A SCREAM BRINGS STARTLING RESULTS
Erik Nord was to be found anywhere and everywhere. Young, very strong,
full of the vigor of youth, he was in what was to him a strange
land—America. Little wonder, then, that an hour after he had imparted
valuable information to Petite Jeanne, Florence should have come upon him
standing near the breakwater of the lagoon.
He was looking at a ship, a battered old windjammer tied up there by the
shore.
“Stout little old boat, that!” he said to her with a friendly smile.
“Can’t help but admire her, can you?”
“Why?” Florence wondered.
“Don’t you know the story? Come on board, and I’ll tell you.”
They mounted the gangplank, then wandered across the upper deck and
descended to the deck below.
“See those!” Nord touched a ten-inch hand-hewn beam of ironwood. “Look at
those knees! All hand-hewn. Know how old this ship is? Fifty years.
“And yet—” He paused. “And yet, when Richard Byrd wanted a ship that
would carry him safely through the polar ice of the Antarctic, Roald
Amundsen, who had sailed on this ship as a boy, said: ‘She’s the one you
want.’
“They found her,” his voice was mellow, almost tender, “tied up to a dock
far north in Norway. They’d thought she was through; everyone who knew
her thought that. And yet, isn’t it magnificent! To-day she’s about the
most famous ship afloat. Byrd’s Polar Ship, they call her.
“She’s Scandinavian built,” he said proudly. “My ancestors were Norsemen.
Can you blame me for admiring this old ship?”
“No,” said Florence. “I’m glad you told me. This ship was built right,
wasn’t it?”
“Right and honest. They took their time about it, too.”
“And if we build our lives that way, right and honest, taking our time,
we’ll last, too.”
“There’s reason to hope so.” He gave forth a low chuckle.
“Shall we go up on deck and sit a while?”
“I’d love to.”
So it happened that they found themselves settled comfortably in a dark
corner watching the parade of boats pass by.
It was a warm night. The lagoon was crowded. All manner of boats were
there, speed boats and tiny motor boats, row boats, canoes, dugouts and
gondolas. For some time Florence watched in vain for a certain type of
boat. When at last her vigil was rewarded, she received a shock.
“Look!” she exclaimed, seizing Erik Nord by the arm. “Look there, at that
Dodge-Em!”
“What’s unusual about that?” He looked at her curiously.
“But see who’s riding in it!”
“A Chinaman.” Erik chuckled. “Suits their style. Goes only just so fast.
A Chink is seldom in a hurry.”
“But look who it really is—your long-eared Chinaman! The one who—”
There was not time to finish. One look and Erik Nord was away, dragging
Florence by the hand across the deck.
* * * * * * * *
Having witnessed the astonishing performance of Indian magic, Jeanne
spent an hour wandering about the Fair grounds in a sort of trance. It
was impossible to drive from her highly sensitive mind the memory of the
booming drum, squeaking flute and whirling magician. And this walking in
a trance, as we have suggested, ended in her undoing.
She had wandered, without thinking much about it, into an all but
deserted corner of the grounds, when with the suddenness of thought three
figures swooped down upon her.
“Lorena! Lorena LeMar!”
The sound of their voices warned her of danger, but too late.
“The play-boys!” Her mind registered these words, then like a ship
sinking at sea her brain went into a wild whirl.
Before she could scream or flee, they were upon her, all three of the
play-boys. A hand went over her mouth, others lifted her from the earth.
She was dropped with little ceremony onto an upholstered seat, a powerful
motor purred, and they were away.
As the car shot down the drive an observer might have noticed that a
tall, thin young man loitering near had suddenly leaped into action.
Spinning about, he dashed to the nearest waiting taxi, delivered an order
in a low tone, leaped in and went rushing away in the direction the car
had taken.
Poor little French girl! Once inside that car she found her head spinning
round with unimaginable terror. What was to happen? For a time she was
unable to think.
When at last a certain degree of composure took possession of her, the
car had passed from the Fair grounds and was speeding along the
boulevard.
“They think me Lorena LeMar,” she told herself. She shuddered afresh as
she thought how she had tricked them on that other occasion.
“They must have been furious.” Her heart sank. “Miss LeMar had been their
playmate on other occasions; then to treat them like that!
“Oh, if I get out of that I’ll—”
What would she do? That mattered very little now. What truly mattered was
the problem of her immediate conduct and ultimate escape.
“Of course,” she assured herself, “I could tell them I am not Lorena
LeMar. But would they believe it? Probably not. And if they did?”
She thought of her hopes and plans, of the movie that had inspired her,
of the young Italian actor who was dreaming dreams, and of Jensie.
“No,” she whispered, “not if I can help it.
“I know what I’ll do! I’ll play up to them. Let them think I am Miss
LeMar. They will want me to dance. Very good, I shall dance.
“They will—”
She dared think no further.
“I’ll escape,” she told herself stoutly. “I must! But how?”
Her heart sank. Too often she had read of the cruelties practiced by
these rich play-boys.
“They should not be permitted to be at large!” she told herself bitterly.
“But none of this! I must seem happy, full of spirits, gay. I must sing,
I must dance. And then—”
Before a three-story gray stone building the car came to a grinding halt.
All the curtains were drawn, but lights shone through the cracks.
“Some sort of club,” she told herself.
If it indeed was a club it was a very little frequented place. She did
not see a person beside her escort as, carrying out her well-formed plan,
she romped with them up the steps and into a rather large room where
there were numerous chairs and a rather large wood-topped table.
At the far end of the room was a broad fireplace and near it were card
tables with cards scattered over them.
“A kindergarten for rich play-boys,” Jeanne smiled to herself in spite of
her predicament.
Throwing off her dull coat, with an air of abandon she did a dozen fancy
steps across the polished floor.
“Oh, look!” exclaimed the tallest of the three play-boys. “Lorena’s a
gypsy to-night!”
Truth was, until that moment Jeanne had forgotten her gown.
“Yes!” she exclaimed in a tone of forced gaiety. “I’m a gypsy to-night.
Shall I dance my gypsy dance?”
“Yes, yes!”
“On the table!” A pair of stout arms caught her to toss her up.
Catlike, she landed on her feet. She was angry. “But I must not! I must
not be angry!” she told herself fiercely. “I must dance. Time must pass.
Surely something will happen.”
Forgetting time and place, she began the weird, wild dance of the
gypsies. That her audience was impressed she knew at once. So she
prolonged the dance.
All things must have an end. The end of the dance found her heart all
aflutter. What next?
“Bravo! Bravo!” they applauded. “That calls for refreshments.”
Taking a bottle from a concealed locker, the shortest of the trio filled
four glasses.
“Now! A toast!” He passed one glass to her. “Here’s to Lorena LeMar!
Here’s to the new picture!”
When the play-boys lifted their glasses Jeanne followed their example.
The stuff in the glass burned her lips. The glass slipped from her hand
to go crashing upon the table.
“Oh! She dropped it! Too bad! Here’s another.” There was a note of
insolence in the voice of the youth as he poured a second glass. “Here!
Drink this!”
“No, my friend!” Her voice was like thin, clear ice. “No, I will not
drink it.” No longer was she Lorena LeMar. She was Jeanne, the gypsy. In
her veins there coursed the wild, free, fighting spirit of a true
vagabond. Had she possessed a knife.... Ah, well, she had no knife.
One weapon alone she possessed, truly a woman’s weapon—a scream.
This weapon she used. Not in vain had she practiced for hours a stage
scream. When her slender voice rose shrill and high the three play-boys
became rigid as stone.
The effect of that scream was sudden and most astonishing. Some bulk
struck the door. Again; yet again. Then the lock broke and a tall, slim
youth half stepped, half fell into the room. He was followed by a taxi
driver.
Recovering from his shock, the leader of the play-boys took a step
forward. Hot words were on his lips. They were not spoken. He was met by
a heavy chair thrown with lightning-like speed by the astonishing
stranger.
Taking him in the pit of the stomach the chair hurled the play-boy
backward into his companions. Like so many tenpins they went down with a
crash.
Not a word was spoken as the tall stranger gathered Jeanne up in his
arms, marched out of the room and down the steps, deposited his burden in
the taxi, sprang in beside her, gave the driver orders, then watched the
building narrowly as they drove away.
“And I would take my oath I never saw him,” Jeanne whispered to herself.
Sinking deep among the cushions, she suddenly felt very small, very young
and quite helpless.