Station Love

Bay of Plenty Times, Volume LXV, Issue 12304, 19 April 1937, Page 4

Station Love

I By CRAIG CARROLL I®

NEAV SERIAL STORY

INSTALMENT NO. 15. She drew away from him. Her hands were trembling, her throat was dry and hot. “Mr Day, you mean somebody did something to the wires so my voice sounded all right and the other didn’t?" “Perhaps. But I wouldn’t worry about it.” “You cheated!” “Of course not.” “You made me a cheat, too! . You made me do something I'd never do in the world! You—” His thin lips tightened. All at once the smile was gone out of his eyes. He leaned forward over the desk.

“Be still,” he said. “Be still, Judy Allison, and listen for a moment. You wanted that job., and I got it tor you. But I had nothing to do with it. The man who. was in the control-room before the audition wasn’t I but Dick Mason. And don’t forget it. And it there’s any talk about a crooked audition it’s Dick Mason they’ll want to know about. Nobody else.” She gasped. Things like this couldn’t happen. Making somebody else responsible for what you did and

admitted you had done. Making somebody take advantage of something he didn’t know was being done. Judy ran from the office, down the hall to the stairway, up the stairs, through a door. This was the studio floor, and there were people everywhere. She caught her breath, tried to walk slowly, tried not to show what she was thinking. Because, through the crowd, she saw Dick looking for someone. Looking for her. She sat down on the bench she had left only a tew moments before.

There, in a moment, Dick found her. “I thojight I’d lost you, Judy.” “Of course not. Oh, of course not, Dick.” “Then —let’s go, shall we. Because we’ve got things to celebrate. Think of it, Judy! You’re on the air at last! And you did it all by yourself, with nobody helping at all. And aren’t you proud of yourself, Judy Allison? Aren’t you?” Somehow Judy managed to say “Yes, Dick. Yes.” Somehow she managed not to see Elton Day, standing near the elevator, smiling at her quietly, confidently, as she followed Dick into the car, or Lona Burdette, who stood near him, eyes deadly, smile triumphant. When they entered the restaurant the orchestra leader came iC up to Dick. “Something you’d like especially, Dick?” he asked. “Well—” Dick turned to Judy. “Would you dance with me?” “Of course,” Judy said quickly. “Then —‘Dancing in the Dark,’ maybe.” “I’ll do a ‘Band Waggon medley,” the band leader said, and returned to the stand.

Suddenly Judy knew this was her music. The others dancing didn’t matter; this was being done especially tor her, because of Dick, because of the man who held her so lightly, and that can be very touching to a girl who dances very well. Sitting at the table again, neglecting lunch that once would have seemed luxurious, she faced the truth that she knew and Dick didn’t know at all. He smiled. “You’re not“ eating,” he said, trying to be stern. “Judy, what’s wrong?” “Nothing, Dick” “But there is!” “Of course, there isn’t. Haven’t I got a job? And wasn't that what I wanted so much? And I’m going to make lots of money. And—” “Judy, look at me.” She forced candor into her eyes. A smile on to her face. “Yes, Dick?” His eyes were so deep. The little hard line was gone from his mouth. He looked so infinitely young, so very scrubbed, she decided; clean, fair, young, all those things. And the way his hair drew back from his temples, so ver- dark. It would be nice to touch Dick’s hair, to push it back softly. “Judy, you’re not happy after all. And 1 wanted you to be happy. I guess I’d rather see you happy than anything, Judy. But —” “Dick, it’s just nerves. I was so worried last night. And I’ve been so afraid I’d have to go home. But —” she smiled brightly, “but everything’s lovely now, isn’t it?” He didn't answer.

“Isn’t it, she prompted. The hard line had come back. The shadoAV was in his eyes again. And Avhen he said, curtly, "Yes, Judy, everything’s fine,” she shivered inside, knoAvlng he Avas hiding something, knowing something had driven aAvay his smile. She sought desperately for something to talk about, something to break the tension she felt so keenly. “Dick, I haven’t seen your car around to-day.” He turned aAvay’ from her. Not looking, he said flatly, "It Avon’t be around any more, either, Judy.” “Why—” “I took it back to-day. No use trying to pay my bills. So I’ll hav r e to Avail a while.” “But —” He sAvung around suddenly. His face Avas draAvn, his jaAV was set hard. “Judy, you might as Avell knoAv about it noAv as any time. I’m head over heels in love Avith you. You’re the most beautiful person Tve ever seen. I’d give my soul for the right to love you. But —” . Time stopped. The music Avas a faint murmur, a long way off. There Avere no other people in this "big room hoav. Only Judy Allison and Dick Mason. Only tAvo people brought together by a Aveird chance that had no right to happen. Only tAvo people Avho should never have known Avhat they both kneAv noAv. And no Avords to be said, nothing to be done. They set quietly, very still, looking at each other. If Judy’s heart raced, if her bands longed to touch Dick

Mason's strong hands there on the table, if she knew the answer to all the questions she had ever asked herself, still there was nothing to be done. “But I can’t tell you ever again. I can’t ask you to —to —” “To marry you?” she breathed. She hadn’t meant to say it. The words had spoken thmselves. She flushed crimson, tried to turn away, knew she couldn't. And said again, “To marry you, Dick?” “Would you marry me? It I could ask you—if I had the right to ask you at this moment?” “It you had the right, Dick?” ‘ Because I haven't. Because —” She could see the shadow spreading over his face. She could see his lips tighten, his throat jerk as though he struggled to say what must be said. Then, “I can’t ask you to marry me, Judy, and I can’t even say I love you. Not ever after this. “Because —” He laughed bitterly. “Because I’m not tree.”

“You’re not free? Dick!” He laughed again, sharply, like a man who wants to cry and will not. “Oh, I don’t mean I’m married. I’m not. It’s worse, I guess.” Dick turned a tortured face to Judy. “I’ve three people to support," be said. "Three people who feel

that it's my duty to support them from now on.. And I’ve got to. I don’t want to; they’ve done nothing for me in my life, but they’re my family. My grandmother went to the hospital yesterday. No telling how long she'll be there. And I’ve got to pay all the bills. Got to. And her daughter, my mother’s sister, not able to support herself. Too old, Judy. And her son, my cousin. I’m paying his way through school. They’re my job. I can’t have any other. Not now, or to-morrow, or—not ever, maybe. You see? You see, Judy? I can’t say anything to you, how or ever. I’m earning 85 dollars a week, not a cent more. I don’t

know how long It will be before I can earn more. I might lose ray job tomorrow, and if I do it will be worse. I can’t save money, because I’ve got to spend so much. I .can’t do—anything.” He stopped suddenly, and there was a long silence between them. “I wish—l wish I could help,” she said, at last. “You can’t, Judy. Nobody can. If I can make a lot of money in a hurry. I’ll be able to set up some kind of fund. You know, to insure them of care. Because I’ve got to do it. And then, maybe—”

Maybe. The word you say when you know there is a chance, when you know fate will not arrange a way out. Maybe! The band started again. “Judy, shall we dance?” “Yes, Dick,” she said, wanting to cry, wanting to run away. They danced. Once, and again, and again. And Dick paid the check, and they went out of the place. A

taxi-cab moved up. “No, Dick,’’ Judy said fiuickly. “Let's walk. I like to walk. I want to look in the windows, you know. To see tfhat I'm going to buy, maybe, some day, a long time fom now.’’ And then she wished she had said anything else. For Judy could see clearly. She could see, now, that Dick didn’t want her to save money for him. She should have gone without a word, she should have arranged things after that so that there was no need for taxi-cabs. Now. doing what she could, she talked briskly, eagerly, about fur coats in one window, about jewellery in another. A small brown hat with a tiny feather, a hat that would sit perkily over one eye and one ear only. Nice, Judy said. “Yes, very nice,’’ Dick agreed, absently. Then, “Judy. I’ve got to get back. Got another show on. Mustn’t take a chance on showing up late, you know. And my public needs me.” He essayed a laugh that was not at all amused. “All right, Dick,” she said softly. “I’ll look for you soon as the programme is over.” “Then —He laughed awkwardly. “Then I’d better be going. Good-bye, Judy.” “Good-bye, Dick. And you know how grateful I am, Dick. For everything.” “Good-bye, Judy,” he said again. A man says “I love you, Judy Allison,” and his eyes and his voice andthe strained eagerness on his face tell I you it is true. And in twenty minutes | the same man says brokenly, quickly, I "Good-bye.” Just “Good-bye.” And he is gone.

Before her in the window was a price tag on a coat. Somehow, the price tag seemed to gloAv in bright letters. Money! Money that kept Dick Mason from being young, that kept him from being happy. Money that kept Judy Allison from hearing what she had every right to hear from him, what she wanted to hear. Money that meant success to her father and loneliness to her. Money! And nothing to be done. Nothing to be done. The words Aver© rhythmic; she walked in tune to the sloav Avords. Nothing to be done, Judy. Nothing to be done.” The clock hands moved sIOAVIy, ever so slowly. Four minutes to go. Three minutes and a half. Three minutes. Tavo— Judy’s hands Avere cold and stiff, her throat tightened. She could never say a Avord. Not a single Avord. She’d never be able to stand up for fifteen long minutes. She Avas sure the clock'Avould never pass that last minute. A minute to go. Half a minute. A feAv terrible long seconds. Suddenly overhead, a small red light flashed. Panic grabbed her. The clock hand pointed at exactly 10.45. She Avas on the air! Judy Allison, of HiaAvatha, was on the air, to talk to Avomen all over the country, Avomen she’d never see, Avomen Avho might sit down as she finished and Avrite letters saying, “We don’t Avant to hear that voice again. Please put somebody in her place”; Avomen might send telegrams saying, "You’re just fine. Iveep up the good

work.” Women everywhere, in their kitchens or upstairs making the beds, or in the living-rooms sewing. Women- — (To be continued.;