Station Love

Bay of Plenty Times, Volume LXV, Issue 12297, 10 April 1937, Page 4

Station Love

By CRAIG CARROLL

INSTALMENT NO. 8. Dick was going to dance with the girl in white satin. The girl draped her arm around Dick’s shoulder. Holding him much closer than she ought to. Looking up at him. Laughing a lot. And moving with him through the crowd. Graceful. A good dancer. Too good, almost professional, Judy thought. A flame of jealousy swept through her. But now Dick was looking at Judy over the girl’s shoulder. Raising his eyebrow, nodding. Dick making words with his mouth without saying them.

' Words? He didn’t need to make words. She knew what lie was thinking. All at once she didn’t bate the girl in white satin. She found herself feeling rather sorry for her. For ail the girl? who listened to Dick’s smodth, deep voice, and wondered about it and dreamed. ...

The music ended. A man with a cigar and a violin was walking towards Judy’s table with Dick. “Judy, I thought I’d never get back,” Dick said.

“You seemed to he happy dancing with that girl,” Judy smiled. “That’s part of my job. Her father owns half of the station. So what?” "So nothing,” said Judy, somehow relieved. Just a job. Just part of being a public figure.

“Judy. I want you to meet Ben Bernie. You’ve heard of Ben Bernie, of course?”

“Heard of him? I’ve heard him and wanted to meet him for years and years. Only—” Ben Bernie smiled.

“Not as young and handsome as I was. Miss Allison. But I have my charms. I’m the old maestro, you know.” “Yes. Of course. We used to listen for you every night back in Hiawatha.” ' “Hiawatha?” Judy crimsoned. “It’s in Kansas. It’s got 3211 people and a thousand automobiles.” “Good for Hiawatha. And I’m glad to have met you. Miss Allison. We’ll see you often, I hope.” “I hope 50,U00.”

He bowed jerkily. A brief man, with a furrowed brow, with dark eyes, with a strange twinkle about him. “Good-bye, Mr Bernie.’’ “Good-bye.”

He was gone, and people were saying, “Hy, Ben!” and “Hello, there, old pal!” and most of them didn’t know him at all, most of them were just making their girls think they knew him because he was a Somebody. Cut that wasn’t the way with Dick. Ben Bernie ha,d talked with him as an equal, Ben Bernie, whose name went all over the country! Dick—- “ Nice fellow,” said Dick, sitting down, flashing Judy a quick, young smile. "One of the nicest in our racket,” 1

“Why . . . you’re not going to say you hate radio?”

“Oh!” He nodded wisely, “Elton Day again, eh?” “How did you know?”

He grinned. “First thing he tells every new girl. Very first thing. Let me see. Something like this.” He made himself solemn, he leaned hack with his hand almo.t covering his eyes, he began; "They’re all fools in radio or they wouldn’t ho in it. And I’m a fool, too. 1 could bo back home selling a story now and then, and being the boy prodigy, but. . .” It was uncanny. His voice was like Eltop's voice, almost exactly like it. "Dick! Stop it! That’s cruel.” “Cruel? Maybe. Only it’s true.” “How can you make your voice sound so much like his?” “I'm an actor, and he’s an actor, and any ham can do what any other ham can do, Judy.”

“Ham?” “That’s what all actors call themselves when they don’t want you to believe a word they’re saying.” “Oh!” she giggled. Somehow she wished she.hadn’t said it. Rut it was funny. “Dick didn't you want to be a real actor?” "Of course. But I wasn’t. Not good enough.” "Why not?” "Couldn’t believe it. Stand up

there dres.ed in a suit you got in a second-hand store and tell people you’re Silas Marner or Mr Whatchamacalit. And it’s too much, Judy. Bad enough being a voice—” “But—” Bad enough being a voice? “You’re not paid to use your brain. You’re paid to be a voice,” Elton Day had said. “Oh,” Dick said quickly. "I’m sorry, Judy. You mustn’t worry about it. If you’re a voice, you can be the best voice there is. That’s something, anyhow. Only, it must be a terrible shock to meet one of those heartbreak voices and discover it's a man 40 years old with- four children and a mortgage.” She giggled again. Nice, hearing Dick talk. Funny how much difference a voice could make. And funny, how few men thought about their voices. Most of them just talked, just opened their mouths and said words. But Dick Mason—- “ Judy. You’re not listening.” "I’m sorry, Dick. I was thinking.” "Uh-huh. And while I’m telling you the true story of my scarlet life, you’re a thousand miles away-.” “Just a thousand, Dick. Back home.” “Oh! Lonesome, Judy?” “A little. Sometimes. When — well, just now that little boy sang a song mother used to like very much. And—” “ ‘Mandalay,’ you mean? That one, Judy?” “Yes. Her brother used to sing it, A long time ago.” "And maybe your mother is listening right now?” “She always listens for Ben Bernie.” “Well —” He got up. “Dick! Where are you going?” “Back in a minute, Judy. Just one minute.”

NEW SERIAL STORY

Tall, very tall, he walked out under the lights. And Judy, watching him, watched people at tables, too. Girls whispering and looking at Dick and whispering again. Men looking a little disgruntled. Girls and men pointing. And, out in the middle of the dance floor, the boy who sang listening, nodding, when Dick whispered in his ear. A chord from the orchestra, and Ben Bernie speaking into the microphone. Judy bould hear him.

“And, by special request of Mrs Allison, of Hiawatha, Kas., our boy, Pat Kennedy, sings ‘Mandalay.’ And I hope you like it!” “Mandalay.” Just as they used to hear it, sitting in the parlour together. Funny old song. Crazy old thing.

“On the road to Mandalay, Where the flying fishes play,

People staring at Dick. Staring at her. Whi'pering. Wondering. Wondering about the little girl with the chestnut hair and the cheap little powder-blue suit. Wondering? They needn’t. She was with Dick Mason. She was a name, too. Wait. A month or a year, and they’d be listening for Judy Allison. Maybe playing the organ. Maybe talking. Maybe playing the violin. Just wait!” “Judy. I hope your mother likes it.” “Dick! That was the nicest thing anybody ever did for me. The very nicest.” There wasn’t anything more to say. Except the sort of thing that is said only by the way you look at a person, and the way that'person looks at you. More people drifted in. People from shows, people who had their names up over Randolph Street in electric lights, people who got up to take bows when Ben Bernie called their names, or who did songs or who coughed , or stammered, lost without the lines they had learned for the show in which they seemed so original and so intelligent. Until Dick Mason seemed to remember, all at once, that this was Judy’s night, that he had promised to show her more famous people. Ho tapped his cigarette in the ash tray. “Judy.” She qaid softly “Yes.”

“Shall we go?” “But-—say, I don’t want this to end. Being here where there is music and where there are all the e people, and where everything is so bright and noisy and quiet and gay.” She couldn't do that. “Yes, Dick, I’m ready,” she said. He helped her with her coat. “Here you are,” he said to the hovering, interested waiter. Then, ’’Good night, Ben. Thank you.” “Good night, Dick. Good night, Miss Allison.” The car purred north, across the drive, across the Michigan Bridge, then straight north' up the most beautiful, the most romantic street Judy had ever known. “But-—” :ho began. The car had passed Ohio Street. Huron, Superior. The car went straight north. There was a small smile on Dick’s mouth. But he did not speak. He drove well, finding space between the big cars, pa sing them, driving even faster. Hero was the Drake Hotel. Ahead stretched the long beautiful procession of buildings that line the drive. Still he drove north. “Dick,” Judy said now, “aren't we going home?” ’He chuckled. “Not for a long time.” i “But—” “I told you I wanted you to meet Paul Whiteman. AVe’re going up to ’Ddgewater Beach and meet him. And have supper with him. As special guest?. Thing of that, Miss Judy Allison from Hiawatha.”' She laughed. “You don’t really mean it, Dick.” “I never say things I don't mean,” he answered, as the car sped along the outer drive, past Lincoln Park. “Never, Judy, Not even when—” He turned slightly. “Better keep my mind on my driving I think,” he said. “Look, is n’t it beautiful?” The moon glimmered through thin white clouds. The lake stretched out beyond the sky. Like an ocean. Like the ocean Judy Allison had dreamed of seeing. She remembered a poem in the Sara Tcasdale book — “When Beauty Grows too Great to Bear.” “Judy,” said Dick loudly, too loudly (because he knew he must talk loudly, to quiet what should "hot be said), "Judy—we’re here.” She saw enormous grounds, surrounded by a high fence and, just ahead, a great sprawling building, with shops all along the sidewalks,, bright little shops. She saw a black dress in one window, and caught her breath sharply, wishing she could own a dress like that. Then the car slid in through a portecochere. and a tall footman with brilliant red hair, a footman in elegant green uniform, stepped forward bowing. He helped Judy from the car. She felt like a smart advertisement being here, seeing people in evening clothes walking leisurely into the glittering glass doors. She saw herself in a mirror. The little powderblue dress, the little blue shoes, the plain little Imt — “Dick! I can’t go in here. I—” “And why can’t you?” “I’m not dressed for it.” “You’re still more beautiful than anybody who's ever been here, and you're dressed just right, Judy. Very few people put on the stiff shirt and the wrap in Chicago. Look—” (To be continued.)