tell he'd handled 'em a lot . . . After I'd talked to the kid awhile he told me he called you mother, inside, and said his prayers to you at night. Go on, now laugh some more — " "Anything to oblige," said Katrine, and laughed long and loud. She added, "I suppose the coincidence was too much for you. I know how the Irish are." Bill said. "You ought to know — " and hesitated. "The black eye," he said at last, "maybe you ought to know the truth about that, too . . ." "Maybe I should." agreed Katrine. Bill cleared his throat. If he'd been talking to anybody else you might have thought he was embarrassed. "When we were leaving the asylum," he said, "one of the bigger boys — a tough, nasty bozo — asked where he was going, and Peter blurted out that he'd been adopted by you. The older boy laughed and said something that I won't bother to repeat, and Peter took a quick poke at him." Katrine said slowly, "He did. did he?" Bill answered, "Yes, he did — but he didn't come up to the tough kid's shoulder. Before I could get between them Peter was down on the ground, and his eye was already beginning to close. But he didn't cry or anything." Katrine yawned. "How interesting," she said. "How very interesting!" Bill said gruffly — "You're darn right it's interesting. Peter took his first licking for you before he ever saw you — in person. It probably won't be the last licking he'll take, either . . ." To Be Continued Rewards for Jane Withers come In bundles of brightly wrapped gifts. 68