ADVENTURE FOR TWO

Auckland Star, Volume LXVI, Issue 185, 7 August 1935, Page 18

ADVENTURE FOR TWO

By Holloway Horn

Author of "George," "Bank ClcrK," etc.

(CHAPTER Vl.—Continued.)

He saw Mcriel several times during the following clays, but ehc was always with someone and showed no inclination to talk to him. Well, that was that, he decided, and after an early breakfast on Sunday morning, before any of the others had put in an appearance, he had turned the bonnet of the- Yellow Peril towards Mossford. He had written to Ellen that he was coming and she opened the door as he stepped out of the car. "It's good to be home!" he said. "It's good to have you," she said. "Ye'll be staying the night?" "If I may. I shall have to leave early, I'm afraid." "That can be done. Your room's ready for you, of course. And there's letters in the sitting room." "You've made the little place delightful," he said. "It's not so bad. People say it's a comedown after The Maples, but I'm none so sure—all things considered. The cupboards are better and I was always one for a good cupboard." "Let's have a look at the letters, shall we t"

The important one was on top. It was from Messrs. Whipple and Whipple. He recognised tho defective- E in the typewritten address. He read it in silence and then handed it to Ellen. "Nine hundred and fifty pounds so far as he can at present ascertain," she said. "A bit less than they said. Still, nine hundred and fifty pounds is better than nothing. And I really think I shall be able to make a living on the stage." "You're wise, you think, in going on with it?" she aeked, after a silence. "I do. It lacks the solidity of business, of course, but I like it. As you know, I've always had a hankering for it. I'm happy in the atmosphere." "For years past," she agreed. "That was why I didn't attempt to change you. I had many an argument with your dear father about it." "Of course, if dad had lived and the business gone on, I really had no choice; I see that."

"But you never would have made a

business man. What are tho people like you're with? You all live at the same boarding house, I understand?"

"Yes. Ellen, they are fine. Not what I've been used to, but they have virtues I've never met in people before. They're loyal. I like them."

"You're loyal, too," she eaid. "You're looking fine!" she went on appraisingly. "I'm splendid. We bathe every day, of course." "We?" "It's usually one of tho girls and I. Shi half Scottish." "There's no reason why a girl on the stage shouldn't be every bit ae fine as a girl off it," she said. "Of course there isn't!" "No one can say I'm not a broadminded woman, Barney." "Not if I were near enough to hear!" he laughed. "I won't listen to a word against you, Ellen." Dinner With Ellen. She smiled at him, and for a moment there was a look in her old blue eyes that altered the expression of her face. "Oh, don't bother!" ehe said sharply. "Come on, you'll be needing your dinner."' "I know what there is for dinner!" "Oh?" "There's celery soup, stuffed veal, with roast potatoes and sprouts, and a big mince pie." "You're very knowing," she smiled. "Where you're concerned, I am. If I only understood all women as I do you, Ellen, I should he the wisest man in the world." "You think you understand me? I'm just a puir old woman and mebbe easy of understanding. Still, you're wrong about dinner."

"I say!" he protested. "I've been looking forward for days past to it! That's what I always have when I come home."

"Well, ye'll no have it to-day. The mince pies are small ones, see?"

"You're a bad woman!" he said, and slipped his arm round her hard waist as they went out to the minute dining room.

Considering that she had no assistance whatever, and that she refused to let him "raise a finger" as she put it —the meal was a marvel of organisation and cooking. Not one modern woman in a hundred could have turned out such a meal, but Ellen was exceptional in many ways. "By the way," he said, as he sipped his coffee, "I've 'been thinking." "Bless the bairn!" "This cottage is my home." "It is," she agreed. "Well, I'm going to pay you for my rooms, Ellen. No ... don't go in off the deep end. I've thought it all out. When I'm out of a shop I shall want a home." "That's all right, Barney. I'm quite comfortably off. I've been a carefu' woman all my days. There's the rents from the other cottages, and my own little bit, and the pension. I'm saving still. You keep your money. Maybe you'll need it one day." "I'd far rather, Ellen." "Ye'll do as you're told, Barney, she said sharply. "You always have done and you always will do." "You're sure you are all right, Ellen ?" [ "I'm fine," she said. "I miss your father coming home and going away, and I miss your silliness. But beyond that I'm fine. Tell me about the Scots girl you were talking about just now." "There's nothing to tell. She's in the party, you know. Her father was Scottish, and her mother a Danish dancer." "It should be a fairish mixture, that." "She dances beautifully." "It's that dark little dancer, is it?" "What do you know about it?" he demanded in surprise. "Quite a lot for a puir old body. She looked to me to' be a nice girl. That dancing business is part of her stock in trade, of course, and there's no harm in it excepting to the narrow minded." "Have you been to Westville?" he demanded sternly. "I have." she said.

"When 1" "Thursday of last week." "And you saw the show?" "I did." "Ellen! Why on earth didn't you tell me you were coming?" "Because I wanted to see for myself the kind of things you were doing and the kind of people you were with." "You saw Sandy McDougall?"' "Sandy my foot! He's no more a Scot than you are. Less! I've put something into you." "He's . . . he's rather vulgar, I admit. But he's an extraordinarily good fellow, in spite of not being a Scot." "It's liis living. I don't blame him. But the stories he told about Aberdeen were stupid." "They were jokes, Ellen." •

"I gathered that. My complaint is not that they were jokes, but that they were poor jokes. However, I don't believe in arguing. I liked the girl called Maisie Sinclair. She has a kind face and she's known what trouble is in spite of her prettiness."

''It's a funny thing, you know, Ellen, but I suppose I've told her rather a lot about you. She sent her love to you."

"Did she, now," said Ellen. "It was good of her, but I'm not one to send love as if it was something you could do up in a parcel. Still, the lass meant well, I don't doubt. Now you smoke your pipe in the garden while I clear away."

CHAPTER VII. End of the Season. However successful a concert party may be, the end of the season at an English seaside closes it down. And the very success of the Magnets proved in tho end to be a calamity. The Urban District Council of Westville, in its collective wisdom, decided that in the following season they would not let the pavilion to a concert party, but hire a concert party at a fixed rate to appear in the Pavilion, which was, of course, a very different financial proposition.

Teddy Laurie refused their terms and spoke pointedly and pithily about elected persons.

Still they had done extraordinarily well, and although September inevitably brought desolation to Westville the last meal at the Rosary was memorable. Teddy insisted that the qualified councillors would yet see reason, and anticipated their reunion the following year, but nothing was definitely fixed.

There was champagne, an unheard-of luxury at the Rosary, and a small but gratifying bonus to each member of the party in accord with the promise Laurie had made.

Tho champagne was of doubtful pedigree, but it sparkled and was exhilarating and, after all, none of them was a connoisseur.

Sandy for a while was a little lugubrious under its influence, and talked of the last night in the old home, but that was in the early stages. Towards the end several of his stories had to be rigidly censored by Teddy and, indeed, it was necessary ultimately to forbid his stories at all. Hylda, too, was inclined to be a little tearful; her future, one suspected, was not at all certain. Ma's health was drunk with unstinted enthusiasm, and her speech in reply, if a little incoherent, was from the heart.

She was certain, she said, that they would be back next year. Who were these piebald councillors, anyway? (She used "piebald" as a term of reproach even when she had not had any champagne.) She could tell them things about these same councillors if she wasn't such a lady.

" 'Ear, 'ear," said Sandy vaguely. Ma went on to assure them that she loved them all and that she'd never 'ad a nicer lot with their knees under her table.

A thoroughly cheery evening, and if tho future for most of them loomed ahead rather ominously, why worry? Indeed that was the keynote of the evening: Why worry? They all exchanged addresses and ultimately sought their respective rooms tired and happy in spite of a vague uneasiness.

Maisie and Rossiter had arranged to return to town in the Yellow Peril and they went off soon after breakfast. There were tearful farewells, and they were assured that if Teddy fixed up anything for the next season they were certain of a. shop with him.

"Well, that's that," said Maisie, as they turned away from the front at tho Clock Tower into the London Road. "As you say, my child." "I wonder if we shall ever see them ngain?" "I'm going to see you again, Maisie. This isn't the end of things for us." "I wonder," sho said and for a while there was silence in the Yellow Peril. "Where arc you staying to-night, by the way?" he asked suddenly. "At the Flora Hotel, near Euston." "Never heard of it." "I don't suppose you have. I know the woman who runs it. She used to know my mother. It's cheap and it's clean. And if I can't pay on the nail, it doesn't matter." "It's damnable to think of your being hard up." "Then why think of it? I'm not hard up now. I've got quite a bit. Besides, to-morrow I shall start looking for another shop. There are the films, for one thing. After all, I can dajice. I shall fix up something, but I don't know if Hylda will, poor dear. Where are you staying, by the way?" "For a night or so in town. I want a job, too, of course." "I know an agent who fixes up touring companies—he got me a job of Sorts last winter." "You mean to look him up?"' "Why not? Last winter we went to small towne where the theatres are just struggling on against the cinema. You know the kind of place. Usually, though, the money's a bit doubtful." "I may as well stay at your hotel, if you don't mind," he said, after a silence. "Do. There's usually plenty of room." "I'm afraid I don't know a great deal about getting a job. I'm going to have a stab at the films."

"I can stick it for a bit and I do want to get into a London show. You've a chance there. To-morrow I shall begin haunting the agents. Something , !! turn up. At least, it always has so far."

"I know a man —he was at Cambridge with me—who is a producer. Whether he had a say in casting I don't know, but I'm going to look him up."

"It's the only way with the films, Barney. You niuet know somebody and worry them."

"But even if \tc go our ways in the morning, fo-night's obviously one for celebration. Where shall we go?"

"Look here, you don't want to start wasting your money. I've been through it, and I know. Money melts, if you have a run of bad luck."

"I don't waste much. Ellen taught me that. But to-night we'll have a bite at a place I know." "Just as you like. And afterwards we'll go to a show. I'll get in, with h.ck, on my card." "How?" "You watch. I shall just show my professional card at the box office. Usually they've got a couple of seats they don't want." "It's hateful to think that we're going to drift apart, Maisie," he said doubtfully. I Shall Miss You.

Sho shrugged her shoulders. "That'e the worst of our game, Barney, me boy! Still, we needn't absolutely disappear. Let's keep in touch. They will always send letters on from the place where I stay—the Flora."

"Then that's simple. Rose Cottage, Meadow Lane, Moesford, will find me for the next year or so."

"It's probably silly—perhaps it would bo wiser to break things off with a snap after to-night, Barney," she said, thoughtfully.

"Nonsense. We've been excellent friends," he protested.

"Yes," ehe said. "We may run across each other again. I shall miss you a lot. You're . . . dependable. Most men I've known aren't." "That's nice of you, anyway." "I suppose it boils down to the fact that you're a gentleman. I've known very few. My father was one, I believe." He swerved suddenly to avoid a dis-reputable-looking dog which apparently desired to commit suicide. "That's like life," she said. "Things go along smoothly and you think you're making for some definite end, when you suddenly have to swerve or kill the dog. And as likely as not the swerve means a smash unless the fellow at the wheel is a driver." "You're a bit depressed to-day, little Maisie?" "Just a bit. But I shall brighten up presently." "What wae your father?" "A merchant, I was told. I've never seen him. I'm not sure whether he's alive or dead. Mother and ho separated. A bad business altogether. But it was all years ago. Poor little mother!" "I wonder you don't try and find out about your father," he said. ■ She shrugged her shoulders: "Probably he'e married again, years ago. Mother always said that the whole thing was her fault. I never heard her say a word against him." (To be continued daily.) I