PALE HANDS
Next morning at nine the girls, all but Lena, who had obtained
permission to ride ahead on a bike, piled into two jeeps and were
driven away to the photographer’s studio.
The moment Norma stepped into the studio she had a strange feeling that
she had seen it before. Its walls were crowded with pictures, many of
them officers in uniform—from the fort above their post, she guessed.
Then too, there were ship’s officers, some of them from the United
States and British Navies. There were pictures from the wilds of Maine
and Canada as well, wolves prowling over the snow, a moose charging up
from the waters of a lake, and many others. There were many wonderful
pictures in the collection and she was charmed at the thought of having
her films developed and printed here.
If the studio had been a surprise, the proprietor, as he came bustling
into the room, was a great shock. His hair was white and bristling. His
face was lined in spite of its round softness. It was he whom she had
seen at the gate of Harbor Bells, he who had growled at her because she
threw her light upon him.
“Good grief!” she whispered to Betty. “I hope he doesn’t recognize me!”
“Recognize you?” Betty murmured in surprise.
“Shish!” Norma warned. She had never told Betty of that other encounter.
In her hand she held the films she wished developed. “Will you do these
for me?” she asked.
“Amateur work!” he exclaimed. “Bah! What do amateurs know about
pictures, especially young women? No! I cannot waste my time and money.”
“But you’ll not be wasting your money.” Norma felt like one speaking a
piece. “I expect to pay you for them.”
“Put them down there on this table,” he replied rudely. “We shall see.”
“And now—” His voice took on a professional tone. “You are soldiers, is
it not so?”
There came a murmured “Yes—yes.”
“Lady soldiers! Ha—ha—ha! This is delightful! And I am to take your
pictures. No retouching. Is it not so?”
“That’s right.” It was Betty who spoke.
“Then you will not be very beautiful in these pictures.” He laughed
again.
“They are for identification cards.” Norma said—a suggestion of
irritation creeping into her voice. “Beauty doesn’t count. They must
look like us, that’s all. They are to keep spies from pretending they
belong to our group.”
“Spies? Ah! Is that so!” he said seriously. “Then they shall be very
real indeed, these pictures.”
He began his work at once. Since she did not particularly like the man
and wished to get her part over with, Norma posed first. She realized
at once that he proposed to take her in an unfavorable light and at a
bad angle, yet she made no objection. As he was about to make the shot,
she managed a derisive grin.
“No! No!” He stomped the floor. “That way you spoil the picture!”
Norma at once put on a perfectly dumb look. Then the picture was
snapped.
“What’s wrong with you?” Betty demanded in a whisper when they were
alone.
“Nothing.” was the quiet reply.
“Lena’s not here.” said Rosa.
“She’ll be here.” Norma said.
While the other pictures were being taken Norma wandered along the wall
looking at pictures until she was near an open door leading to another
room.
As she stood there she heard a man’s voice say:
“You must!”
“I won’t!” came a woman’s reply.
Carl Langer, the photographer, must have heard, for he said, “Excuse
me, ladies,” and shut the door.
“What wonderful ears!” Norma thought. “He should be a plane spotter.”
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[Illustration: _“No! No! That Way You Spoil the Picture.”_]
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When the pictures had been taken and the girls were filing out of the
room, Betty said to Norma:
“Lena didn’t show up.”
“Oh! Sure she—” Norma hesitated. “Well, anyway, her picture will be in
the lot, you can depend upon that.”
As they climbed into the jeeps, Norma heard a pigeon cooing and,
looking up to the studio roof, she saw two pigeons. They were jet
black. This gave her a start, but she said never a word.
They were halfway back to the post when suddenly she realized that she
had left her films without any decision having been made about them.
“I left my films,” she said to Betty. “Do you suppose he’ll develop
them?”
“My guess is that he will.”
Betty’s guess was right. And this Norma would live to regret.
“All the while I was there I felt I had been in that place before,”
said Norma.
“I shouldn’t wonder,” was Betty’s strange reply.
There was one extra person in the squad which meant that while the
others were taking their turn at training, three at a time, one was
free to undertake some special task. This was Norma’s day off.
“Norma,” Lieutenant Warren said to her after she had spent the greater
part of the day working over some special type of chart, “I think you
told me once that you had ridden a motorcycle.”
“Oh, yes, many times,” was the quick reply. “My father and I used to
cover part of his territory on a motorcycle.”
“Good! One of our tasks is to be that of keeping in touch with the
plane spotters in our territory. They are all volunteers. They work
without pay and are, I am sure, very conscientious people.”
“They must be.” Norma agreed. “And do you know, I really like these
real New Englanders.”
“They seem more genuinely American than most people I’ve come to know,”
Miss Warren agreed. “What I wanted to suggest was that now and then you
take a motorcycle—there are two in the basement room of the Sea
Tower—and visit these spotter sheds. There’s one near Granite Head.”
“I think I saw it as I passed this morning.”
“I haven’t a doubt of it. You might like to take a run out there right
now,” the Lieutenant suggested.
“That would be real fun. Thank you so much.” A quarter of an hour
later, dressed in her fatigue suit and with stout coveralls drawn over
it, Norma leapt on her motorcycle and went pop-popping away.
She was not long in reaching the place in the road nearest the spotter
shed.
As she paused to study the steep road leading up to the shed, two girls
who were undoubtedly twins came hurrying from the opposite direction.
Seeing that they were about to start the climb, Norma said:
“Going up? Hop on behind. I think this thing will take us all up.”
“Oh, fine!” they exclaimed. “We’re late.”
“Late for what?” Norma asked.
“We’re spotters. I’m Beth and this is Bess, my sister,” one of the
twins explained.
“We’re on from now until midnight,” the other said.
“Whew!” Norma exclaimed. “That’s a long spot for a spotter.”
“Oh, we don’t mind,” said Beth, laughing. “Only one is needed to watch
at a time.”
“The other one studies. We’re still in high school,” said Bess.
“Sometimes we fall asleep.”
With a final snort the motorcycle reached the crest of the hill, then
circled to a stop at the foot of a crooked stairway leading to a
crow’s-nest perch above.
Up, then around, then up again, they climbed thirty feet into the air
to arrive at last at a broad enclosed platform.
“All right, girls, you may take over.” A tall man with prematurely gray
hair turned toward a door leading from the platform. “Who’s your
friend?” he asked, turning half about. Behind his thick glasses Norma
saw keen, smiling eyes.
“Why, she—” Beth hesitated.
“I’m one of those WAC’s,” Norma laughed, holding her cap bearing the
insignia in the light.
“Oh! We’ve been reading about you. Welcome to our community.” He held
out a hand for a firm and friendly clasp. “So when we report ‘One
single, flying high,’ we’ll soon be talking to a lady soldier?”
“Guess that’s right,” Norma agreed. “My name’s Norma Kent.”
“I’m Vincent Garson,” he said. “Here’s hoping we meet again.”
“Oh, we shall,” Norma exclaimed.
At that a distinguished-looking man opened the door and stepped out.
“And this is Jim Marston,” said Garson. “Used to be a parson. Now he’s
a plain American.”
“And that,” said the retired parson, “is a great privilege.”
“They’re really very famous men,” Beth whispered as they disappeared
down the stairs. “Mr. Garson designed the stained glass windows for
half the big churches in Boston. And Mr. Marston was a famous Bishop.
It takes all sorts, you see,” she added.
“Well, here we are,” Bess exclaimed. “This is our spotter shed. Isn’t
it neat?”
“Neat, and very comfortable.” Norma held her hands before the glowing
coal fire.
“It cost a thousand dollars. Everyone chipped in, but it’s worth it. It
must stand for the duration,” said Beth.
“So you’ll be listening to our reports?” said Bess. “It’s nice to know
you. We—we’ll all stand together.”
“That’s right, we must.” Norma’s heart was warmed.
“Oh!” Bess exclaimed. “We’ve forgotten we’re late. It’s time to talk to
grandfather.”
Hastily unlocking a closet door in the corner, she wheeled out a
strange-looking mechanism with a square of glass at its front.
After connecting some heavy electric wires, she turned on a switch and
at once there came a low buzzing sound.
Night was falling. The room was full of shadows.
“Watch,” said Bess.
The square of glass gave forth a faint glow. Then at the center of it,
something moved.
“A hand!” Norma thought, with a start.
It was true. Behind that glass appeared a pale hand. It moved. It took
on different forms. Now it was clenched with the thumb outside. Now
three fingers were folded in while the forefinger and thumb stuck
straight out. This was repeated. Once again the hand was clenched, this
time with the thumb folded in tight. Three fingers up, one down—all
fingers down, thumb bent in, then again three fingers down, forefinger
and thumb up, and repeat.
Then the hand vanished.
“He says ‘All is well.’” Bess said in a matter-of-fact tone.
“Talking with the dead,” Norma thought with a shudder.
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