“This is WXL, at Port Cardinal,” said Douglas Raymond to the air, “owned
and operated by the Port Cardinal Electrical Power and Equipment
Corporation. We are broadcasting on a frequency of seven hundred and
eighty kilocycles by authority of the Federal Board of Radio
Commissioners. Please stand by!
“Good evening, radio neighbors!” he went on a moment later. “This is
Douglas Raymond announcing. We are taking and giving great pleasure this
evening in presenting an hour of chamber music by the Montezuma quartet.
“Now, friends and neighbors, I don’t believe you really care a brass
farthing who sponsors the Montezuma quartet, and the important thing is
to jump right into the mighty fine music they’re going to give us; but I
think it’s pretty decent of the Montezuma Art Fabric Company to organize
this ensemble and pay for its time on the air and all the other
incidental expenses, to say nothing of the salaries of such
distinguished artists, just so that we music lovers can have sixty
minutes of pure enjoyment.
“Like all great public benefactors, the Montezuma Art Fabric Company is
very modest and self-effacing, and I’m sure they’d like to have their
good deeds carefully hidden like a light under a bushel, but I’m going
to drag them right out in the light of day for a moment and give them
full credit.
“And I’m going to tell you, too—whether they like it or not—that the
reason they can spend so much money for art and entertainment, is that
they own and operate those big mills that are turning out rugs and
tapestries, drapery and upholstery materials, and various decorative
fabrics, after wonderful old Spanish, Mexican, and ancient Aztec
designs. If you want to see the art and craftsmanship of people whose
taste in music is so exquisite, just ask your dealer to show you the
Montezuma fabrics.
“And now! The quartet will render ‘Une Nuit à Lisbonne,’ that
fascinating barcarolle by the French genius, Charles Camille
Saint-Saëns.”
[Illustration: portrait of Dr. Alexander Hillary]
Among the vast radio audience sat Dr. Hillary, with Mrs. Tredmore, Miss
Stark, and Miss Bascom, in the Wistaria Lodge parlor.
“Extraordinary!” murmured the professor softly, while giving attentive
ear to the first strains of the music. “I dare say that’s the first time
I ever heard a very nearly perfect pronunciation of Saint-Saëns’s name
over the radio.”
“It’s a name,” whispered Miss Stark, “that I’d rather write than speak;
in matters linguistic, I’m an arrant coward.”
“Mr. Raymond pronounced other names and words with great authority and
precision, I noticed,” said Mrs. Tredmore. “And did you mark his
delivery and enunciation?”
“Perhaps that accounts for the veritable library of dictionaries and
books of reference in his room,” said Miss Bascom. “He must have spent
all his savings. There are works on elocution and public speaking,
foreign lexicons, and all manner of strange little handbooks and
things.”
“Quite commendable, really!” breathed the professor, then raised a hand
to turn his ear toward the loud-speaker, thus tactfully indicating that
he wished to give his entire attention to the music.
In the broadcasting studio of the Port Cardinal Electrical Power and
Equipment Corporation, the radio manager, sitting by the control board,
whispered hoarsely to Douglas.
“Say, Raymond, where’d you get that line o’ ballyhoo?” he inquired.
“Was it pretty bad? I took a big chance on rewriting the stuff that the
Montezuma people sent in. Their talk sounded like a pretty poor
newspaper advertisement—awful old wise-cracks! I’ve been reading up a
bit on salesmanship and advertising, and a big strong point is that you
musn’t bore the public.
“I think people must get tired of hearing the usual stuff about the
sponsors of these hours, and only a few of the big features have
specially prepared talk, or a special comedy man for their private
announcer. I ought to have consulted you, Mr. Magnus, but you weren’t
around when we got here.”
“Hm—well, the Montezuma folks can break their contract on a piece of
impudence like that, Raymond—but I must say it sounded pretty good, at
that. It’s a toss-up whether their advertising manager will be mad or
tickled to death.”
“If you can read my writing,” whispered Douglas, with an apologetic
glance at the string quartet around the “mike,” “you might give these
few notes I’ve made the once-over and tell me whether to take another
chance.”
“Huh! You must be working after hours!”
“I worked all night on this stuff,” said the new announcer.
“I suppose your intentions are good!” exclaimed Magnus dryly, “but we’re
not spending money enough on this station, Raymond, to boost any man’s
pay a thousand or so a week. This is a shoestring proposition with us.
“But go as far as you like. Big broadcasters have special writers to
dope out a line of patter for everything, but we couldn’t do that. Keep
it up, if nobody kicks, and—you might get fifty cents more a week after
the board of directors has a meeting.”
The somewhat disheartening conversation ended when Douglas rose to
announce the next number of the quartet, and the manager went out.
He was back again near the end of the hour, looking anxious.
“The New York station’s canceled the next hour,” he said. “They’ve cut
out the comedy for some important political meeting, but we don’t want
that up here. What have we got for such an emergency? We’ve got to get
prepared for these jams!”
Dora Perkins had just slipped into the room.
“Oh, let Douglas sing some songs, and I’ll play one or two numbers, Mr.
Magnus!” she proposed gleefully.
“Douglas? Who’s that? Oh, yes, you mean Raymond here. Maybe we’ll have
to. I can’t sing or speak a piece myself.”
“Let him announce ‘Signor Raimondo,’ and let it go at that. He’s got a
lot of music here that he’s used with the Orpheus boys.”
“I can’t announce myself,” objected Douglas. “I’d have to hand myself a
lot of bouquets, and I’d get so fussed that I couldn’t sing.”
“I’ll announce you!” proposed Dora joyfully.
“Huh!” grunted the manager.
“Oh, Mr. Magnus, don’t you like that?” she demanded, pouting a little
and inclining her head to one side.
“Huh! We’ll get a reputation for pulling a lot o’ queer stunts over
here.”
“Oh, Mr. Magnus, couldn’t I do the announcing—just once—if I’ll be very,
very careful and discreet—please, Mr. Magnus!”
She turned her radiant black orbs on the man, pursed her lips as though
they were puckering for a good hearty cry, and he fidgeted and grew red.
“Aw, have it your own way, this time,” he said grudgingly.
Douglas dismissed the Montezuma quartet with some subtle compliments for
their sponsors, and then it was Dora’s turn.
“Evenin’, all you folks out there!” she chirruped, affecting a slight
Southern drawl and accent. “This is Dora speaking. Dora Perkins—and I’m
just as shy and simple as my name. I’m the little girl that plays the
piano for you, you know! The great big announcer, Mr. Raymond, has been
called out of the studio, and I’m just going to have a lot of fun while
he’s away. You won’t tell on me, will you?
“You see, folks, somebody’s got to announce the next feature, and I
guess I’m pretty brave to stand up all alone before such a great big
audience, don’t you?”
“Cut it! Cut it!” wheezed Magnus. “We don’t want no dog-gone monologue,
Miss Perkins.”
Apparently Dora did not hear him.
“And now we’re going to hear a vur-ry distinguished musician and
vocalist,” she breezed on, “none other than the great Signor Raimondo;
and I know you’re all musicians, so you must know all about him. I’m too
little and shy to tell you all about how handsome he is, with his curly
hair and _great_ broad shoulders, and _great_ big chest like a bass
drum, but you just listen and you’ll hear his _great_ big baritone voice
in a minute.
“He’s going to favor us with ‘O Sole Mio,’ right from spaghetti land,
and _I’m_ goin’ to play for ’im. That’s some honor for a little girl,
don’t you think. This is little Dora speaking—Dora Perkins!
“And oh—oh—oh! I ’most forgot! This is Station WXL, Port Cardinal, owned
and operated by the Port Cardinal Electrical Power and Equipment
Corporation—broadcasting on a frequency of seven hundred and eighty
k-k-kilo—kilocycles. There! I’m all out o’ breaf. Wouldn’t it ’a’ been
per-f’ly awful if I’d forgot that?”
“That’ll be all from you, for awhile, sister!” muttered Magnus. “You’re
a bird, an’ no mistake! But the next time you get out of your cage let
me know ahead o’ time.”
Over at Wistaria Lodge on the other side of the town a hush had fallen
on the company assembled in the parlor.
It was broken by Ralph Atwood.
“Ugh—air! Air! Gimme air!” he gasped, affecting to crawl weakly toward a
window. “And cut the switch, folks, quick! She might cut loose again.
I’m going out—out into God’s great outdoors.”
“Hold on! I’m with you, Ralph,” said Ottilie Eldom, making for the door.
“If drooling Dora pipes up again, I won’t be able to go to business
tomorrow. My Lord, what are the Federal Radio Commissioners for?”
Mrs. Tredmore raised her eyebrows in disapproval. Miss Stark shrugged
her shoulders.
“I’m sorry that we have these demonstrations now and then,” whispered
Miss Bascom apologetically, “but it’s evident that Miss Perkins is not
at all popular here now.”
“I think she _was_—excessively silly,” murmured Miss Stark.
“It’s odd!” said Dr. Hillary, “but a number of equally irresponsible
persons have made their fortunes—in very large figures indeed—by
behaving just as idiotically as that before audiences.”
Signor Raimondo was singing the Italian street song.
“I’ll bet money I know that voice!” declared Hubert Quirk. “They’re
passing a ringer on us over at the works.”
“Raimondo is certainly very suggestive of Raymond,” said the professor.
“Really? I wonder!” breathed Mrs. Tredmore.
“How about it, Kitty?” asked Quirk. “Is that the boy wonder’s voice?”
“I beg your pardon,” said Kitty coldly; “I wasn’t listening at all. I’d
like to read, if you don’t mind.”
“Righto!” Quirk returned. “I can take a hint without a sock in the eye
any time.”
At the studio the manager leaned over the piano, on which Dora was
playing the accompaniment to Douglas’s song with the mechanical ease of
an expert familiar with popular music.
“He’ll do the announcing for the next song himself,” he whispered,
jerking his head toward Douglas, whose back was toward them.
“Pl-ee-ease!” crooned Dora, and flashed dangerous fireworks from the
black eyes.
“No—nothing doin’!”
With her eyes twinkling back and forth, from the music on the rack to
the surly face of the manager, she made an impudent, but bewitching,
little grimace at him; then the full red lips were pursed up suddenly
into a rosebud, suggesting this time not so much the approach of tears
as an invitation to partake of sweets.
Magnus grinned, with the half contemptuous indifference of a seasoned
man of mature years.
Being within easy reach, he extended an arm over the end of the piano
and playfully twiddled his fingers under her chin.
“Some little vamp!” he whispered.
She raised her eyebrows reprovingly.
The song ended, and Douglas turned to the pile of music beside him.
“Wonderful, Douglas!” said Dora. “There ought to be a radio grand opera
company organized around you, dear boy.”
Then:
“Pl-ee-ease, Mr. Magnus!” she implored again. “Mayn’t I—just once more?”
“Aw, go ahead!” he snarled. “I may get fired for it, but—aw, go on!”
So Dora announced all the numbers for that hour, and as she found many
ways to vary and elaborate the patter, it was necessary for the singer
to perform but five times.
The evening’s program terminated with a broadcast of organ music from
New York, and Dora waited for Douglas to sign off at eleven o’clock. She
had been sitting in the reception room downstairs, but returned to the
studio as the engineer was closing up the control board and setting
things to rights.
“I’ll put all this music away in the storeroom,” said Douglas, and
stepped out with the departing engineer.
The manager came back into the room.
“Well, you had your way, kid,” he said, grinning.
“Awfully sweet of you, Mr. Magnus,” returned Dora. “Awful sweet for such
a cross ole bear!”
“Bears like honey,” said Magnus.
She laughed softly, but glanced at him with a timid air.
“And could I talk to the folks—once in a great while—just now and then?”
she whispered.
“Say, girly, you sure have got a way with you!” he muttered, and came
over to her, reaching for her hand.
“Oh, Mr. Magnus!” she gasped.
“Oh, you kid!” he replied, and caught her round the waist.
“_Mister Magnus!_ Oh, you mustn’t! I—oh, you’re a married man, Mr.
Magnus!”
“So’s your old man!” chuckled the manager, and squeezed her tightly as
he set his lips on hers.
“Oh-o-o—Mr. Magnus!” she breathed, and grew limp, apparently about to
faint.
There were steps in the hall outside, and Magnus let her go.
She hurriedly smoothed her crumpled frock and gave a little jab at her
hat to set it straight.
“Oh, there you are, Douglas!” she exclaimed with a sigh of relief as the
young announcer reappeared. “I was just complaining to Mr. Magnus that I
was so tired of waiting for you. But I don’t like to take that long walk
in the dark alone at this time of night.”
“You might ’a’ gone home earlier,” said Magnus.
“I guess I’m awfully timid, Mr. Magnus,” she explained soberly. “I never
like to be out alone after dark, even in Port Cardinal.”
“Huh! Well, after this you’d better ring for a taxi,” he suggested
practically.