An acute observer would have detected signs of suppressed excitement in
the general demeanor of Jimmy Martin during the progress of the early
scenes of the great spectacle in which Lolita Murphy was essaying the
leading role for the first time on any stage. He had exchanged his
customary cigarette for the solace of a particularly formidable looking
cigar which he puffed at nervously as he sat in the manager’s box with
his cap pulled down over his eyes. His whole body was tense and rigid
and though there was a look of adoration in his eyes there was something
more—a vague something that seemed to spell apprehension.
Justice compels the admission that Lolita was doing Cedar Rapids proud.
She moved through the thrilling situations of “Secret Service Sallie”
with the ease and calm assurance of a veteran and more than merited the
applause which the vast holiday audience showered on her. When the
curtain rose on the final scene—the one depicting the streets of
London—the audience, keyed up to expectant excitement by the gaudy
promises of the program—held its collective breath and Jimmy sunk his
teeth viciously into what remained of his cigar. McClintock slid into
the seat alongside of him.
“That gal of yours is sure making good,” he remarked good-naturedly. “If
she goes through to the finish as nicely she’ll find a surprise in her
envelope on Saturday night. There’s that English society dame and her
party strolling along just as if they were back in dear old London. I
had Lawrence, the assistant stage manager, go on with ’em to put ’em
wise to all the business.”
The mimic street on the stage was thronged with a motley crowd of
supernumeraries who were supposed to represent the populace of the
British metropolis out for an airing on a bank holiday. The rose-pink
sweater of the Hon. Ashley was the most conspicuous object in view. That
patrician lady bobbed in and out among the others, apparently having the
time of her life and urging her friends, with violent pantomime, to
enter into the festivities with something akin to her own enthusiasm.
Presently the audience heard a murmur pass through the crowd on the
stage and Jimmy’s acute ear detected the muffled purr of the motor on
the dirigible which was, at that moment, manoeuvering for position and
awaiting its cue two hundred feet in the air just behind the backs of
the last row of spectators. The press agent grabbed the railing in front
of him and leaned eagerly forward. He was watching the right side of the
stage.
A motor car shot out of the wings through a lane in the crowd. In it sat
Lolita Murphy in the role of queen of the American secret service! It
was plain that she was simulating great anxiety and that she was being
followed. She looked apprehensively over her shoulder and the audience
could catch excited shouts of “stop her, stop her.” A gigantic bobby
stepped directly in the path ahead of the car and drew his revolver. The
chauffeur pulled a lever and the car stopped abruptly. A man on a
motor-cycle came dashing up.
“Arrest her,” he shouted and he sprang from the saddle. “She’s a German
spy from the Wilhelm-strasse.”
Lolita looked about furtively, poised herself for just a moment and then
leaped out of the car, overturning an athletic super and making for a
doorway as the crowd broke into frenzied cries of “kill her, kill her.”
The incident had been rehearsed with the utmost regard for actuality and
as the mob surged after the suspected spy the vast throng of spectators
swayed with excitement like a field of tall grass in a breeze. Lolita
reached the safety of the doorway by almost the fraction of an inch and
disappeared. The crowd poured in after her and McClintock caught Jimmy’s
arm as he detected a vanishing flash of rose-pink.
“Damned if that English dame isn’t right in at the death,” he said
excitedly. “She’s going up on the roof.”
Jimmy didn’t reply. He was watching the top of the make-believe building
with eyes that were strained and staring. As Lolita emerged from the
hatchway and plunged forward, with a fine gesture of despair, he looked
back over his shoulder for a moment and noted that the N-24 was slowly
swinging forward and that the alert and eager face of Bobby Wilkins was
visible over the edge of the car which hung from the rear of the big
balloon.
Lolita held out appealing hands and gave voice to cries for assistance.
The crowd, in the vanguard of which was a lady in a rose-pink sweater
with cheeks that were flaming and with eyes that were dancing, swarmed
up through the opening and surrounded the suspected spy. The
supernumeraries’ voices became a blended babble of inarticulate cries
and 3467 spectators watched the developments in a tense silence.
Nearer and nearer swung the great dirigible. Lolita was now in the hands
of the mob with which she struggled fiercely. As the N-24 swung around
the corner of the roof she turned as per instructions, but Jimmy noticed
with a gasp of concern that she had turned in the wrong direction and
that she was making her way to the wrong side. She was evidently
bewildered. Bobby Wilkins was leaning out of the car with his arms
outstretched and was beseeching her to run toward the other side of the
roof. In another five seconds the dirigible would have passed on and the
spectacular finish of the big show would be ruined. McClintock swore
softly. Jimmy sat as one entranced.
Some of the supers were pushing Lolita to the other side, but she seemed
to be in a panic and struggled with them as if still acting the earlier
scene. At this juncture Jimmy noticed that a lady in a rose-pink sweater
had run to the edge of the roof just above which the dirigible was
moving, and that she was holding up her arms. His cigar dropped from his
mouth a second later when he saw Bobby Wilkins grab her outstretched
hands, swing her free of the roof and pull her into the car as the great
dirigible finally cleared the stage setting and, in quick response to
the hand of the pilot in the front car, nosed her way upward at a higher
rate of speed. The curtain fell and the repressed excitement of the
great audience found vent in tumultuous applause. The thing had happened
so quickly that there were apparently few who had noticed that the wrong
young woman had been saved from certain death by the timely arrival of
Lieut. Thurston Turner, U.S.N.
“My God, what a whale of a story,” chortled McClintock, gripping Jimmy’s
arm so fiercely that the press agent winced with pain.
“Yes, isn’t it?”, responded Jimmy dreamily as he watched the N-24
winging her way over the park and out towards the sea. The spectators
had risen from their seats and were applauding again as a big American
flag was unfurled from the rear car of the dirigible.
The balloon kept on its way toward the ocean and McClintock noticed that
it didn’t make the turn it usually did when it reached the giant roller
coaster that ran along the shore. A puzzled expression came over his
face. If he had looked at Jimmy sharply just then he would have observed
the first beginnings of a pleased smile tilting the corners of the press
agent’s mouth. A minute passed and the great yellow gas bag receded
farther and farther in the distance. McClintock stepped down and
borrowed a field glass from a spectator. He glued his eyes to it for a
few moments and then dropped his arms. His face was pale.
“His motor’s dead,” he said weakly, “and he’s drifting out to sea. The
propellor’s stopped and he’s being carried out by this land breeze.
We’ve got to do something—we’ve got to get help of some kind.”
The manager was plainly worried. He pressed the glass on Jimmy, who had
followed him out of the box, and the latter watched the clumsy balloon,
now at the mercy of the stiff breeze which had blown up, slowly but
surely disappearing in the opalescent haze which hung above the line
where sky and ocean seemed to meet. The owner of the glasses had
overheard McClintock’s remark and had passed the word to his neighbor.
In two minutes the news had spread through the great crowd and thousands
of eyes were focused on the drifting speck which presently vanished.
McClintock, pushing Jimmy before him, started for the main office and
found himself surrounded by an excited group of men and women. An
upstanding chap in a British major’s uniform who wore a cap on which was
the red velvet band of a staff officer, stepped forward.
“We’re Miss Ashley’s friends,” he said, with a touch of feeling in his
voice, “and we’ll do everything we can to assist you. She’s a bit
untamed, sir, and she shouldn’t have done that wild, foolish thing, but
she’s the best woman alive for all of that and now that she’s in danger
we’re going to help you see her out of it. Has that dirigible got a
wireless on board?”
“No,” replied the manager. “There wasn’t any need for one. Since it’s
been here it’s never been more than a mile or two away from the hangar
before.”
“That’s bad—damned bad,” responded the officer. “Of course, maybe
they’ll be able to fix the engine but we can’t take chances on that. If
you’ll let me use your telephone I’ll call up our embassy in Washington
and get them to get in touch with the Navy Department. We’ll have all
the ships in range of the Arlington station on the lookout in an hour.”
The thoroughly sobered group of pleasure seekers who had accompanied the
Hon. Betty to Jollyland two hours before, followed McClintock and Jimmy
Martin into the offices in the administration building and talked in low
voices while the major began to fuss in the telephone booth with the
long distance operator. Some of the women were weeping.
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