PERRY REMEMBERS
Fudge had an engagement to go to the moving pictures that evening
with Perry Hull. They put on the new reels on Mondays and Fudge was a
devoted “first-nighter.” Very shortly after supper was over he picked
up a book and carelessly strolled toward the hall.
“Where are you going, William?” asked his mother.
“Over to the library,” replied Fudge, making a strong display of the
book in his hand.
“Well, don’t stay late. Haven’t you any studying to do to-night?”
“No’m, not much. I’ll do it when I come back.”
“Seems to me,” said Mrs. Shaw doubtfully, “it would be better to do
your studying first.”
“I don’t feel like studying so soon after supper,” returned Fudge
plaintively. “I won’t be gone very long――I guess.”
“Very well, dear. Close the door after you. It’s downright chilly again
to-night.”
“Yes’m.” Fudge slipped his cap to the back of his round head and
opened the side door. There he hesitated. Of course, he was going to
the library, although he didn’t especially want to, for it was many
blocks out of his way, but he meant to make his visit to that place
as short as possible in order to call for Perry and reach the theater
early enough not to miss a single feature of the evening’s program.
And he was practically telling a lie. Fudge didn’t like that. He felt
decidedly uneasy as he stood with the door knob in hand. The trouble
was that his mother didn’t look kindly on moving pictures. She didn’t
consider them harmful, but she did think them a waste of time, and was
firmly convinced that once a month was quite often enough for Fudge to
indulge his passion for that form of entertainment. Fudge had a severe
struggle out there in the hallway, and I like to think that he would
have eventually decided to make known his principal destination had not
Mrs. Shaw unfortunately interrupted his cogitations.
“William, have you gone?”
“No’m.”
“Well, don’t hold the door open, please. I feel a draft on my feet.”
“Yes’m.” Fudge slowly closed the door, with himself on the outside.
The die was cast. He tried to comfort himself with the assurance that
if his mother hadn’t spoken just when she did he would have asked
permission to go to the “movies.” It wasn’t his fault. He passed out
of the yard whistling blithely enough, but before he had reached the
corner the whistle had died away. He wished he had told the whole
truth. He was more than half inclined to go back, but it was getting
later every minute and he had to walk eight blocks to the library and
five back to the theater, and it would take him several minutes to
exchange his book, and Perry might not be ready――――
Fudge was so intent on all this that he passed the front of the Merrick
house, on the corner, without, as usual, announcing his transit with
a certain peculiar whistle common to him and his friends. He walked
hurriedly, determinedly, trying to keep his thoughts on the pleasure
in store, hoping they’d have a rattling good melodrama on the bill
to-night and would present less of the “sentimental rot” than was
their custom. But Conscience stalked at Fudge’s side, and the further
he got from home the more uncomfortable he felt in his mind; and his
thoughts refused to stay placed on the “movies.” But while he paused in
crossing G Street to let one of the big yellow cars trundle past him
a splendid idea came to him. He would telephone! There was a booth in
the library, and if he had a nickel――quick examination of his change
showed that he was possessed of eleven cents beyond the sum required to
purchase admission to the theater. With a load off his mind, he hurried
on faster than ever, ran across the library grounds with no heed to
the “Keep off the Grass” signs and simply hurtled through the swinging
green doors.
It was the work of only a minute or two to seize a book from the rack
on the counter――it happened to be a treatise on the Early Italian
Painters, but Fudge didn’t care――and make the exchange. The assistant
librarian looked somewhat surprised at Fudge’s choice, but secretly
hoped that it indicated a departure from the sensational fiction
usually selected by the boy, and passed the volume across to him at
last with an approving smile. Fudge was too impatient to see the smile,
however. The book once in his possession, he hurried to the telephone
booth in the outer hall and demanded his number. Then a perfectly good
five-cent piece dropped forever out of his possession and he heard his
mother’s voice at the other end of the line.
“This is Fudge. Say, Ma, I thought――I’m at the library, Ma, and I got
the book I wanted, and I thought, seeing it’s so early――say, Ma, may I
go to the movies for a little while?”
“You intended to go all the time, didn’t you, William?” came his
mother’s voice.
“Yes’m, but――――”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
That was something of a poser. “Well, I meant to, but――but you said not
to keep the door open and――and――――” Fudge’s voice dwindled into silence.
“Why do you tell me now?”
Gee, but she certainly could ask a lot of hard questions, he reflected.
“I thought maybe――oh, I don’t know, Ma. May I? Just for a little while?
I’m going with Perry――if you say I can.”
“I’d rather you told me in the first place, William, but telling me now
shows that you know you did wrong. You mustn’t tell lies, William, and
when you said you were going to the library――――”
“Yes’m, I know!” Fudge was shifting impatiently from one foot to the
other, his eyes fixed on the library clock, seen through an oval pane
in one of the green baize doors. “I――I’m sorry. Honest, I am. That’s
why I telephoned, Ma.”
“If I let you go to-night you won’t ask to go again next week?”
“No’m,” replied Fudge dejectedly.
“Very well, then you may go. And you needn’t leave before it’s over,
William, because if you don’t go next week you might as well see all
you can this time.”
“Yes’m! Thanks! Good-by!”
Fudge knew a short cut from Ivy Street to G Street, and that saved
nearly a minute even though it necessitated climbing a high fence and
trespassing on someone’s premises. He reached Perry’s and, to his vast
relief, found that youth awaiting him at the gate. Perry was slightly
surprised to be hailed from the direction opposite to that in which he
was looking, but joined Fudge at the corner and, in response to the
latter’s earnest and somewhat breathless appeal to “Get a move on,”
accompanied him rapidly along the next block. Just as they came into
sight of the brilliantly illumined front of the moving picture house,
eight o’clock began to sound on the City Hall bell and Fudge broke into
a run.
“Come on!” he panted. “We’ll be late!”
They weren’t, though. The orchestra was still dolefully tuning up as
they found seats. The orchestra consisted principally of a pianist,
although four other musicians were arranged lonesomely on either side.
The two boys were obliged to sit well over toward the left of the house
and when the orchestra began the overture Fudge’s gaze, attracted to
the performers, stopped interestedly at the pianist. “Say, Perry,” he
said, “they’ve got a new guy at the piano. See?”
Perry looked and nodded. Then he took a second look and frowned
puzzledly. “Who is he?” he asked.
“I don’t know. But the other fellow was short and fat. Say, I hope they
have a good melodrama, don’t you?”
“Yes, one of those Western plays, eh?” Perry’s gaze went back to
the man at the piano. There was something about him that awakened
recollection. He was a tall, broad-shouldered man of twenty-six or
-seven, with clear-cut and very good-looking features, and a luxuriant
mustache, as Perry could see when he turned to smile at one of the
violinists. He played the piano as though he thoroughly enjoyed it,
swaying a little from the hips and sometimes emphasizing with a sudden
swift bend of his head.
“He can play all around the other guy,” said Fudge in low and admiring
whispers. “Wish I could play a piano like that. I’ll bet he can ‘rag’
like anything!”
At that moment the house darkened and the program commenced with
the customary weekly review. Fudge sat through some ten minutes of
that patiently, and was only slightly bored when a rustic comedy was
unrolled before him, but when the next film developed into what he
disdainfully called “one of those mushy things,” gloom began to settle
over his spirits. He squirmed impatiently in his seat and muttered
protestingly. A sharp-faced, elderly lady next to him audibly requested
him to “sit still, for Mercy’s sake!” Fudge did the best he could and
virtue was rewarded after a while. “Royston of the Rangers,” announced
the film. Fudge sat up, devoured the cast that followed and, while the
orchestra burst into a jovial two-step, nudged Perry ecstatically.
“Here’s your Western play,” he whispered.
Perry nodded. Then the first scene swept on the screen and Fudge was
happy. It was a quickly-moving, breath-taking drama, and the hero, a
Texas Ranger, bore a charmed life if anyone ever did. He simply had to.
If he hadn’t he’d have been dead before the film had unrolled a hundred
feet! Perry enjoyed that play even more than Fudge, perhaps, for he was
still enthralled by yesterday’s dreams. There were rangers and cowboys
and Mexicans and a sheriff’s posse and many other picturesque persons,
and “battle, murder and sudden death” was the order of the day. During
a running fight between galloping rangers and a band of Mexican
desperados Fudge almost squirmed off his chair to the floor. After that
there was a really funny “comic” and that, in turn, was followed by
another melodrama which, if not as hair-raising as the first, brought
much satisfaction to Fudge. On the whole, it was a pretty good show.
Fudge acknowledged it as he and Perry wormed their way out through the
loitering audience at the end of the performance.
They discussed it as they made their way along to Castle’s Drug Store
where Perry was to treat to sodas. For Fudge at least half the fun was
found in talking the show over afterwards. He was a severe critic,
and if the manager of the theater could have heard his remarks about
the “mushy” film he might have been moved to exclude such features
thereafter. When they had had their sodas and had turned back toward
Perry’s house, Perry suddenly stood stock-still on the sidewalk and
ejaculated: “Gee, I know where I saw him!”
“Saw who?” demanded Fudge. “Come on, you chump.”
“Why, the fellow who played the piano. I’ll bet you anything he’s the
cowboy!”
“You try cold water,” said Fudge soothingly. “Just wet a towel and put
it around your head――――”
“No, listen, will you, Fudge? I want to tell you.” So Perry recounted
the odd coincidence of the preceding evening, ending with: “And I’ll
bet you anything you like that’s the same fellow who was playing the
piano there to-night. I recognized him, I tell you, only I couldn’t
think at first.”
“Well, he didn’t look like a cowboy to-night,” replied Fudge dubiously.
“Besides, what would he be doing here? This isn’t any place for
cowboys. I guess you kind of imagined that part of it. Maybe he had on
a felt hat; I don’t say he didn’t; but I guess you imagined the rest of
it. It――it’s psychological, Perry. You were thinking about cowboys and
such things and then this fellow appeared at the window and you thought
he was dressed like one.”
“No, I didn’t. I tell you I could see the handkerchief around his neck
and――and everything! I don’t say he really is a cowboy, but I know
mighty well he was dressed like one. And I know he’s the fellow we saw
playing the piano.”
“Oh, shucks, cowboys don’t play pianos, Perry. Besides, what does it
matter anyway?”
“Nothing, I suppose, only――only it’s sort of funny. I’d like to know
why he was got up like a cowboy.”
“Why don’t you ask him? Tell you what we’ll do, Perry, we’ll go up
there to-morrow after the show’s over and lay in wait for him.”
“Up to his room? I wonder if he has an office. Maybe he gives lessons,
Fudge.”
“What sort of lessons?”
“Piano lessons. Why would he have an office?”
“Search me. But we’ll find out. We’ll put ‘Young Sleuth’ on his trail.
Maybe there’s a mystery about him. I’ll drop around after practice
to-morrow and we’ll trail him down. Say, what about the Track Team?
Thought you were going to join.”
“I was. Only――oh, I got to thinking maybe I couldn’t run very fast,
after all.”
“Piffle! We’ll have another trial, then. I’ll get Gordon to hold the
watch at the start and I’ll time you at the finish. What do you say?
Want to try it to-morrow?”
“No, I’d feel like a fool,” muttered Perry. “Maybe I’ll register
to-morrow, anyway. I dare say it won’t do any harm even if I find I
can’t sprint much. What about you and putting the shot?”
“I’m going to try for it, I guess. Baseball’s no good for me. They
won’t even give me a place on the Second, I suppose. Guess I’ll talk to
Felker about it to-morrow. You’re silly if you don’t have a try at it,
Perry. You’ve got the making of a dandy sprinter; you mark my words!”
“If you’ll register for the team, I will,” said Perry.
“All right! It’s a bargain!”