The Argosy, Vol. 82, No. 3 — page 105: what you’re looking at

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

HIS MAD MOVE ON THE MOVIES. “Well, I'll get back at them somehow, Tommy! . I swear that!” “You'll forget it, which is the wisest thing!” “ll never forget it! Il walk into the whole motion picture industry and clean it out! D’ye hear me? Clean it out! Tl make them all suffer together, Tommy, the good and the bad, until—”’ “Piffle!’”? said his friend. ‘Dry up. You'll have a stroke of apoplexy in another minute or two.” “There’s no piffle about this!”’ the out- raged writer thundered. “I mean every word of it. The crooks in that beastly business have stepped on one man _ too many, and I’m the man. Now they shall all catch it together, and—” Morely’s slightly weary smile halted him. Controlling himself with a visible effort, Darton stood quite still, and when next he spoke his voice was almost normal. “You think I’m crazy, eh? Well, maybe Tam. But Ill get back at that motion pic- ture industry just the same, Tommy.” “Try it, and they’ll tie you up in a knot and drop you on the scrap heap,” said the artist, without great concern. ‘‘Now, sit down and finish your fit comfortably, and then we’ll go and look over that Brobane collection of water-colors; that’ll soothe you and interest me. . Oh, going to keep on walking? All right, then; walk!” “T mean to walk until I’ve thought this thing out to a finish, and if you want to see any collection, hustle along and see it, Tommy. You may think me an idiot, but I’m not; I can fight the movie business be- cause I’ve got something to fight them with.” “Eh” “You bet!” the author said enthusiasti- cally. ‘I’ve got imagination, and that’s a blamed sight more effective than bullets, sometimes!” Hands deep in his pockets, the black cigar sending out clouds that suggested a destroyer running under forced draft, Mr. Darton strode heavily through his two rooms, glared at his reflection in the mir- rored door of the bathroom, wheeled and strode back—paused by the piano and snarled at it and wheeled again—came face to face with himself in the mirror and pounded back to the piano, all the while emitting queer little wheezy rumbles. Morely sat back patiently to await the passing of the storm. 479 Ten minutes of humming to himself, and it seemed to the artist that the thunder had died out; he inspected his old friend with new and hopeful interest. He found him- self rather startled. Darton’s march had reached its end. He was standing by the window now, chewing his cigar and staring at the sky; but from where Morely sat the fixed pallor of Mr. Darton’s usually rosy cheek was disconcert- ing. It was the dead white of overwhelming emotion, and the glitter, of Mr. Darton’s eye would have seemed more in harmony with a padded cell than with the comforts _of his living-room. Usually the mildest per- son in the world, when tried too far one of the hottest-tempered, Mr. Darton seemed to have gone beyond the boiling rage condi- tion and to have attained something more ominous. The smile with which he favored Thomas Morely was almost dreadful. “T’ve got it!” he said briefly. “Got what?” “The way to stand the motion picture business on its head and bang its micro- scopic brains out!” Darton answered quite lucidly. ‘Come on!” “Come where?” ‘With me!” snapped the writer, as, with no apparent regard for its value, he drew his new fortune from the table drawer and stowed it, packet by packet, into the inner pockets of his coat. “Oh! ~ To: the- bank !”’ relievedly. ‘All right.” Jimmy Darton’s pale lips curled in a most peculiar smile. He glided to the tele- phone, took it down, listened and barked: Paxil — Quick” “Going to ride, eh?” Morely grinned comfortably, as he put on his hat. ‘You can afford luxuries now, James. Say! What a perfectly incredible thing it is, isn’t it? To think that Hendrix brought you a whole bagful of money just—that isn’t your hat, Jimmy; that’s the letter-basket you’re wearing. Your hat is over here, and— Jimmy!” “What?” snarled the writer, as he hurled the unoffending wire affair to the corner. “For Heaven’s sake, calm down! You’re not the first man in history to be handed a low-down deal by the movie business—or any one of a thousand other businesses. Be a sport, James, and forget it. Write the great American novel and some day—”’ Morely smiled COMMICLOOOKS (C@