ROADHOUSE
There is a Magic Lantern near every American coeducational
university. Sometimes its placard reads _Paradise Pavilion_,
sometimes _The Royal Palms_, or _The Moonlight Gardens_. But usually
the wording is _The Magic Lantern_. Dancing. Refreshments.
Even though there chances to be some slight variation in this legend,
the place itself is unvaryingly the same. A plain, barn-like
structure on the outskirts of town. A "hot" orchestra, a good dance
floor, a number of tables, and a great many small booths. The menu
is composed almost exclusively of startling combinations of the
sandwich theme, and the rather dingy waiters seem to take for granted
that you will want ginger ale--as a beverage, or a vehicle.
But herein the policy of this particular Magic Lantern differed from
its fellows to so marked a degree that it might have been named
something like _The Coffee Pot_. It was generally insisted that the
ginger ale which its waiters dispensed was supposed to be for
thirst-quenching purposes only. The menu bore a line: "Kindly do not
embarrass the management by bringing intoxicating liquors to this
establishment," and the floor-man had instructions to whisper
politely but firmly in the ear of any young man who appeared to have
enlargement of the hip. Thus was kept a tolerant attitude on the
part of the University officials.
The "no drinking" edict was, of course, rather a startling position
for a roadhouse to assume--especially a collegiate roadhouse. It
seemed impossible that business could continue in the face of such
strictness. But business did. The proprietor, asked for a reason,
would point to the excellent sandwiches, the superlative floor, and
the fact that his orchestra leader had come to his establishment by
way of Paul Whiteman with stops for tutelage under Vincent Lopez and
Roger Wolfe Kahn. Sport O'Malley, however, would have given a
different answer.
Boys like Sport--whoopee-makers, the careless, riotous playboys of
the university playgrounds--aside from knowing all the newest,
smartest chatter and the freshest dance steps, customarily also know
where liquor may be obtained. And Sport O'Malley knew that despite
the advertised status of The Magic Lantern toward electrifying
beverages, those beverages were to be had by anyone who had three
dollars for a fifth of gin, or seven for a quart of whisky.
The proprietor of The Magic Lantern had seen them come--and go--these
Sport O'Malleys. Each semester, sooner or later, every type of the
whole collegiate world drifted into his place--looking for fun or for
trouble, in curiosity or boredom, or merely in search of
companionship. He liked them all from the grinds to the rowdies, and
some he even respected. Others he did not. Others--like Rudy
Bronson's friend.
Sport O'Malley knew of his rating with old Bland, and, oddly enough,
it worried him. Oddly, because it is a self-evident fact that the
Sport O'Malleys of American universities do not worry about
anything--much less the esteem of roadhouse proprietors. Their one
anxiety traditionally is maintained for those forbidding men, the
deans; their only fear that they will fail to continue to escape
official notice.
Of course they are well-known to everyone else on the campus, both
for their personalities and their aims--which are modest,
concentrated, and founded on logic. Their ambition solely is to have
fun for a few of their best years, and they pursue that desire with
the caution of a good cause. Wisely, theirs is never an active part
among the noisy, conspicuous projects of the college; for, prefacing
a distaste for labor, is the knowledge that the life of an "active"
man is only one or two years. An attempt to tarry longer in the
spotlight invariably leads to the discovery of clay feet--whereas
there is no limit save that of inclination on the time a playboy may
spend in school.
In fact, such is the usual Sport O'Malley's aptitude for glittering
the social life of the institution, his stay is encouraged. No foes
are bred among office-seekers to complain about the length of his
record; no attention is focused by having rival coaches wail "That
guy just _can't_ be eligible again this year!" He avoids the dating
evidence of program committees, centers his escapades far enough from
the campus to escape unwanted official attention, and semester after
semester glides gaily along.
Old Bland had seen them come and go, these Sport O'Malleys.
Consequently, knowing both the attraction and the dangers of the type
for impressionable young women, he was careful that his daughter
should have as little to do with them as possible.
Molly Bland was that most delectable of creatures, a cute blonde.
She had an impertinent small nose always quivering just a little
because of the merriment which seemed always to be bubbling within
her, and an impertinent small mouth always parted just a little as if
in an instant she expected to receive a most delightful kiss. Sport
O'Malley truthfully thought her one of the most engaging members of
the opposing sex that he ever had encountered; and watching her in
her role of hostess to the customers of The Magic Lantern, he now was
plunged more deeply than ever in a conviction of injustice concerning
the elder Bland's forbidding attitude.
Wasn't it fierce? Here was the old man always insinuating that he,
Sport O'Malley, could balance a chair on his chin and walk under a
worm, while all the while the proprietor was pouring his cheap, cut
alcohol into the undergraduates of a university which had not banned
his place only because it was supposed to be straight. Most of the
fellows knew that all you had to do was drop a hint to one of the
waiters, and after a bit a bottle would be slid into your lap! As a
consequence of these ruminations, the opinion of customer for owner
was even less than that of owner for customer. Old Bland thought
Sport O'Malley worthless; but Sport thought of Molly's father as a
two-faced crook.
"It gets me!" he burst out to Rudy. "In fact it gets me down!"
"What does?" Rudy inquired. He was looking about the long, table
strewn room, drinking in his first contact with that stimulating
atmosphere peculiarly associated with night resorts. "It all looks
pretty swell to me."
"I'm talking about old Bland, who owns this place. I've got a crush
on his daughter--see her over there? The little blonde? What a
grand kid she is! I love her, Rudy, but her old man won't let me
come near her. Treats me as if I were a leper or something."
"She's a very pretty girl," Rudy admitted. "What does he seem to
object to about you--in particular, I mean?"
Sport grinned. "Oh, just the fact that I don't take life as
seriously as--well, you do. He'd love you, Rudy. You're just the
kind of young man that older people trust. Why wasn't I born with an
appealing pan?"
"It hasn't seemed to bother you much so far," Rudy reminded him.
"Not in some places. But with fathers, for instance, it isn't so
good. They trust eggs like you, who look honest and sincere and all
that sort of thing." Suddenly his eyes lighted. "Say, I've a grand
idea! I'll introduce you as my brother from home. He'll take a look
at you--and then maybe he'll think that there's some good in the
O'Malley family after all."
"But----"
"No buts! I need your help in this, and I'm going to get it or
straighten the curl out of your hair with a table leg." He stood
hurriedly. "Come on. The other fellows will be here any minute.
With that gang around to crab our act, deception will be about as
easy for us as skating is on one leg!"
Reluctantly, Rudy got to his feet and followed Sport across the dance
floor. He was painfully embarrassed, not only because he felt that
he lacked the necessary acting ability to carry out the masquerade,
but because he hated deception of any kind. Too, he was rather
worried about lending his so-called honest face to any project which
Sport, with his eccentric notions of right and wrong, might introduce.
Rudy was no prude, but back of him was a line of New England
forebears who had taken the truth as a serious business, who had
asked honesty and straightforwardness before all things. Their
shades restrained him now, and wending his way through the press of
the dance, he was in a turmoil of indecision. He hated to let Sport
down--but he hated more to lie.
Yet there seemed little he could do about the matter without causing
the sort of scene from which his sensitive nature characteristically
rebelled. And when Sport touched a short fat man upon the shoulder
and said, "Mr. Bland, just to prove to you that we O'Malleys are not
thoroughly a bad lot, I want you to meet my brother," there was
little that Rudy could do but put out his hand and mutter, "Pleased
to meet you."
"Rudy is just down from home. He's going to take me back in his
flivver." Suddenly the good points of his improvisation struck him.
He turned to Rudy. "You are going to take me back home in your
flivver, aren't you, Rudy."
"Why, certainly," Rudy said. "If you want me to."
"Want you to!" snorted Mr. Bland. "Well, what else did you come down
here for?"
"Oh," said Sport hastily, "coming down for me was only part of it.
You see, Rudy is very anxious to be a good saxophone player. He's
been taking a correspondence course from Ted Grant, the greatest
saxophonist in the world. And he heard about your remarkable leader
over there, and decided that the logical thing to do was come down
and meet him. You know, one fine musician paying his respects to
another."
It was evident that the canny Irishman had played on a sensitive
chord in the proprietor's make-up. "Well, that's right nice of you,
Mr. O'Malley," he said to Rudy. "I rather pride myself on having the
best band in the state, insofar as regards places like this. And
I've always thought that Bennie needn't take his hat off to any of
them. Come on over and meet him."
"Sure," said Sport, "Bennie'll be happy to meet one of his admirers."
"Why, I--," Rudy began.
"Go along with him, Rudy. I'll follow in a minute. I've just seen a
fellow over here that I've got to speak to."
With few doubts as to the sex of the "fellow" whom Sport had to talk
to, Rudy allowed himself to be led over for an introduction to Mr.
Bland's greasy little orchestra leader. That devil Sport! Making
him lie in order that he might snatch a few minutes with his current
flame! He was more than a little minded to tell Mr. Bland of the
trick that had been played upon his credulity; but the old fellow was
so obviously tickled that someone should have wished to compliment
the music of his establishment that Rudy could not find it in his
heart to disappoint him.
Bennie bowed condescendingly when the little proprietor made the
introduction. "Oh, yes," he said, "I have a great many fans who I
never have seen. It has become noised about that I played with
Whiteman and Lopez, and--" as he talked on with the insufferable
conceit of a small mind, Rudy began desperately to seek some way of
escape.
But Sport was gone, and though the other members of their party by
this time had arrived, he was unacquainted with them, and therefore
to approach their table alone would have been an impossibility for
one of his reserved temperament.
"You see," Bennie was going on patronizingly, while plump Mr. Bland
beamed his pride, "after my experience with the leading orchestras of
the country, I find it difficult to keep musicians in out-of-the-way
places up to concert pitch. Most small town orchestras are recruited
locally, and you boys, while undoubtedly willing----"
Rudy's face flamed. The gentlest and most inoffensive of young men,
the oily leader's rambling barrage of self-praise at last had touched
a point which he was unable to pass in silence.
"Perhaps you underestimate some of us, Mr. Harris," he said curtly.
"It is true that I come from a small town. But it also happens that
I am a pupil under the direct instruction of Ted Grant."
"Ted Grant!" Bennie's arrogance fell away like a dropped mantle.
"You're studying under Ted Grant, the greatest saxophonist in the
world?"
"None other," Rudy answered with a touch of pride. "Not only that,
but the last time I heard from him he said that he was very pleased
with my progress. He said that I showed the makings of a great
musician."
Instantly Bennie stepped down from the slightly raised platform on
which he stood. "Then," he said, "you must play for us! All my life
I have been envious--and respectful--of Ted Grant. Many times I have
tried to get into his band, to study his methods. And now you, one
of his prize pupils, are right here where I can watch you play."
Rudy gulped. "But--but I haven't my instrument."
The leader immediately thrust his own saxophone into the boy's
unwilling hands. "You will play mine. It is a genuine Ted Grant
saxophone, his best model."
"But----"
Mr. Bland clapped him heavily on the shoulder. "Excellent, my boy!
What an advertisement for my place to have a Ted Grant pupil play for
us." He signaled to the drummer for a roll; and when he had the
attention of the whole room, he climbed to the platform with
outstretched arms.
"Ladies and gentlemen. We are greatly honored by having with us
to-night the star pupil of Ted Grant, young Mr. O'Malley. Mr.
O'Malley kindly has consented to play a number for us."
A great burst of applause rolled across to the trembling figure of
Ted Grant's star pupil. But he did not hear it. Across the room he
had caught sight of the open mouth and horror-stricken eyes of Sport
O'Malley.
Sport was signaling frantically, shaking his head and waving his
arms, giving every sign of protest aside from an actual shout that he
wanted anything but for Rudy to play.
But his "brother" only grinned, rather painfully, and climbed up on
the platform.