MILDRED ANDERSON • Richmond College Westhampton College
Vol. LIII
CHARCOAL SKETCH
LELAN: A FABLE
LOST (Play)
JUNE, 1928
Lloyd Caster
Joseph E Nettles
Eugenia Riddick
FRENCH TRANSLATION CONTEST
PIETRO (Short Story)
J.J.Scherer
CHANSON TROP VRAIE (Poem) Cuthbert Whoosis
THERE CAME A WoMAN (Play)
MISTS (Poem)
COMPROMISE (Sketch)
PASSING (Poem)
Lawrence N. Bloomberg
Catherine Branch
Lois McIntosh
Margaret Flick
GOING STRAIGHT (Short Story)
DUSTING (Poem)
R. W. Grundy
Margaret Flick
THE MESSENGER is published every month from November to June inclusive by the students of the University of Richmond in Virginia. Contributions are welcomed from all members of the student body and from the alumni. Manuscripts not found available for publication will be returned. All business communications should be addressed to the Business Managers.
Entered as second-class matter at the postoffice at the University of Richmond, Virginia. Copyright 1927, by Wellford Taylor.
LELAN: A Fable
JOSEPH E. NETTLES
FOR days-no, surely it must have been years-I had wandered through the dark, damp, almost impenetrable forest. No leaf stirred overhead, no bird lent its melody to pierce the awful stillness of the wilderness. No sound was heard from fox or lynx, or from any living creature. The universe was clothed in silence and I was alone with my God! As I listened and heard no sound, I grew afraid, and would have turned back, but Psyche whispered, "On."
As I wandered, I noticed that my path lay ever upward. My stumbling feet dislodged boulders which rumbled down the mountain side into the valley below. A cold, clammy mist hung over me and the long, ghost-like fingers of the Spanish moss clasped about my throat. And my path lay ever upward !
At last the summit was reached. Below me the mist gleamed in the moonlight like myriads of small diamonds. I lay down at the foot of a gnarled and somber cypress, and fell asleep.
When I awoke, the sun was far up in the heavens. The mist of the night before had vanished, disclosing to my eyes a valley of such unusual beauty that I stood enraptured. Through this valley there flowed a river which wandered noiselessly between banks of willows, at last losing itself in the desert beyond.
Houses of strange and bizarre architecture were grouped in a semi-circle around a building which I recognized as the king's palace. On the portico, surrounded by his ministers and counselors, stood the ruler of the valley realm. His subjects had gathered in the square at the front of the palace and were conversing noisily, but when the king raised his hand they became silent.
"My good people," he said, "for three score years have I been your ruler and king. Your joys have been my joys; your sorrows and afflictions have been mine. As a father loves his children, so love I you.
"Like a willow leaf that floats on the river, dancing and bobbing with each ripple of the water, until at last the great desert is reached and the willow leaf is engulfed in the quicksands of oblivion, so is the life of man. Each sun that sets beneath the pine-topped mountains in the West brings me closer to that day when my sceptor shall pass into the hands of another king, when the crown which I have worn as your ruler shall adorn the head of another.
"As I look back over the years which have passed, my heart is heavy with sorrow; as I look toward the future, I am seized with misgiving and alarm! For in you-my people-I find no commendable, no praiseworthy qualities. You, who kneel at my throne, kneel also at the feet of the greater king, Ramondus ! Robbery and murder are the tributes you pay to him!"
The king paused. His subjects stood with heads bowed, remorseful and penitent. At the edge of the crowd was one somewhat taller than his fellows who stood with head erect and with a cruel and haughty smile on his face. I noticed that he wore a small, closefitting cap of black material.
The king continued :
"We have long worshipped Ramondus. And yet, he has not been friendly or gracious toward us. He has burned our homes, he has robbed us of our substance-he has killed us in the quiet of the night! Shall we longer subject ourselves to a sovereign who plots the destruction of his people?"
"Mezopher," said the king, addressing himself to one of the ministers who stood near him, a man old in years and with long and flowing white hair, "you alone have striven to live honestly and decently; you alone have remained undefiled. Tell me, is it possible for us, a sinful people, to dethrone the fiend who holds us in bondage?"
The old man spoke in a voice that carried but faintly to the mountain top on which I stood. "My lord and king," he said, "your words have grieved me-because they are true. We have worshipped at the feet of the idol, Ramondus. Blindly we have obeyed his commands. But now our eyes are opened, revealing the squalor and the filth about us-and we are ashamed !"
"This day shall we dethrone the ruthless king, Ramondus. We shall drive him forever from our kingdom ! The black and menacing cloud that casts a shadow on our valley shall run scurrying across the sky before the wrathful West wind, and we shall bathe in the sunlight!
"On the bank of the River Lelan, we shall build of bronze a statue shaped in the likeness of a beautiful woman. We will call her 'Vistor' and at her shrine shall we worship."
The old man was unable to finish his discourse, for at this point, the people united in a cry of, "We shall worship Vistor. Vistor shall be our queen and our Goddess."
The days that followed were crowned with happiness. The river, which had been silent, hummed a joyous melody as it flowed past the figure of the virgin, Vistor, and the willows swayed gracefully in the balmy breeze. The simple valley folk went about their tasks with songs on their lips, and I, who dwelt upon the mountain top, shared their happiness.
The king of the valley realm grew feebler, and at last, with a childlike smile on his face, his eyelids closed in eternal sleep. The people whom he had loved and served prepared his final couch at the feet of the fair Goddess, by the waters of the river Lelan. The crown which the king had worn was placed on the head of the saintly Mezopher.
The river ran merrily, the willows swayed in the breeze, and each morning the valley people decked with fragrant flowers the image of the Goddess and the tomb of their former king. Joy was abroad throughout the land, and I, on the mountain top, was happy. "Surely," said I, "mirth and joy shall abide in this valley forever, and its people will become as Gods."
One morning I awoke, and, looking down from my abode, I noticed that the people no longer sang, but moved about restlessly and nervously as men do who fear an unseen enemy. The sun, shining through saffron-tinted clouds, cast a sickly yellow glow on the valley.
At noon this strange disquietude had become so intense that Mezopher no longer smiled as he went about among his people. Fear seemed to grip his heart and, like a traveler lost in the forest, he wandered aimlessly.
In the east, ominous black clouds were clustered about the m ountain peaks. Jagged streaks of lightning darted incessantly from crest to crest of the menacing thunderheads. A faint rumbling of distant thunder could be heard which grew louder as the cloud s advanced over the valley.
The inhabitants had retired to their homes-all save Mezopher. He alone knelt in the sand before the Goddess, Vistor. His lips moved in prayer and, unmindful of the approaching storm, he petitioned the fair Virgin to save his people.
So intently he prayed, Mezopher did not notice him who stole stealthily from the willow grove that lined the bank of the river. With dagger in hand, the wretch advanced on the old man. Beneath
a small black cap, his cruel face glowed malevolently as he contemplated the destruction of his king.
As the old man, in agony of emotion, extended his arms toward the Goddess, the dagger was driven into his side. A deafening crash of thunder reverberated throughout the valley, and a forked tongue of lightning, released from the angry clouds above, shook the statue of the Goddess, Vistor ! And I, from the mountain top saw that she trembled, but did not fall!
In the intense heat, the bronze melted so that the features of the Goddess were vague and indistinct. Mezopher lay in the sands, at the feet of the molten statue, and he, in the black cap, hurried through the blinding rain to his rude dwelling.
A last awful peal of thunder shook the valley and the storm clouds, like a victorious army that hurries on to newer triumphs, vanished over the western ridge.
When the sun's rays first gleamed on the valley, the people rushed from their homes and hurried to the hut of Mezopher's murderer. And in my heart I exulted! For he would surely be torn to pieces by the mob that milled about his door-and Mezopher's death would be avenged!
The door of the hut opened and the arch-criminal faced his fellowmen, who cried in a mighty chorus: "Thantis shall be our king. Long live the king !" From his head they removed the black cap and placed there the crown which had been worn by the saintly Mezopher.
My eyes turned to the statue of the Goddess, Vistor. Three molten tears were on her cheek, and her lips were twised in a sardonic, yet half-pitying smile! Mezopher lay at her feet, in the sand, by the silent waters of the river Lelan.
LOST
EUGENIA RIDDICK
THE scene is laid in the library of the beautiful home of Mr. and Mrs. Carr. One glance at the room shows that this is a wealthy home. A deep Persian rug covers the floor completely. Rows upon rows of books line the walls from floor to ceiling. A ,big fireplace in the center back, and the mantlepiece holds a seven branched candelabra lat each end. Over the center of the mantelpiece hangs the Biddle family court of arms. A deep over-stuffed chair in right corner back has a reading lamp over it. On the left forward is a davenport with a table behind it, on which is a lamp. The center of the stage is occupied by a table, upon which are neatly arranged piles of the latest magazines. Everything is in perfect taste.
The curtain rises discovering Mason, the maid, dusting the table. She picks up a magazine and idly turns the pages, hummmg to herself.
MASON: My Gawd ! (Bringing the magazine closer to her eyes) if it ain't a picture of Mr. Ralph (reading) "Mr. Ralph Carr with one of the trophies from a recent lion hunt in Africa." The last time I seed about him he was a chasing monkeys, and now hits lions. That's the trouble with this family, always wanting one thing better than what they has. They better be satisfied, I says. (She looks a moment longer, then closes the magazine and places it back on the table, straightening the pile. The door to the right is thrown open violently and Cora, dressed in riding habit, comes in. She flings her gauntlets on the table and picks up a sports magazine. She is small and rather ·,pretty, and she looks exceedingJy hot, flopped down in the chair.)
CoRA: Rotten picture of me, this one, isn't it, Mason?
MASON: 'Deed, Miss Cora, it sure don't flatter you none.
CORA: Good picture of Zig, though. She made the course in 55 the day that picture was taken. I believe I've got my hands on a better mare, though I'm trading Zig for her.
MASON: Sure, Miss, and you're not going to give away that pretty horse! An' all the races she's won for you, too. An' I wouldn't be taking no chances on making a poor swop, Miss Cora.
CORA: You needn't be worried about that, Mason; I know horses. What would life be without taking a few chances, anyway No risk, no gain is my philosophy. That spirit of taking a chance just seems
to run in the blood, least on Dad's side. He's done pretty well with it, think I'll stick to it. Have you seen Mother this morning? Is she getting up?
MASON: No'm, Miss, I ain't seen her. Celeste says she'll be coming downstairs this afternoon for tea. Miss Biddle wanted to see you, Miss, as soon as you come in. She's been up in your Mother's room all morning.
CORA ( throwing her book on the table and picking up another) : Tell her I'm down here; I'm too tired to go upstairs. She can come down here if she wants me very bad.
MASON: Yes, Miss,, I'll tell her what you said. (Exit.)
CORA: Mason! (Mason pokes her head back in the door.) You needn't tell Aunt Margaret the last part , just the first.
MASON: Oh, yes, Miss, I understand you aright, Miss.
CoRA: Very well, Mason.
MASON: Thank you, Miss. (Exit.)
(Cora throws her legs over the arm of the chair and hums as she turns the pages of her magazine. Enter Miss Margaret Biddle from door on left. She is a young middle aged woman. She is rather pretty and very soft and sweet looking. (Cora jumps to her feet as Miss Biddle enters.)
MARGARET:Don't get up, dear. I'll sit right here. (Draws up a chair and si:ts to the right at opposite end of the table from Cora.)
CORA : How are you this morning, Aunt Margaret?
MARGARET: I'm all right, Cora; it's your mother I'm worried about. She had another spell before breakfast.
CORA ( deep concern in her voice) : No ! was it a bad one?
MARGARET:The worst she has had yet. Just when we thought she was getting so much better. The doctor said another attack like this last one and she would lose her mind. She got hold of a paper this morning and read about your father's loss in the stock market. Cora, you will have to use your influence to make your father stop speculating. He is literally driving your mother mad.
CoRA: Well, Aunt Margaret, it seems to me utterly foolish that Mother can't snap out of this and be herself. She isn't sick any more.
MARGARET:She is sick, Cora. You don't realize how a nervous breakdown can leave you. Now your mother thinks your father is going to lose all the family's wealth by speculating. If he would
only stop for just a little while until your mother can get back to normal. He can't seem to keep from meddling with the market.
CoRA: I know, Aunt Margaret, but you just can't understand; it's in the blood. (Cora has gotten up as she begins to speak and is standing by her aunt, hittmg the back of her legs with her riding crop.) It's like a tonic to us, this chance. It grips your heart and pulls it back and forth until the blood is racing through your body, putting vitality in every tip. We need it, Aunt Margaret, and Daddy can't stop. Something stronger than he is pulls him. It's in Hughie and it's in me, this strange devil. Our family doesn't drink, you know, but this thing stimulates us just as drink does other people. It gets hold of you, Aunt Margaret. (She turns and sits doicm.)
MARGARET: It's a habit, Cora, and I should think your father would have will power enough to break himself of it. You must be made to realize the seriousness of her condition. Haven't you got enough of her blood in you to realize the horror of it all. She was in a stupor when I went in this morning. Of course, she had worked herself into it, but she can't help it. When I spoke to her she turned to me and said, "Margaret, Margaret, Hugh has lost everything. Oh, my poor children, what will they do!" And then she turned her back to me and I couldn't rouse her again.
CoRA: Ah, that was so foolish, Aunt Margaret. Daddy didn't have more than a thousand in. You can't always play the winning side; that's where the fun comes in. Can't you explain to mother that we have enough money to let Daddy lose a thousand or two?
MARGARET: Your Mother is past the explaining stage, Cora. Something has got to be done right away.
CORA: What can he do, poor dear, if he has to give up the market? He has to have some hobby.
MARGARET:Couldn't he take up golf, or something like that?
CoRA: Golf! That's too tame. Gosh, there's nothing to that, one way or another. You knock a ball around and get your nose sunburned, and then what have you? Golf is an old man's way of kidding himself into thinking he's young. There's nothing in it that makes you catch your breath and loosen your collar as Daddy does when he listens to Mr. Jenkins' report. That's really living , Aunt Margaret. That's bolstering you up and giving you a new start. Haven't you even felt it when you win? New life surges through you, and you feel at peace with everyone. It's like a dope that doesn't hurt you.
MARGARET: No, I've never felt it and bes.ides it is harmful.
THE MESSENGER
Some day your father is going to have apoplexy from the frenzy he works himself into. But it's your mother that is in danger , right now. Come up and talk to her, Cora, and tell her you will talk to your father.
CORA: Wouldn't it be better for me to talk to Daddy first. He should be home in a short time.
MARGARET: Perhaps you had better. I'm going back upstairs. ( Sh,e crosses over and places her hand on Cora ' s shoulder.) Cora, dear, please try and do your best with him. It's your Mother, Cora. (Exit.)
CORA: My Mother-yes, and Daddy. If only Mother could learn to take life easily and as it comes. She hasn't any sense of humor, and that's the prime requisite for happiness, I believe. (A door is heard opening and shutting.) That you, Daddy? (Enter Mr. Carr through the door to the right. Mr. Carr is an oldish middle aged man, rather large and distinctly healthy. He is good looking, after the fashion of most American men.'s good looks; clean shaven and neat. He is extremely prosperous looking. The only discordant note in his dress is a large diamond stickpin in his tie.
CARR: Hello! How'd she go!
CoRA: Lovely, she's a perfect litle beauty, Daddy. wherever did you get that gaudy stickpin? How horrible! like Mr. Jenkins'.
Daddy, It looks
CARR: My, you're clever. Fact is, I just won it from Jenkins on a little bet we had.
CoRA: \Veil, I hope no one saw you coming through the street with that blazing headlight. It's a wonder you didn't blind the traffic cop. (She gets up and going to him plucks out the offending stickpin. He kisses her forehead as she stands in front of hi111-). Daddy, dear, give it to me. I can have a lovely dinner ring made of it, and you know Mother and Aunt Margaret would never let you wear it.
CARR: All right, take it, but ever since I was a little boy I've wanted to wear one. (He takes out a cigar and Zights it while Cora takes her diamond over to the window and looks at it in the light.) The bookie out home used to have a beautiful stickpin surrounded by tiny pearls. That was the height of my ambition in those days, to be a bookie and wear a diamond stickpin. That was before I came to New York, though. That was also before I met your Mother. I am sacrificing a great desire when I give up that pin, Cora. (Cora turns quick.ly as if this fast is all she has hea-rd.)
CoRA: Sacrificing a desire. ( As if remembering something). Daddy, Mother had another terrible spell this morning. She read the paper about the ore drop.
CARR: Cora, what can be wrong with your Mother? I lost one little thousand this morning and think of all the thousands I've won. I can't see why she should think we are going bankrupt.
CORA: I know, Daddy, we've told her over and over again how much we're worth and that the danger of losing our fortune has been over now for years and years, but she's just obsessed with the idea that we're going bankrupt. She's just been doing too much these last few years. We should never have let her taken on the presidency of the Woman's Club this term . All that traveling was too much for her and she had a nervous breakdown. But I don't see why her mind should turn on the subject of losing our money. Mother has known poverty anyway. She was poor before she married you, genteel poverty, as it were (Carr takes his cigar out of his mouth and goes over and knocks the ashes into the fireplace. Then turning.)
CARR: Yes, Cora. I'm afraid that's just it. The Biddies weren't always poor. After your grandfather died your uncle Ralph was left in charge of the property. The money was all in stocks and bonds and was easily gotten hold of. He had invested very heavily in some Western scheme and then the panic of '93 just wiped it all out. They always felt that Ralph had been rather reckless with the money. Of course, he did it all in good faith. It was just a poor speculation.
CORA: So that's why Mother is so afraid of stocks and bonds. The doctor said this morning that another shock and Mother would lose her mind.
CARR: Lose her mind? Cora, that can't be so ! Why everything's perfectly safe. I had better go talk to her. (He starts for the door on left. Cora jumps up and catches his sleeve.)
CoRA: No, no, Daddy, wait! She was in an awful condition this morning. Don 't you go in there, Daddy, there's only one thing-you will have to stop playing the market.
CARR: But, Cora, what harm am I doing? It seems hard after I have worked all these years and built up a considerable fortune with my own hands, and now the only thing I want to do I can't.
CORA: I know, Daddy, it does seem hard. But it means Mother getting well or not. Can't you keep away for just a little while? And then perhaps after Mother gets back to her old self. . . .
CARR: I see, of course, I'll have to stop. But, Cora, when I watch it all going on and see men hurry first this way, then that, and I sit still and see it all so clear until the right moment, I feel the master hand of all the trades. It's something that I know and love. I've studied all my life, and now, just as I feel myself the master I must leave it for less sure hands than mine to tamper with. (As if to himse,lf): It's hard, it's hard. (With renewed vigor): But this is selfishness. I'll see your Mother. ( Exit. All during this speech Cora has been in the chair gazing at her fat her with great admiration. She realizes that he is giving up something more than a mere hobby. The telephone rings. Mason co1,n,esin.)
MASON: The telephone for you, Miss. (Seeing Cora's face): Shall I say you are busy, Miss?
CORA ( starting up) : No, I'll come. ( She goes out the door right. The telephone is in the hall and the conversatton can be heard.)
CoRA: Hello, yes, Jim, I don't think I shall. No, I'm going to stay home this afternoon. Oh, yes. I stay home sometimes when there is a special reason. I'm celebrating something. I'll tell you when I see you. All right. Good-bye. (Cora enters right at same time her father enters left.)
CARR: You were right, Cora, that's all she needed. She's coming downstairs for lunch. Margaret is helping her dress and they are coming in here immediately. I should have seen it before, Cora, I'm a selfish brute. I hope I can control myself now. (He sits heavily in the chair. Cora goes and sits on the arm and strokes his head.)
CoRA: You are no kind of a brute, Daddy, and most decidedly not a selfish one. You are the most generous person I know and I love you more than I can tell. You are just impulsive and thoughtless, that's all. Witness your generosity. (She holds up the diamond.)
CARR: You're a little gold digger, or rather a little diamond digger. That's all you are. Here comes your Mother. ( They both get up. Enter Mrs. Carr on Margaret's arm. She is a slight fraillooking woman. Her eyes are big and wild, and she is extremely nervous. She glances nervously from side to side all the time she is on stage. Cora runs to her and catches her other arm. Mr. Carr beats up a pillow in the chair to the left of table.)
CORA: Here, Mother, you sit right over here. I'm so glad you are down stairs. It seems like old times, before you were sick.
MRS. CARR: Thank you, dear. (She sits down. They all hover around her, patting her.)
CORA: Now, are you all right? I'm staying home this afternoon to celebrate your coming down stairs.
CARR: Good! I'll stay, too. I tell you what. I won't go to the office this afternoon and, Cora, you read to us, like you used to when you were a little girl.
CORA: Well, do you want to, Mother. It won't tire you? (Cora is very anxious to p,lease her Mother. All of them are. Mrs. Carr looks rather bewildered and frightened. The telephone rings.)
MRS. CARR: I would enjoy it. I feel quite well. (Ent er Mason.)
MASON: Someone wants Mr. Carr on the telephone.
MR. CARR: Very well, Mason. (Exit, leaving the door open. His conversation can be heard.) Hello! Yes.
CORA: I'll go pick out a book while Daddy is talking so we will be ready. (She goes to the book shelf.) Come here, Aunt Margaret, and help me decide. ( They are interested in the book and pay no attention to Mrs. Carr. You realize that she is listening to Mr. Carr.)
CARR: No, Jenkins, I'm afraid not. (Mrs. Carr looks relieved, but still twists the tassle on arm of chair) : No . . no. . . . What's that? (Mrs. Carr stops moving her hands.) You say fifty above. Listen, Jenkins, I'll go in for five thousand. (M rs. Carr jumps to her feet, then looking wildly around she screams.)
MRS. CARR: Stop him! Stop him! All lost! (She sinks back into the chair and continues saying "lost, ,lost," in a wailing tone. Cora and Margaret run to her side. Margaret drops on her knees by the chair. Cora, grasping what has happened, runs to the hall calling) :
CoRA: Daddy, Daddy, stop.
CARR'SVorCE: What, what, oh cancel it, Jenkins. Cancel it, I said! (He slams down the receiver and runs back into the room.) Mother, mother, I've cancelled it. Can't you hear me. I've cancelled it. (He stops short.)
MRS. CARR: Lost, lost. (She continues saying this until the curtain falls. She slowly strokes her head, but her words are so low that unless special attention is called to them they are not heard. Carr looks at her, then walking to the fireplace he leans his head against the mantle. Cora and Margaret seem to be a·voiding each other's eyes.)
CURTAIN
FRENCH TRANSLATION CONTEST
The French Department announces the award of ten dollars to Miss Helen Covey for the best translation of two sonnets by de Heredia.
ANTONY AND CLEOPATRA HELEN COVEY, '28
Together they looked clown from terraced heights
On Egypt slumbering 'neath a sultry sky, On the River cleaving through its gloomy Delta, Tossing oily waves toward Babusta and Sais.
And the Roman felt against his heavy breast plateA child -like drowsiness lulling the captive soldierThe yielding and swaying to his exulting heart
Of th' enticing body his arms encircled.
Turning her face so pale in its frame of brown hair
To her lover, o'ercome with the conquering power of fragrance, She offered to him her lips and her shining eyes.
And bending over her, the fervent Emperor
Saw in her large eyes, starred with golden lights , A whole expansive sea whence galleys were fleeing.
THE RUNNER
As Delphi saw him when, with Thymos following, He raced before the stadium's shouting crowd, Thus Ladas runs yet on the base he treads With foot of bronze, slender, swifter than wind.
With arm flung out, with steady eye, trunk forward, With bronze sweat beading brow and flowing down, The athlete, one would say, has sprung from the mould
As the sculptor was casting the metal, already alive.
He quivers, vibrates with fever born of hope; His body heaves for breath while cleaving air, And strain shows forth his muscles in metal bands.
The hurtling force of racing drags him on, And springing from his appointed pedestal, He strives to attain the arena's palm and goal.
-•ooic{}§E-••-
H ONO RAB LE MENTION
BRUCE MORRISETTE
LOIS McINTOSH
TRANSLATIONS OF TWO DE HEREDIA SONNETS
Reprinted by permission from Translations from Jose-Mar i a de Heredia by Merle St. Croix Wright. Copyright, 1927, Harold Vinal, Ltd., Publishers.
ANTONY AND CLEOPATRA
Together they , from the terrace , gaze silent, far and wide , On Egypt, heavily sleeping under her stifling sky, And the River, towards Bubastis and Sais, rolling by Its fat wave through the black Delta its streams divide.
And the Roman feels, beneath his breastplate's weight of p r ide, (Captive soldier, cradled soft as infants lie,)
Faint and fall, against his heart-beat pulsing high, Her voluptuous form, strained to his aching side.
Her pale face, gleaming through the clustered clouds of her hair, Lifts to him--drunken with perfume, the senses' delight and despairThe rich lips' amorous curve and eyelids' languorous light ,
And bowed above her thus, the Emperor, spent with desire , Suddenly sees in her eyes, dilating and flecked with fire, A desolate sea where galleys speed in desperate flight.
THE RUNNER
As Delphi saw him, when-Thymos close behindGoalward, mid plaudits of the throng, adept, Runs Ladas now , from the low plinth down step ped, On foot of bronze , slim , fleeter than the wind;
Arm raised, eye fixed, the swelling chest inclined, His brow by beads of perspiration swept, As if the athlete from the mould has leapt
As the sculptor modeled, leaving Time behind
He pants and strains , as hope and fever grip
His heaving flanks , the scant air rasps his lips, The metaled muscles leap his will to meet;
By rivals fired to a resistless force , Spurning the pedestal with flying feet
To the victor's palm he flashes down the course.
ANTONY AND CLEOPATRA
LOUISE WILKINSON MORTON, '24.
This translation was not submitted for the contest, but is printed here because of its superior merits It was translated by an alumna of the University.
From the high terrace they looked down at last On Egypt sleeping under sultry skies And on the Nile that through the Delta plies Its fertile way to Sais and Bubaste.
It seemed that through the Roman's cuirass passed ( As might a captive lull an infant's cries) The sense of every yielding fall and rise Of that soft body that his arms held fast.
She turned her face, pale against dark of hair, To him held powerless in her perfume's snare And offered up her lips and eyes alight;
The Emperor bending close, with ardor bold, Saw in those large eyes starred with flecks of gold A vast sea and his galleys all in flight.
THE SIESTA
Although the following sonnet was not proposed for the translation contest, Jane Waters Beckwith, Westhampton, ' 23, sent in such a beautiful rendering of it that it is printed here.
No sound of insect or of wandering bee, The forest sleeps beneath the sun's hot sway, Wherein the thick leaves shed a dusky day And moss is sweet, in cool, green filagree.
Majestic Noonday enters, unafraid, And, on my half-closed lashes, in her flight She weaves a rosy net of furtive light Which lingers there and lies athwart the shade.
As through this veil of fire where sunlight hies There drifts a frail, rich host of butterflies Made drunk with light and perfume from the trees,
My trembling fingers seize upon each thread And, ere this filament has fled, I gather in its mesh my reveries.
PIETRO ]. ]. SCHERER
IT was not false pride that made Pietro breathe way down deep and throw his chest to the front and hold up his head as if he owned the world. Pietro did not even care about owning the world. As long as he had his little goose egg stored away and could make people laugh-that was it! Make people laugh. Unfortunate creatures who were trying to forget, old fogies with lines all over their faces, the business man who was trying to find a bit of laughter after the harshness of the office world, the little children. Pietro had long known within himself that he had been put on this drab earth to make people chuckle, especially had he been placed here to make little tots wrinkle up their faces and clap their hands together as he performed one of his hilarious antics. He liked nothing so much as he did the frequent benefit performances which he and his troupe gave at the orphan homes and crippled children's hospitals here and there in their travels. So wrapped up was he in this play at work of his, that he could have died with the lightest of hearts after seeing the little fellow with the real thin limbs squirm his misshaped body about in his rolling chair, tears of joy running down his cheeks, when Pietro miraculously changed from a runaway schoolboy to a truant officer, all in the twinkling of an eye.
On this particular evening, Pietro had not been on the stage two minutes, and five thousand voices were shaking the very roof with their roars of delight. Continuously, during the rest of the show, Pietro would be coming out to the footlights to stage a little act of his own or to introduce the next performance, and each time these same roars would threaten to shake down the giant chandelier from its resting place high up above the loftiest gallery. Pietro knew this and was justly proud, and he tried all the harder to merit this applause.
All his life Pietro had made people laugh. Always there had been trouble with teachers. Even in the high school, the principal's ruler had been a boon companion to Pietro, and after each chastising he would be seen in the midst of a group of his schoolmates, laughing at his impersonation of "Prexy." Always able to laugh himself, he had spent his life learning how to make others join him. And now, he was the headline artist in this company of entertainers. "Master of ceremonies" the program said, and the success of many a poor act was the result of his comments on the actors or the act itself. With all the silliness of the court jester he was supposed to repre-
sent, Pietro would dance out to the front of the stage and announce : "All ye here present, give ear to Pietro." Then he would lean over confidentially to the audience, "The two sisters whom I now wish to present to y ou, ladies and gentleman, have studied singing ever since they were old enough to talk. For the last five years they have been studying for grand opera. After giving them a try-out, I got their names on a co ntract, at great expense, and now bring them to you as the world's greatest black bottom dancers." And when he would come out at the end of the dance, attired a s a ballet dancer, he would whisper to the front row, "they should have whistled."
There was one act on the entire bill that Pietro treated with sincere senousness. The next to the last number was advertised as "Lado and Lado, knife throwers extraordinary." Each time, just before this act, Pietro would step out in his street clothes and explain to the audience that although this brother-sister team of Lado and Lado was wonderfully adept at knife throwing, those were real, sharp pointed knives and the least slip would mean serious injury. In closing he would beg the watchers to keep as quiet as pos sible du r ing the actual throwing.
I must describe the Lados to you , for they are quite invol v ed in the action of this particular episode in the life of Pietro, the clown. The first Lado was a child of sixteen with sparkling brown eyes and hair as black as the handles on some of her brother's knives. She was the child of the whole company , and was a particular charge of Pietro. She was alone in the bustle of show life except for her brother and the clown. He was her godfather. The second Lado was indeed an Adoni s . His body was beautiful; almost the perfect physique. And he loved his sister with all the tenderness of a father and mother. Many nights he and Pietro sat in the room at the hotel and planned for the sister's future.
The five thousand people were trying to watch the two cyclists who were circling ab out the stage , performing all manner of difficult feats. It was a ha r d thing for them to do, this tr y ing t o watch the cyclists. They were still chuckling over Pierto's last wanderings and were smiling in expectation of his next antics. How could they pay any attention to master velocipedists when the supreme artist was on the same bill. The long line of people stretching fr om t h e box office out in front had no thought of seeing th e night' s sh ow, but was muttering petitions to all the Celestial bodies from Allah to Confucius that it would be able to procure fairly respectable seats for three weeks hence. Such was the fame and popularity of Pietro. Men and women of all nationalities were waiting out there in the
street that they might arrange now to laugh in three weeks. Foreigners, who understood no word of English, would buy their tickets and on the appointed night they would jump up and down in their seats and guffaw loudly at his actions alone.
Simulantously with the flare from the orchestra, the two riders sped up center and by some miracle, it seemed, came to a sudden stop just as everyone was sure they were going to dash headlong into the musician's pit. Their hands clapping loudly, the crowd watched for the entrance of Pietro. Increased applause. The great Pietro. This was the time for him to make his little speech about the Lados, and always before he had been in everyday clothes. The crowd noticed with approval that tonight he had redonned his favorite costume, that of the court jester. This must mean that the clown was going to give them something new in the way of amusement. But not so. "Ladies and gentleman," began Pietro, "Forget for the moment my silly apparel, and allow me to say a few words about the Lados, the world's greatest knife throwers. As you may recall, this disguise of mine is that one which I usually wear in my last appearance, just after the Lado act. Tonight, due to some slight indisposition, the younger Lado will be able to appear before you for only a very short while, and as a result I will have to help Mr. Lado with his performance. Thus it is that I come before you clad as I am. I know you will all join with me in well wishes for Miss Lado. I thank you."
As Pietro ran out through one of the side doors, the Lados came on through the other. The little girl was quite pale under her makeup, and had come out only after the exercising of much will power. She felt very ill and wished to stay on the cot in her dressing room. But the good trouper instinct was too strong in her and she had made an effort to run out with her brother. It had been arranged that she should assist is one of the easiest of his tricks and then should give way to Pietro, who would finish the act in her stead, making up in fun what he lacked in skill.
The first little twist was over and Miss Lado had weakly bowed herself off stage when out came Pietro again. The audience realized that he was not familiar with this side of the show game, and helped him. But Pietro could feel that they were waiting for the one thrill of the entire evening. This always came when Lado outlined his sister on a great board with knives while she stood with her back against it. Why, thought Pietro, can I not be outlined just as well. For the success of each performance was of much concern to the clown and he was afraid his clowning would be of little value if the
breath taking act of the Lados were not carried out. It was a contrast to his foolishness , and somewhat set it off. When the appointed time came, therefore, Pietro stood with his back against the board and motioned for his friend to gather his knives. Lado shook his head. He was used to his sister in that position: it was habit when she was there. But with another standing in her place, he was afraid. He would not do it.
Of a sudden, ten thousand eyes saw what Pietro had in mind and ten thousand hands applauded vigorously. They wanted to see their clown in this strange position. There could be no danger, and perhaps he would mix fun with the thrills. There was nothing to do but carry the thing through. Lado saw this even as Pietro tried to urge him with a wave of the hand. Shaking himself, as if to throw off any weakness he might have, of muscle or brain, the thrower took his position with his knives at his feet.
The music stopped and after a long aim, longer than usual, Lado made his first toss. With a shiver, the knife stuck in the board, nestled up not an inch from Pietro's right shoulder. Another, Lado threw, and another and with the fourth he regained his confidence. The head had been completed ; the most dangerous part was over.
Maybe it was nervousness over his sister's sickness. More probably it was the laughter of the crowd who mistook Pietro's involuntary shudder, as the fourth settled against his left ear. Whatever the cause, as Lado cast the fifth, he shuddered. His "feel" told him that he had missed his mark. With a groan he collapsed. And as Pietro almost simultaneously crumpled to the stage the roars of the multitude pushed through the great fireproof doors to the crowd at the ticket window. How lucky they were to be able to see these same laugh bringing feats. Like thunder the laughter of the audience broke. Peal after peal. Never had their Pietro been so funny. They saw it all. He and his partner had arranged it with this little comic finish. Even Lacio had fallen down as if he had really hit his friend. And Pietro-never had such laughter threatened the roof. There he was, the very pain of death breaking through his attempts to bear up. Never was such realism seen on a stage. He was really dying for all the difference there could be in his face and actions and those of a dying man.
Again and again they applauded. For the fourth time the curtain rose. The orchestra, sensing that Pietro was putting over some new stunt, had taken up the funeral dirge. Mirth was riot. As the screen went up for the fifth time Pietro was smiling, and his hand
was waving slowly to the people. For ten minutes they sat and clapped, but t-hey could not bring their idol out to the footlights. Well, never mind, such acting must t~ke frightful energy. No wonder that he was too tired to come out again. But he had waved to them, that was enough.
As the great crowd filed out with many a backward look at the lowered curtain, they did not realize what they had witnessed. It was good that they could not see back stage.
Pietro was dead. What the people had taken for a perfect imitation of realism had been-realism. As the asbestos curtain had cut him off from their sight, death had taken him forever from their lives. Even as the curtain had dropped for the fifth time and Pietro had smiled-and waved-well, just as the big screen had touched the floor Pietro had died. But what a death! In his favorite costume, on the stage, and the laughter of five thousand people-his peoplesounding way off in his ears. As he died he was sorry for but one thing-his best friend had been the one who had missed the mark. But in the hazy distance he had seen them, Lado and Lado and Pietro, looking down on the stage of life wishing that they could tell the actors how to play their parts.
CHANSON TROP VRAIE
Pour que la vie soit belle
II faut ta beaute
La beaute de ton corps
Quand rien te cache;
Pour que la vie soit douce
II faut ton douceur ....
Le douceur de tes yeux
Quand tu me regardes; La beaute de ton ame
Quand tu penses a !'a mour.
Le douceur de tes levres
Quand tu me baises.
Pour que la vie soit brave II faut ta jeunesse ....
La jeunesse de ton rire
Quand rien te fait peur; La jeunesse de tes bras
Quand tu m'y en serres.
-Cuthbert Whoosis.
Editor's Note: The above poem was found in the persona l effects of the late Cuthbert Whoosis, a former contributor to this magazine. Our May issue contained an account of Mr. Whoosis' recent death
THERE CAME A WOMAN
LAWRENCEN. BLOOMBERG
RAOUL PIERRE Cast
PLACE: In the Austrian Tyrol.
TIME: Nine o'clock in the evening.
CROCKETT ANNETTE
SCENE: The drawing room of a villa. There are French doors at the rear opened enough to show the effect of moonlight on the distant mountains. On the left of the room is a fireplace with a lounge in front of iit. Directly in the center is a mahogany ,table with an easy chair nearby. Another comfortable chair is towards the right on a line with the easy chair. There is a door on the right leading out to the kitchen. Raoul M onteban is a man of perhaps thirty years. Despite his youth, his hair is slightly grey around the temples. He is attired in his dressing ,robe and has on a pair of bedroom slippers. When the scene opens, he is seated in the easy chair, reading. . . .
RAOUL (Puts down his book. Gets up nervously . . . walks across room towards mantlepiece and looks at clock) : Nine o'clock. . . . well three hours more. I wonder what it will be like. (He laughs grimly.) It doesn't matter though. Glad that I have time to finish this book . . . wouldn't have missed it for the world . . . such delicacy and charm of expression. I didn't think that Annette had the depth to write a thing like this. So close to life . . so close to . . well more particularly my own life. (Sits back comfortably to read.)
(Enter Pierre, right.)
PIERRE (fully dressed as a gentleman's valet) : Anything that you want, monsieur? I heard you tell the cook and the housekeeper to take the evening off so I thought that I'd better stay up in case that you might want something.
RAOUL: Very thoughtful of you, Pierre. Yes, come to think of it you might go down to the cellar . . . here's the key (hands him key) . . . and bring up a bottle of Bourbon . . . that is, if there's any left. If there's no Bourbon, I shall rely upon your generally good taste to fetch the best there is . . and bring two glasses.
PIERRE: Yes, monsieur. ( Starts out.)
RAOUL ( stopping him) : Pierre, what time have you?
PIERRE ( looking at his watch) : Five minutes after nme, monsieur.
(Exit Pierre, right.)
RAOUL (sits down for a second's reading. Looks at page number): Page 162 (runs through renia:inder of the book): Not so much more . . . oh ! it won't take so long to read them. (He puts down book again and gets up and goes to the open French doors and looks out.) White tipped mountains drenched with the silver of the moon, who knows what evils may lie within your benignant calm . . . your beauty. . . . Prowling beasts, pitfalls, oh, a dozen others . . . but still you are magnificent. And life flowing calmly and swiftly these six months, I, light hearted and gay, have spent a fortune on the Riviera, at Monte Carlo, and at other playgrounds of the world. I've hunted beasts in the wilds of Africa and Burma, climbed the most dangerous peaks of the Himalayas . . . and tried other things . . the most daring I could find . riding swift Arabian horses, skimming the surf at Waikiki . . but to what avail? True, they made me forget for a time . . . but the nights . as though I was haunted. God, I've something to live for, but cannot . . . and still be a gentleman of honor. ( Raoul returns quickly to his easy chair. Starts to pick up his book, but turns and looks at the clock. Breathes a sigh and resumes his reading. Enter Pierre.)
PIERRE (putting tray with bottle and glasses on it besides Raoul) : The last bottle of Bourbon, monsieur. I shall get some more from the village to mo row.
RAOUL: Never mind . . . that is er . . . er . . er I don't think that I want Bourbon any more . . . all of us need a change. (He takes up glass and turns to Pierre.) Pierre, take a glass and let us drink together.
PIERRE: But, monsieur (hesitatingly).
RAOUL: I want company tonight. . .
PIERRE: Yes, monsieur. (He pours glass for Raoul and for himself.)
RAOUL: A toast. . . .
PIERRE: Yes, monsieur.
RAOUL (raising his glass): To life ... a beautiful demoiselle with whom we remain but an instant in the space of time. . . . I've spent charming days and evenings with her and now bid a reluctant farewell with her sweetest kiss still wet upon my lips . . . love.
PIERRE ( casts a swift glance at his master. Does not catch import of Raoul's speech. Shrugs his shoulders and drains glass.) Monsieur . . . I almost forgot. When I was to the village yesterday for the supplies . . . and to get that book from the bureau de paste . . . a man asked me about your favorite horse, monsieur ... Panache . . . said that a wealthy American who lives over the next ridge saw you riding him and has been longing for him ever since. The American is very rich and will pay any price.
RAOUL: I will never sell him . . . but you take him tomorrow . . and drive the best bargain you can. . . .
PIERRE: You . . . you you are not going to sell Panache ?
RAOUL: Yes, I need . . . (aside) . . . I mean, she'll need the money.
PIERRE: What do you mean, monsieur?
RAOUL: I mean that I want you to take the horse tomorrow and sell him for the best price that you can.
PIERRE: Pardon, monsieur, ... but . . . but ... you've refused so many offers for Panache . . . why . . . why?
RAOUL: He eats too many oats and besides I think that I have need for a change all around . do as I tell you.
PIERRE: Yes, monsieur . . . ( mumbling to himself aside) but he seems so fond of him . . . when a man wants to sell his favorite horse he must be in some sort of trouble.
(Raoul picks up his book again and has gone to reading. There is a silence. Pierre is picking up the two glasses and bottle and putting them into the tray. Outside the open French doors off to the left is heard a whistle . . . as if someone is calling.)
RAOUL (jumps up) : What's that? . . . (N oti.ceably disturbed he goes over to open French doors and .looks out) : Who's there?
VorCE: Hey, what's the matter with you? . . . Can't you answer a door?
RAOUL: Come on up. (Turns to Pierre): Did you hear anyone knocking? I didn't. (Both Raoul and Pierre turn to watch the door expectantly.)
(Enter Mr. Harvey Crockett, a breezy American of about thirty years, clad in sporting attire, knickers, cap et al.)
CROCKETT:Good morning, Mr. Raoul Monte ban, I presume. (He extends his hand.) My name's Crockett ... Harvey Crockett ... New York City, U. S. A. (Raoul takes his hand and looks at him intently, then turns to thmk.) Why, I've been pounding on
your front door for fully five minutes. . . . Was just about to leave when I saw a light on the side. (He has been talking rapidly, but suddenly stops and stares at Raoul.)
RAOUL (slowly) : Your face is very familiar to me.
CROCKETT:And I'm certain that I've known you somewhere. ( They stand for a second .looking at each other . meanwhile Pierre has taken up his tray and left the room.)
CROCKETT: Lord . . . it's Frenchy. . . .
RAOUL: It's Davy! (They commence to pump each other's hand.)
CROCKETT:Never thought that I'd meet up with you again. How in the world do you happen to be in this place?
RAOUL: I think that it's up to you to tell me how you happen to be knocking at my door ... (he looks at clock) ... at nine-thirty. . . . (Passes hand over his eyes.)
CROCKETT:Thought I'd like to buy that dandy looking horse of yours . . . and didn't realize how late it was. . . .
RAOUL: But how . how . . do you happen to be here? ... near my place, I mean . . . the last time I saw you was in Burma . . . hunting for the rare boomaboo, or something of the like.
CROCKETT:Friend of my father lives over the next ridge . . . one of his partners in the exporting business. . . . He asked me to come to his place for a little rest and I've had plenty of rest until I saw that horse of yours what will you take for him?
RAOUL: Why let's not talk business just now. . . I haven't seen you for a long while . . . sit down and tell me all about yourself . . . any excitement lately?
CROCKETT(sitting down in chair to the right): Nope, not much . won three hundred and fifty thousand at The Casino last week. ...
RAOUL: That's a lot of money. .
CROCKETT: But . . I lost it all back and added another hundred thousand to the fund . . for good measure.
RAOUL: If we only knew when we had enough. . . .
CROCKETT:Oh, I don't know . it's great sport fighting back . . when you see things going against you . . . for instance, little stacks of a hundred dollars each, slipping away from you trying to keep the same countenance as when you win . . . it's a
great display of nerve to keep a stiff upper lip when the world is clambering over you . . trying to push you deeper and deeper into the mire of hopelessness
RAOUL: Yes, you are right . . . .
CROCKETT: . • . and to try and out-think the other fellow to try and recoup one's losses . . . it's fine . . . this fighting back . . much more fun than eternally winning.
RAOUL: I agree with y ou in part . . . but suppose there's no chance to fight back . . . and win . . . .
CROCKETT: But there is always a chance . . . nothing . . . ( with a grand gesture) fight against.
RAOUL: Well, what about . . . what about (Looks at dock.) there is nothing that one cannot death?
CROCKETT: But why should anyone want to fight against death? We do not know when it is liable to come . . . and why fight against it? . . . It is not an enemy . . . sometimes even a friend . . . perhaps at times a bit persi stent, taking us away from our tasks before we have a chance to complete them, but for the most part, we've finished our job and are ready to go. I fail to see why anyone should want to fight death. . . . I'm a great believer in predestination . . . what is to be, is to be. . . .
RAOUL (quietly) : But just now, you said there was nothing ... nothing that one could not fight against.
CROCKETT: Well, I'll admit that I perhaps exaggerated a little to prove my point . . . but the same holds true to a certain extent for that state of being called death.
RAOUL : And how is that?
CROCKETT: I said a moment ago that we do not kn ow when it will occur. (Raoul smiles and looks at clock . ... Crockett follows his gaze, but then goes on) with such meager information and with practically no implements. . . . I must admit that we can put up but a very weak fight in some instances . . . but then in other cases . . . for instance, the sick man who has something to live for, fights desperately, holding on to the last thread .
RAOUL (smiles) : But the condemned? a chance to fight? . perhaps they have
CROCKETT: Why certainly, indirectly. . . . Think of the long hard fought trials . . . the numerous appeals from the death sentence . . . everything is done . . . up to the last. . . .
RAOUL ( Gets up . . . knocks book he has on arm of chair to the floor) : But suppose . . . ( stoops and pie ks up book) . . . there is no one to whom you can make an appeal . . . ( becomes excited) . . . no one . . . I tell you, no one. . . . (Walks rapidly to door, leans back against sill and stares out into space.)
CROCKETT ( watches Raoul curiously . follows him half across the room . . . stops at center table . . . takes out cigarette and lights it catches sight of book that Raoul has been reading . . . picks it up and sees name of author): Annette Laverne! (Roaul turns swiftJy around.) : Where did you get this?
RAOUL (he is composed now): She sent it to me.
CROCKETT (glances through book it is made up of typed pages held together by clips.) It hasn't been published yet?
RAOUL: No ....
CROCKETT: And how did you happen to get it?
RAOUL: She sent it to me . . . to see what I thought of it at least they forwarded it to me from the office.
CROCKETT : I think she is wonderful. . . .
RAOUL: You!
CROCKETT: I've watched her closely for a few years, even though she is not especially well known . . . she's one of my favorite novelists . . my particular hobby; besides my search for excitement is French literature . . . and you know Annette Laverne?
RAOUL: Yes, I know her quite well.
CROCKETT: I like her things immensely. . . .
RAOUL: I don't usually . . . she lacks the true touch of life in her novels . . . but that doesn't keep her from being one of the finest women in the world.
CROCKETT : And this new book of hers . . . do you think the same about it as you do the others? I
RAOUL: No . . . she has finally caught a bit of real life . it is a gripping thing and most exceltently done . . . by far the best she has ever attempted. . . .
CROCKETT (offers Raoul a cigarette) : And I wonder if it would be asking you too much to let me read the manuscript when you are finished with it.
RAOUL : Why no, I don't suppose that Annette would mind especially since you are one of her most ardent admirers . . . come by for it tomorrow. . . I'll . . . I'll leave it for you.
CROCKETT: What is the story like? . . . why is it so different from her others ?
RAOUL ( looks at clock . . . murmurs ... ) There's time yet. (Turns to Crockett): Sit down, I'd like to tell you something about it (Aside) It'll be a great relief.
CROCKETT: Go ahead. . ..
RAOUL: It is a very, very strange story . . doesn't seem like life at all . . . sounds like the same old thing written for the stage or in a novel . . . roughly the thread of the story is this . . . some years ago there were two very dear friends; they had been so from childhood . . . went to college together, served their military period together . . . they were held by every bond of brotherhood known to man . . . but they did not take Fate into account . . . and as you, sir, believe in predestination, you will readily understand that it was no great coincidence that these two should fall desperately in love with the same young lady . . . a novelist with a promising future.
CROCKETT ( starts sl-ightly, but settles back) : True to life, of course . . . but nothing startling . . . .
RAOUL : and then this warm friendship turns into something akin to hate.
CROCKETT: Quite natural . .
RAOUL: • . • the young lady will give no satisfaction to either as to the one she really loves . . . the two men quarrel . . . they agree that one of them must leave . not to go away to some distant country, as there would always be the temptation to come back, but to leave . . well to leave the earth forever . . . they decide to fight a duel . . . but one of them suggests that there might be some scandal connected with a duel which would fall unduly upon the young la dy . . . he sugge sts that they draw lot s and the loser is to have six months' grace and at the end of that time he is to put a bullet through his brain ... . (Raoul talks calmly.)
CROCKETT: Interesting . . . but is it life?
RAOUL (pays no attention to Crockett's question) : . . . the men take a deck of cards; the first walks hurriedly up to the table and cuts the cards . . . it is the jack of spades . . . the other slowly runs his hands over the cards and finally turns one face up . the ace of diamonds . . . the two shake hands . . . strange as that may seem. . .
CROCKETT: Not strange at all . . . nothing to quarrel over then ....
RAOUL: The man who loses walks steadi ly out of the room . . .
he goes to see the girl whom they have quarreled over . . . . and now it seems that he acts very queerly, utters many strange words and voices queer thoughts. The girl's suspicion is thoroughly aroused, she questions and questions, until at last the man breaks clown and tells her all. .
RAOUL: • . . the girl throws herself about his neck and swears to him that he is the one that she really loves . . . .the man can stand no more . . . he rushes out of the house . . . and the next clay we find him sailing for distant shores . . . but he must write . . . he does and receives many letters in return . . . . heart rending ones begging him to relent from his purpose . . . but his doom is sealed as surely as by a judge . . . it is a question of honor. The letters from the girl seem to unnerve him . . . and finally it is necessary for his peace of mind to stop hearing from her altogether.
CROCKETT: I can understand that. . . .
RAOUL : • • . so he travels in many foreign lands and plays at many sports . . . the most daring that he can find . . . in fact, he forgets himself for a while and actually enjoys life . . . inevitably though he comes into the last month of his existence and decides that he is going to spend it alone at a little villa set high up in the mountains . . . at last he finds himself on the final night of his six months' grace. . . . (Pause.)
CROCKETT : And what happens then? . .
RAOUL: That is all the further I've read . . do you like the story?
CROCKETT : Fine for a piece of fiction . . . but not so close to life. . . . (Shrugging his shoulders.) How do you suppose she finishes it ?
RAOUL: I don't know . . . (,looks at clock) . . . if you will pardon me for this evening, I shall finish the book tonight and you can have it the first thing in the morning. . . .
CROCKETT: Why certainly . . . it's getting late anyway . . . I must be going. . . . ( Gets up and walks towards door. Turns) And I'll see you tomorrow about the horse. . . .
RAOUL: Oh, all right . . will be glad to talk with you if I can. . . . Good night.
CROCKETT: Bon soir. (Leaves.)
RAOUL: Not so close to life. ( Smiles sardonically.) . . . It all seems like a piece of fiction though . . . perhaps a dream. . . . ( Breathes a sigh and sinks into arm chair . . . picks up book and reads deeply engrossed.)
(Annette comes lightly on stage from right ... looks about the room sees Raoul and tiptoes across stage to a position behind him . . . she is a be,autiful girl of about twenty-five years, dressed in a tailored traveling suit . . . she puts her hands ov er Raoul's eyes.)
RAOUL (leaps quickly to his feet and stares . . . finally manages to stammer a few words) : You . . . you . . . here ! ( Rubs his eyes . . . . can't believe them) . . . how . . . . ?
ANNETTE (going over to him . . . taking him bewildered by the hand) : Raoul, dear . . . how have you been? I've missed you so terribly. . . .
RAOUL ( taking her by the shoulders and looking straight into her eyes): You know that you shouldn't have come here tonight. (Fiercely.)
ANNETTE: But you are glad to see me. .
RAOUL( turning abruptly from her) : Whatever you say will make no difference. . . . I have sworn.
ANNETTE: I realize that . . . but at least I can say good-bye. ( With a surprising calm.)
RAOUL ( taken back then recovering composure) : But . . . but can't you see how hard you make it. . . . ( Taken with a sudden idea.) How do you come to be here? No one but the trusted s.ecretary at my office knew where to find me. . . .
ANNETTE: You used to think me beautiful . . . and perhaps I haven't lost my powers of persuasion. . .
RAOUL: No, that is certain ... after all my secretary is only a man . . . having discovered how you came to know of my whereabouts, I might ask you how you happen to be here . . in my house . . . ?
ANNETTE: To which I might reply . . . your valet, Pierre, is also . Raoul, you used to be very gallant . . standing all this while. . . .
just a . and using your words man . really, now you keep me
RAOUL: Pardon; take this chair, won't you? (She sits in armchmr . . . Raoul rema:ins standing.) Pierre too, well, well. . . .
ANNETTE: He was pointed out to me at the village yesterday,
when he came to the post office . . . for my book I made him promise to keep perfectly silent . . . to come for me this afternoon and bring me out to your house, where I have been hiding in the kitchen ever since. . . .
RAOUL ( whose attitude has changed to one of admiration) : Is there such a thing as a woman -proof man?
RAOUL (sits down opposite Annette): You know how I love you . . . but I wish that you hadn't come here tonight . . . it makes it so hard.
ANNETTE: Let's not talk about it. . . (She looks at clock.) There is still plenty of time for a pleasant little chat before and I suppose that there is nothing that I could say that would .
RAOUL (breaking in): Nothing ....
ANNETTE: . . then let's talk . . . tell me . . . tell me all about yourself . . . what have you been doing all this while?
RAOUL: I . . . I . . had hoped to be able to finish your charming novel this evening. . . .
ANNETTE: Oh, yes, ... my book how did you like it . so far as you've read? (aside) I was afraid of that.
RAOUL: Wonderful.
ANNETTE: Of course, I owe my plot to you. . . .
RAOUL: I am indeed happy if I could have been of any service to you . . . any last service. .
ANNETTE: I hope to sell my book . . . my establishment, I'm afraid, has been terribly extravagant. . . .
RAOUL: Never mind . . . all my money goes to you . . there's some left.
ANNETTE: NO. (Protesting.)
RAOUL: I insist . . . there is no one at all dependent on me . . you must take it. . . .
ANNETTE: I could never . . . (Weakening.)
RAOUL (finally) : My entire fortune has been signed over to you . . in case of my death. . . .
ANNETTE: Oh, you dear, thank you so much . . I'll always remember you. . . .
RAOUL: Thanks.
AN~ETTE: And how far have you read . . . in my story?
THE MESSENGER
RAOUL: I've reached the place where the young man is spending his last evening on earth in the quiet recess of his small country villa . . . how did you know that?
ANNETTE: I was certain of it . . . knowing you as well as I think I do . . . but how do you suppose I finished the book ? Can you see thru to the end?
RAOUL: Yes, I've been wondering how you finished it . . if you did finish it the way that the real story is going to end . . . I don't suppose that I'll have time to complete it . . . but as long as you're here perhaps you would briefly tell me the remainder. .
ANNETTE: I should be glad to . . . but first there is a particular portion that I've always wanted to hear you read . . you read so beautifully. . . . I was thinking about you when I wrote it. . . Will you do it for me?
RAOUL: Why certainly.
ANNETTE (picks up book): Now let me see. (She runs through pages to a passage very near to the end) : Here it is. . Start at the first paragraph on the top of the left hand page. . . . (Hands him book.)
RAOUL ( clears throat) : All right . . . ( begins to read) : "The minutes of the last hour were rapidly ticking their way off into Time. . . . Henri's face was calm however . . . he was reflecting on his reception into the hereafter . . . whether there was a Heaven . . . a Hell . . . or just darkness forever. Suddenly a noise interrupted his meditations . . . he jumped to his feet in amazement . . . before him stood the girl of his dreams . . . the one he was going to die for . . . she had come to him . . . to warn him . . . to tear away the mask of deceit and treachery . . ." (Raoul breaking off from his reading) What ... what do you mean?
ANNETTE: Read . . . read . . .
RAOUL ( continues to read) : "At first Henri would not listen to her . . . but she begged and begged . . he listened . . she told him how she had discovered that his friend had marked the cards .and fixed them so that he could not lose . . . not possibly . . . that he would recall that it had been Paul who had suggested that one of them must die . . . and had placed the deck of cards on the table" . . . ( Raoul breaks off again) : I do not believe you . . you are saying this to stay me from my purpose tonight . . . I'll read no more ....
ANNETTE (imperatively) : Keep on . . I tell you
RAOUL ( reads again . . . more rapidly) : "Henri protested violently and accused her of lying to keep him from killing himself. She smiled and said that she had proof . . . a letter from Paul, written in his own hand . . . confessing his guilt and saying that he couldn't allow such a thing to prey on his conscience forever" . . . (Raoul looks at Annette.)
ANNETTE (smiling): Yes, I have the letter. . . (Takes letter from pocket) : I am glad that I can really be here to give it to you and make sure that you'll believe it. (She rises.)
RAOUL: ( Gets up and walks stupified over to Annette . . takes letter and looks at it.) His handwriting! (Sinks back into chair.) How could he have done it! ( Buries head in his hands
Annette goes over and sits on arm of his chair.)
ANNETTE (putting hand on his shoulder) : Dearest, I'm so glad that I was able to get here . . . you might not have believed my book . . . it was a desperate chance, but the only one .
RAOUL ( looking up) : How can I ever thank you?
ANNETTE: Never mind . . . but aren't you curious ?
RAOUL : I certainly am . tell me all.
ANNETTE: I discovered Georges' plot.
RAOUL: How?
ANNETTE: I suspected something of the sort from a few things that he said . . . I went about with him many nights a week . . . made desperate love to him . . . and by the way . . . he, too, is just a man. Finally in a serious mood, he broke down and confessed all to me . . . after making me solemnly swear that I would never under any condition breathe it to another soul but yourself . . . then he wrote this letter as proof on the oath that I would never let it out of my hands . . and now I was confronted with another problem . . . I did not know where you were . . . your secretary was a very manly man for a while . . I could get absolutely nothing out of him. . . . I could not send you George's letter because of my oath never to let it out of my hands . . . they would forward none of my letters to you from the office because of your orders. . . I couldn't explain anything to your secretary be cause I had to keep silent. . . .
RAOUL : Why you poor girl. . . .
ANNETTE: So I finally thought of the idea of writing a book showing the whole plot and sending it to you . . . because you see your secretary did weaken a little and said that he would forward
you one of my books if I let him search the package first for any letters. . . I worked and worked . . . stuck the typed pages together and sent it off post haste . . because I knew the time was near . . . it was a desperate chance. . .
RAOUL: (It was that. . . . (Looking at clock )
ANNETTE: But the very night I sent the book . . . I had an engagement with your secretary . . . you see, I wasn't at all certain about the book . . . ( Raoul nods) . and I found out that he wasn't as bad as I thought for . . . yes . . . he was really a man . . . and here I am. . . .
RAOUL (g etting up) : You dear. . . (She gets up) . I have something to show you. . . . ( L eads her to open French doors . . . they look out) White tipped mountains drenched with the silver of the moon . . . who knows what evils may lie within your benignant calm. . . . ( Looks int ently and endearingly into Annette's eyes) ... and who cares. . . . (They embrace.)
CURTAIN
MISTS
Forsythia blooms along that winding way, Where once in violet mists of evening I walked , and was alone With only the hush of the night Before it bursts into its song Of crisp brown crickets and thin grey birds. And as I watched The million-year-old rays of light Diffused and blended into a changing color mist, I asked myself, "How do these souls of centuries back, Resting on wme star-like planet, Look upon me, Standing by a smooth-leafed lilac tree, And looking out
Over age-old violet mists of evening?"
-Catherine Branch.
COMPROMISE
Lors McINTOSH
THIS is the tale of the Dwarf who lived long ago under the shadow of the Notre Dame. But, Mesdames et Messieurs, I think that you will know him, although it was centuries ago that he dwelt there.
This Dwarf that I tell of was, of course, little and bent and a bit queer. People didn't take to him much-not even the beggars with whom he consorted. They did not like the twist to his mouth and the odd shining of his great eyes. They didn't like the silent, racking laughs that shook him when he looked on life. And then, too, they had never met his Soul.
For the Dwarf had a Soul-a stolen one to be sure, but what treasure in this life is not stolen, Mesdames et Messieurs? When the Easter world was worshipping the white magic of the soul's Renascence he, poor creature, had found his Soul. It was a bit of crystal-a lady's trinket that she would never miss. He saw it in the light of the thousand candles and he took it softly while the lady wept with joy at a new clean world.
And then the Dwarf became two people : he was the Exalted Keeper of a Lovely Crystal Soul-and he was the Dwarf. At first he tried to be in all things worthy of the Shining Soul-but even as you and I have found he learned that life was not just a neat plan to be followed. He found that people who keep their lovely souls hidden must live in two worlds-that of Things as They Are and that of Things As They Ought To Be.
So it came about that by day he was the Dwarf, and he hobbled about his shady business-a little theft here, a little murder there. By night he was the Keeper of the Crystal Soul. Hidden away under the Cathedral he would polish his Soul and croon to it of his lovely day--of the three full white clouds that had sailed up over the Cathedral; of the two new lovers who seemed really happy; of the many birds that chattered in the streets. He had looked at the Seine at high noon and some of the sparkle and flow crept into the crystal as he told of it. Finally the Exalted Keeper slept, tightly holding his Soul.
In the morning the Dwarf crept out into the World of Things as They Are-to his lying and stealing and begging. He saw the
grisliness of life-the squalor-the pettiness. bell's song and the laugh ter of children for as They Ought To Be.
But he stored up the his World of Things
And thus it is said, Mesdames et Messieurs, he lived for some time. One day he did not come up into the World of Things as They Are. And a priest found him with his Crystal Soul-he had gone too far into the World of Things As They Ought To Be.
Madame? No crisis you say? But yes-after all is not our life like that-some light, some shadow-all compromise, no decision? Always it is that, until one day we go farther in one direction than in another-and that day we call Death.
PASSING
Abo v e the murky waters, Sinister and dark with hidden horrors, Hovers the blue cloud-dappled heaven, The under-feathers of God's wings.
Autumn's daub of color, gay and glaunting, The last wave of summer ' s gaudy kerchief, Paints the surface of the deep And sinks within its thick shadows.
Aurora waved thus, smiling, Finding her glory mirrored, sinking deep Within the baser hearts of common men, T h en turned, and glided silently away.
-Margaret Flick.
GOING STRAIGHT
R. w. GRUNDY
JOE
SNOWDEN sat in an inconspicuous corner of a lower East Side dive. He was the picture of dejection, slouched in his chair with his head buried in arms resting on the table. From time to time he threw a glance around the smoke-hazed room but he saw no familiar face among the men grouped at the bar or engaged in poker games at various tables. The ever-changing personnel of the room presented the usual motley crew-welldressed salesmen, having dropped in while passing through the neighborhood; huge gorillas of men with no apparent occupation; swaggering sailors from the tramp steamers lying at the wharves along the river; and the usual run of becapped and besweatered regular customers.
After each glance at this scene Snowden drew forward the bottle resting on the table, poured himself a drink, and tossed it off. Damn! His last dollar had gone to pay for that bottle-he must make it last. The hopeless expression deepened after each succeeding look at the room and then his head would drop once more to the table. Presently, his bottle emptied, he seemed to sleep.
Two men entered the room quietly. The leader, of medium height, was marked by an ugly scar which ran from the right corner of his mouth backwards and upwards towards his right ear, thus giving one the impression of a perpetual one-sided grin . His piercing eyes were almost jet black in color and apparently missed nothing that was going on. It was easy to see that he was the brains of the two. His companion and follower was a giant in comparison. The Swede was a blonde Goliath of six feet two inches, slow of movement, strong as a bear, with his blue eyes giving promise of an angelic spirit that never materialized. He specialized in strong-arm methods and was at present acting as bodyguard for "Scarface" Jordon-that man of many bitter enemies.
They stopped just inside the swinging doors while Jordan searched the room with his eyes. Not even the most inconspicuous person there escaped his glan c e and each one was weighed and catalogued in his active brain. He headed for the
table adjoining Snowden ' s, speaking here and there to casual acquaintances. After seating themselves, they ordered a bottle from the waiter who officiously approached them and, when served, they proceeded to dispose of the liquor in a business-like manner. Neither spoke until the drinks were finished but both used their eyes to advantage. They were situated where they could talk without danger of being overheard above the din of the card games and general chatter.
"Well, Swede," began Jordan. "I guess everything is all set now. Fifty grand! Not so bad for one night's work, eh?"
He continued, "You've got your part all straight , now, haven't you? You're to go into the house with me and take care of any fu s s that may arise. There ought not to be any, though. It's sort of a funny layout. It seems that there's nobody there l but the old man who is having this money delivered there by a bank messenger just before the banks close so that he can close a deal with a cunning but ignorant old Indian who refuses to take a check for his oil well and who is leaving town before the banks reopen in the morning. Never mind how I got the information I got it, and that's enough. The old man is named Oliver and his family is all away for the hot season and he has been living at his club. The servants have been granted a vacation. His bankers are the only ones that know that the money will be at his house because he has lost faith in some of his business associates who, he suspects, are working for his downfall on Wall Street. That's the situation. Now I've arranged for us to go there separately. But be there on time! Listen closely, now, and get this straight. Meadow Street and Third Avenue at one o'clock tonight. It's the second house from the corner-you can't mis s it because it has two magnolia trees on the lawnthe only ones on that block. Hell , it ought to be a cinch. Fifty grand ours for the taking. The safe is old and should not be hard to blow. It'll be pie, I tell you , pie! Just like taking the old stick of candy from a baby."
"Yah," agreed the Swede stupidly. "Ay get you. Meadow Street and Third Avenue at one o'clock. Ay get you."
After another round of drinks they rose to depart.
Snowden raised his head enough to be able to watch them as th ey made their way to the door .
"Scarface Jordan," he muttered. "I thought so. Then the tip must be straight. He never gets them wrong. One o'clock at Meadow Street and Third Avenue -second house from the corner-two magnolia trees-tonight. Aw hell, what's the use? I'm off that stuff now."
Once more his head slumped to the table as his mind went back over the years of his life. Born in a tenement in this very neighborhood, he had been brought up in an atmosphere of crime. His father he had never known and his mother had died seven years after his birth. From then on he had taken handouts from whoever offered them and thus, with the little money earned on the street with newspapers, he had managed to keep skin and bones together. At the age of twelve he picked his first pocket. The ease with which it was accomplished surprised him and thereafter he had a fairly regular, though risky, source of income. When he was fifteen he became a lookout for the gentry who specialize in the robbing of stores and office buildings. Thus he had run the whole gamut of crime occupations, ever learning new tricks and finally deciding on the use of "soup", or nitroglycerine, as his specialty. For the better part of two years he had lived soft as a result of his aptitude at handling the dangerous explosives but there had been a rude awakening. Six years ago, it was now, he had a chance at big money. He , with his talent for successfully blowing safes, was to do the job and this same "Scarface" Jordan who had been in here just now was to act as lookout and make arrangements for the getaway. Everything went well until after they got the cash but the quick movements of the usually slow police trapped them. And then Jordan hid the money and prepared an ironclad alibi for himself while turning suspicion toward Joe. Because the evidence was not complete he had been sentenced to a comparatively short term of five years. The thought of those five years stolen from his life caused him to mutter savagely and he once more vowed vengence on Jordan.
He had been out six months now. After much reflectionand he had had a great deal. of time in which to reflect-he had decided to go straight. He had procured a job, and had lost it because someone told of his past life. The same thing happened with his second and third jobs. It wasn't so easy to go straight
-everything seemed to break against him. Five weeks now without the sign of work and his meager savings were exhausted.
Going straight! Hell, what did it get a guy anyhow? These birds who were always pleading to give the underdog a chance, what do they do when you ask 'em for a little help in the way of a job? Why, they ask you where you worked last. You tell 'em you're just out of the big house up-river and determined to go straight and then they hem and haw and end up by wishing you all the luck in the world but they "haven't an opening now . In two or three months now--", vaguely. How was a man to show them that he was sincere if he wasn't given a chance. He handn't put his hand to a crooked job since he had been out of "stir" and what was the result? Broke, of course. Take this job tonight, now. It would fill the pockets of Jordan and the Swede for months to come, and all through one night's work.
"Meadow Street and Third Avenue-second house from the corner-two magnolia trees-an old-fashioned safe-only the old man at home-" The description of the layout kept running through his mind like an endless chain. Gosh, it was a cinch. Hell, this business of going straight didn't pay. He was going to look over the situation anyhow. Having come to this decision, he rose and made his exit, never noticing the presence oi the Swede and Jordan in an entryway across the street, and walked away at a rapid pace.
"He fell for it," chortled the little man joyfully. "Well, that's that. Come on, Swede." And they also left the neighborhood.
After a walk of several miles Snowden reached his objective, Meadow Street and Third Avenue. The pretentious brownstone houses with their well-kept, "landscaped" lawns were clear evidence of the wealth and class of their owners. Snowden focussed his attention on the second house from the corner which was partly hidden from view by two huge magnolia trees. Small shrubbery ran down the edge of the lawn almost to the sidewalk aqd there were plenty of small bushes along the sides of the house and in front of the porch. The French windows opening on the porch were well-shuttered, but shutters would not offer any effectual barrier to a determined house-breaker. He noticed all this while walking slowly past the house in a leisurely manner. The job looked easy as far as getting into the house was concerned but Snowden walked back by the house several times! "
subjecting it to a close though seemingly casual scrutiny in the attempt to figure out its interior arrangement. The front room on the right, now, would be the library because there were more windows on that side. The one on the left was probably the drawing room, or "parlor," as Snowden called it. The porch ran further along the side of the house on the left side and Joe decided that the last two windows on the porch looked out from the dining room. And if he knew anything about these houses from past experience that was where the safe would be. If Jordan had gotten his tip straight it would be a cinch. He chuckled delightedly at the thought of outwitting the scarface one.
As he walked by the house a last time, fixing the lay of the land more firmly in his mind, he failed to notice the leisurely passing of a curtained touring car and so was unaware of the two pairs of eyes which watched him until the car turned the next corner. In the car a man with an ugly scar on his face turned to his companion who was at the wheel, and remarked gleefully, "Didn't I tell you, Swede? I knew he would fall for it. He just couldn't help it, broke as he was and with this chance for easy money. But we'll be there when the fireworks come off, you can bet on that."
Meanwhile Joe had hastened to more familiar haunts. From the bottom of his trunk in the back room of a third rate boarding house in the East Side he produced a drill, a jimmy, and two or three other curious looking steel tools. He fondled them thoughtfully, then rewrapped them in an oil rag and a piece of newspaper. After leaving his room he made his way to the pawn shop of Uncle Jack Roberts, whose reputation for shady dealings was well known to the police but who had never been actually caught acting as a "fence" for this section of the underworld. There, after a quarter hour of wheedling and evading dangerous questions, Joe finally managed to obtain a supply of nitroglycerine with which to attempt his job. He also borrowed a small automatic revolver and a flashlight. When he left it was a quarter of five.
"Let's see," he murmured. "Jordan and his crew will be there at one. I'll get there about 11 :30 and scout around a little to make sure that they haven't sent a lookout man ahead, then I'll go in about 12 :00. Fifty thousand .... Pretty soft .... "
He returned to his boarding house for a five hour nap. His sleep was troubled with visions of safe-blowing, prison bars, packages of bank notes which completely filled a room, and an evil-visaged, scarred man who continually passed through his dreams, always grinning meanly and saying sarcastically, "Going straight .... Going straight ", over and over again. ·
After awaking, he gathered his tools together and distributed them about his clothing in such a manner as to eliminate telltale bulges. Once more he walked the intervening miles between the East Side and Meadow Street. He arrived, according to his schedule, about 11 :30, and took up a position from which he could watch the house behind the two magnolia trees. After a tedious half hour of waiting he was convinced that the coast was clear, so he slipped unobtrusively across the street and vanished midst the shrubbery around the "second house from the corner." A few minutes later a closely watching pair saw one of the dining room shutters open slowly and noiselessly.
"Joe must have brought his jimmy," whispered Jordan to the Swede as they crouched behind a nearby hedge. The Swede nodded.
Inside the house Joe threw the beam from his flashlight around the large room. In the center was a large mahogany table upon which stood a small reading lamp. A large chanderlier hung over them. Chairs were scattered here and there along walls, enlivened by several pictures of hunting scenes. A large open fireplace occupied almost half of one side of the room and it was flanked on each side by draperies of some heavy material. Three doors opened into the room. One evidently led to the kitchen and the back of the house, another to the drawing room, and the third to the reception hall.
Joe let the light rest momentarily on each object before silently crossing to the right of the fireplace and lifting the drapery. "Nope, not here," he murmured. "The other side, then." Here luck was with him for behind the other curtain was hidden the door to a fairly large wall safe. He examined it carefully and them chuckled.
He went to work in a business-like manner. First he used the drill and soon two neat holes were ready for the "soup". After filling them with the explosive he attached a short fuse, packed rugs and draperies around the safe door, and set off the charge.
Immediately there was a muffled "Boom-m-m" that would have been inaudible to anyone in the street but which caused the house to tremble.
Joe rushed from his vantage point on the other side of the room through the smoke and litter to the safe. His searching fingers discarded several packages o.f papers before they finally came in contact with what they sought. He drew the packages forth triumphantly. Five packages of hundred dollar bank notes! And the bank put them up in bundles of one hundred notes to the package. He did a little rapid mental arithmetic. "Five hundred bills of one hundred dollars each. Fifty grand is right!" Wouldn't old Scarface be surprised when he got here? Imagining the other's discomfiture, Joe chuckled.
But what was that? He snapped off the light and grabbed his gun, meanwhile turning to face the doorway leading into the hall. Absolute silence. Silence that hurt. Then a sound of someone nervously shifting position. Silence again. Joe was scared. His heart thumped violently inside his chest. This damn stillness. If only the unknown would move ... or do something ... or say something. Fifty thousand. Well he would fight for it. With that as a start he could easily make a go of keeping straight and perhaps some day he would be able to pay it back. There came a quavering voice. "Who's there? Who's there, I say." And unconvincingly, "Speak or I'll shoot."
Joe kept deathly still. It was the old man, wakened from his sleep by the blowing of the safe door. Most likely he was scared stiff.
Suddenly there came the click of an electric light switch and the small lamp on the table flooded the room with light. Joe caught sight of white pajamas beneath a gaily colored bathrobe and pulled the trigger of his automatic. The old man dropped with a startled groan, quivered convulsively once and lay still. Snowden whirled at a sound from behind him but he was too late. Scarface Jordan and the Swede fired simultaneously from the window and the safe-cracker dropped in his tracks. Jordan ran over and seized the packages of bills from the dead man's hand, touched him contemptuously with his foot, then left hurriedly with the Swede at his heels. * * * * * * *
For several weeks the newspapers were filled with accounts of the robbery and double murder. The police were unable to
account for the killing of the ex-convict safebreaker, Joe Snowden, but the general conclusion was that his pals had doublecrossed him. Suspicion centered for a while on Jordan but again he presented an unbreakable alibi. Presently the excitement died down and interest languished.
* * * * * * *
In a small room in a second-rate hotel sat "Scarface" Jordan and his henchman, the Swede . A bottle stood on the table between them and from the looks of their flushed faces they had been imbibing freely. As usual it was Jordan who was doing the talking.
"We put it over all right, Swede. I knew we could. We'll split it forty-ten, being as I did all the thinking and planning. That all right?"
"Yah," nodded the Swede . Ten thousand was to him what a million would be to the other man.
Jordan continued maliciously, "And it's ours because of a poor sucker who took our bait and swallowed it along with the hook, line and sinker. He obligingly goes and blows the safe for us when we can't find anyone el s e to do the job and then we step up and grab the dough. Pretty slick, if I do say it myself. And he, Joe Snowden , was going straight. Yeah, he's going straight all right-straight to Hell."
Both laughed raucously .
DUSTING
Arachne lies at the heart of heaven ' s web. She spins in the West, and with a thread of gold Blue hill-lands reach to posse ss her. They grope nearer, clutching her in their twining fingers. Brushing the web away. Their blueness draws it down, Leaving only the black corner of the sky.
-Margaret Flick.
RICHMOND COLLEGE
M. S. SHOCKLEY, Editor-in-Chief
WELLFORD TAYLOR, Business Manager
ELMER POITER, Assistant Editor JOHN HARRIS WELSH, Asst. Bus. Mgr.
H. G. KINCHELOE, Assistant Editor CARROLL T. TAYLOR, Asst. Bus. Mgr.
LLOYD CASTER, Staff Artist
WESTHAMPTON COLLEGE
ELINOR PHYSIOC, Editor-in-Chief
CATHERINE BRANCH, Ass't Editor
MILDRED ANDERSON, Business Mgr.
EMERALD BRISTOW, Staff Artist
EDITORIAL
THIS is the last issue of THE MESSENGERto be published by the present staff. Accordingly we take advantage of the opportunity to play valedictorian. We shall not wax sentimental over our love for THE MESSENGER,the editorial staff, the student body, or "this grand old Christian institution." We have been a part of all of it and it has all come to be a part of us. We have spent many hours, pleasant and laborious, in our efforts to publish a magazine which would be a credit to our University. We hope that those of you who read this will think that we have succeeded. If we have not, we offer no alibis and no apologies. Only we wish that we might have done more.
The seven issues we have published during the year have contained what we believe to be the best literary efforts of our campus. We have done our best to maintain the highest literary standard of which our University is capable.
We offer our thanks to all those who have been connected with THE MESSENGER; to the Assistants, the business managers, the printers. All have done their work faithfully and well. We leave THE MESSENGERin the hands of Mr. Elmer Potter and Miss Catherine Branch. Both are eminently qualified for their positions. We wish them all success. And so adieu. . . .
University of Richmond
SUMMER SESSION
Nine Weeks---June 18 to August 17
-•o-1§{}3-, o -
F ull Semester's Credit for All Courses -
Regular College Work Planned for Degree Candidates, Pre-Medical Students, Teachers
