The Argosy, Vol. 82, No. 3 — page 104: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

478 “Well, you can’t,” said his friend, ‘‘and now if—” Mr. Darton shook his presumably impo- tent fists at the unoffending ceiling. ‘“T spent more time, more thought, more care on that ‘Fate of the World’ than I’ve put on most full-length novels!” he rasped. “It’s all real, new, gripping plot from one end to the other; nobody knows what’s coming next; nobody hides behind a match or a piano-stool to watch the villain ten feet away—who never sees him; nobody fumbles around in a table drawer to get out the pistol everybody knows he’s going to commit suicide with; no group of loons stands around, all taking off their hats and bowing together when somebody is killed! No. . . . I would like to get back at the movie business for throwing down the ‘Fate of the World’!”’ Then, with a gusty snarl, Mr. Darton subsided into the depths of his chair and groaned aloud; and his friend sighed and asked patiently: “Are you all through?” Darton did not answer. “Because, if you are, Jimmy, Ill tell you a few sad facts about your ‘Fate of the World.’ ”’ “What are they?” “TJ happen to know them, because you told me most of the details of the plot when you were writing it. Some other peo- ple know them, for reasons which you will understand in a minute. But you, appar- ently, do not know them!” Darton stared blackly at him. “What on earth are you talking about?” ‘How long ago did you finish that thing, Jim?” “About four months back.” “Started right out peddling it then?” “J had a ridiculous notion that the Om- nium Features people were going to buy it; I sent it straight to them.” Morely smiled pensive sympathy. “How long did they keep it, Jim?” ‘‘A month or more.” “And turned it down without any ex- planation?” _ “They said it was too big, I believe; they said they might use parts of it,” Dar- ton said drearily. “And then it went to?” “Oh, the Scopia people, I think. They’re a dozen different companies, you know, and they said it would take some time to consider. They kept it two months and THE ARGOSY. then sent it back with a fool letter that meant nothing at all.” “After which you gave it to Park?” “T did. What’s the point of all this?” Darton demanded. Mr. Morely shook his head. ‘“‘T wanted to check up, Jimmy, and I’ve checked beautifully. Of course, there is no sure way of holding any one accountable; no power under the sun can prove that the same idea didn’t occur to the same people at the same time—but some of your ‘Fate of the World’ has been pinched, I think.” “Hey?” “The Omnium concern brought out a six- reel feature last month based on the idea of a man who looked exactly like the world’s greatest financier being shipwrecked with him and floating around on a raft that couldn’t hold both of them for more than an hour or two!” “Ts that a fact?” “They called it ‘Who Sank?’ and I’ve seen it commented upon in a dozen places as a winner. I tried to see it, and didn’t make it.” “Tommy!” gasped the writer. ‘And there was a Scopia Black Vulture feature released last week which dealt with a man who tried to buy America for cash.” ‘‘Are you sure of that?” “Why, of course, I’m sure of it,” said Morely. “I did see that one, and while it wasn’t the same plot, the idea was the same.” “Rit” ‘And not to keep you in suspense any longer, Ill tell you that I’ve heard hints— and pretty well authenticated hints at that —that the newest Trimmer Feature will have as a basic idea the buying up of all the world’s shipping by one secret syndi- cate. That is all.” “Tl get an injunction!” roared the writer. “Try it, anyway,” his friend smiled. “Tl go and shoot Park!” the maddened one pursued, quite irresponsibly. ‘“‘I’ll take that—”’ “T wouldn’t yell threats of murder like that,” Morely said sharply. ‘That’s down- right idiotic, you know. You’ve no idea of shooting anybody, but people have been electrocuted for little slips like that.” Snow-white as to cheek, gritting as to teeth, Mr. Darton clenched his fists, and merely vibrated for many seconds, until re- turning breath permitted a low and terrible: COPMICLOOOKS (C@)