In the studio, Douglas found it necessary to sit down while he was not
at the microphone, and the heat in his head seemed to increase. He dozed
fitfully, nodding, then waking with a nervous start and springing up.
“Gee! You ought to go along home,” said young Felix McMasters, the new
engineer at the control board. “Why don’t you let Miss Perkins take the
mike for the rest of the time, Raymond?”
“I offered to,” spoke up Dora petulantly. “But he thinks he owns that
mike; he’s afraid I’ll do something to it, I guess.”
“I’m all in, Felix,” muttered Douglas. “If I get to sleep here, please
shake me up when it’s time to talk.”
The evening wore on, and the last hour was given to the relaying of a
program from the principal station of the network.
Douglas fell into a doze that came near to stupor. Felix slumped down in
his seat at the board and wished that the hour would pass more quickly.
Dora came into the room and went over to Douglas.
“Sorry you feel so punk, old boy,” she said softly, and ran her long
fingers through his hair.
“Don’t!” he said gruffly, starting up.
“Oh, Douggie,” she protested, “don’t be so mean! Have I been cross and
nasty? Come, let’s make up, Douggie!”
The manager came in suddenly.
“Huh! Am I supposed to knock before entering?” he demanded harshly.
“What is this anyhow? Is this studio run for the purpose of petting
parties all the time, or what?”
Douglas came wide awake and turned on the man.
“Seems to me you’re butting in a good deal lately, Magnus!” he cried.
“Look here!” growled the manager. “I want to know where I get off. Has
any one been playing me for a sucker? _You_—bright eyes! What sort of a
line have you been handing me?”
The demon of mischief that lurked always behind the twinkling little
eyes of Felix McMasters became suddenly dominant. With an uncontrollable
impulse the young engineer switched on the studio microphone.
The party of boarders in the Wistaria Lodge parlor heard a jumble of
confused sounds. Evidently the static forces were getting into action to
destroy the perfect harmony of the last hour.
Then voices came sharply over the air:
“Oh, Mr. Magnus!”
“See here, you two! I’m not afraid of this man’s town—I don’t belong
here anyhow. Talk don’t hurt me! Now, I’m going to have a show-down.
Come across, Dora Dumpling! Take your choice—him or me! Make it snappy!
Do you want a puppy to play with, or a real man like me—like you said
you did?”
“Cut that, Magnus!”
“Get out o’ my way, Raymond! You’re fired anyhow! Dora’s the WXL
announcer from now on—if she’s playing straight with me.”
[Illustration: portrait of Miss Sylvia Stark]
In the parlor Miss Stark leaped up with a shrill scream.
“Oh! I heard—I plainly heard a blow!” she cried.
“Yeh. Somebody socked somebody in the beezer!” yelled Ralph Atwood
enthusiastically.
“I—I think I’m going to faint,” gasped Miss Stark.
A rattle, a series of clicks, and sweet harmonious music poured again
from the loud-speaker.
Miss Bascom got up and turned the switch.
“Really,” she said, “I’m too nervous to hear any more. I’m all upset.”
“Come on, Caddock; let’s take a little walk,” suggested Dr. Hillary
casually.
“With you, professor,” agreed Caddock, and the two hurried out with more
than their wonted briskness.
“Where’s the kid?” asked Ralph curiously, looking around the room.
“Kitty? I think she ran up to her room,” said Ottilie. “I guess she was
scared, too.”
The front door banged again.
“Who was that?” demanded Miss Bascom nervously.
“I don’t know,” said Ralph. “Somebody went out to mail a letter, I
reckon.”
Hillary and Caddock took a walk only to the street corner, and there
they hailed a taxi. They went directly to the WXL studio, and Hillary
sprang out of the cab and ran into the building and up the stairs,
closely followed by his friend.
“Gee—gosh! I’m glad you fellers have come!” cried Felix McMasters. “He’s
too heavy for me to carry downstairs. He’s a mighty sick guy, I
believe.”
“Was there a fight here, McMasters?” asked Hillary, bending quickly over
the unconscious form of Douglas Raymond on the floor.
“You can tell the cock-eyed world there was!” exulted Felix. “But this
guy’s sick; he isn’t hurt. That feller Magnus was the hurt one! Old Doug
here, he handed him a couple o’ fade-aways, and put out his lamps with a
single man’s-size wallop. Dainty Dora, she got a taxi and took Magnus
home in it. Why? Guess ’twas because he’d just promised her a job.”
“Well, well, let’s get this boy home, Caddock,” said the professor.
The three lifted the sick man carefully and bore him out and down the
stairs to the waiting cab. He resisted them for a moment, mumbling
incoherently, but lapsed into his former stupor.
As they reached the cab and the chauffeur sprang out to open the door, a
small, childish figure ran swiftly toward them out of the darkness.
“Douglas!” cried Kitty Granby piteously. “Oh, Douglas, what have they
done to you?”
* * * * *
It was a week later when the attending physician said that Douglas was
apparently out of danger. The fever was abated, and the patient rather
suddenly became rational again.
He found, as he looked about his room with surprised glances, that some
one was sitting beside the bed, lightly holding his hand.
“Why—why—hello, Kitty!” he exclaimed incredulously.
“Hello, Douglas,” she said.
“Gosh, you’re a regular saint—to come here—to me,” he murmured. “I wish
I could tell you, Kitty—I wish—”
“I think you’ve told me—just about everything, Douglas,” she said,
“while you’ve been so ill here. I think I understand, anyway.”
“I don’t suppose there’s much chance for me,” he groaned. “I’d like to
be forgiven, if you could do that for me!”
“I have done it, Douglas. I guess I’ve suffered just as much as you
have. And let’s not worry. I didn’t know you meant so much to me,
Douglas. I don’t care whether you make a lot of money or not. It really
doesn’t matter to me. I’ll—”
“Say, I guess we don’t have to worry,” he said with sudden bright
spirit. “I remember now, there was a letter that day. And I answered
it—I mailed the answer on my way to the studio—and I didn’t tell—anybody
about it, either.
“The Eastern Coast Broadcasting Company offered me three thousand a
year—to start with—to come and be a continuity writer and editor, and a
special announcer for them. I accepted it right off. It’s to begin next
month, Kitty.”
“Oh, Douglas!” she cried happily. “But that doesn’t make any difference
with me!”
“It’ll come in handy,” he said practically. “I can’t figure it out, but
they said they had been listening to my stuff on the air, and liked it.”
[Transcriber’s Note: This story appeared in Argosy, All-Story Weekly
Magazine, August 11, 1928. It is believed to be in the public domain
in the United States; copyright status may differ in other countries.]