WILD BELLS.

Otago Witness, Issue 3860, 6 March 1928, Page 81

WILD BELLS.

By

Carlson E. Holmes.

(Copyright.—For the Otago Witness.) John Austin, author of the year’s best seller, left his publisher’s office in a daze. Twenty thousand pounds to his credit in less than a month ! And there were still more months of anticipated heavy sales, not to mention motion picture rights and the dozen sources of income that persist in attaching themselves to successful author. All that money for his novel, “ Wild Bells,” a book that he had written as an outlet for his own bad temper. Countless publishers had refused ” The Singing Waves ” and “ Bowsprit,” his first two works, which were tales of the sea as John Austin knew it, straightforward, brutally-direct stories which showed how cruel the sea could be. In the bitterness that follows failure he wrote “ Wild Bells ” —wrote it with no intention of submitting it anywhere. But when “ Bowsprit ’’ came back he sent “ Wild Bells,’’ just to annoy the publishers. They sent him a cheque for £5OO, just to annoy him. Reporters and press photographers sought him out. He refused to see . them. So they photographed his front gate and wrote rapturous reams in praise of “ the world’s most famous author, a shy, retiring young man.” Had those same reporters seen “ the shy, retiring young man ” forcing a score of panic-stricken Lascars to do their duty, they would not have ventured within a mile of his house.

The whole world gloated over “ Wild Bells.’’ Flappers of no particular age, and young gentlemen up to 24, sighed and said it was Life. Young women, and women no longer young, agreed that it was written by a man with a broken heart. Men said it was nonsense: but they read it. And it was nonsense—the story of a weak-willed man who allowed his thoughts and actions to be controlled not only by his wife, but by at least three “ other women.” “ Wild Bells ’’ was insipid and foolish. Compared with it, even Michael Arlen’s efforts would cease to be rubbish.

Austin stepped out on to the road, deep in thought. True, “ The Singing Waves” and “Bowsprit” had been sold at about three thousand times what he originally valued them; but “ Wild Bells ” had sold them. If only There was a scream, a screeching of brakes, a searing touch of agonising pain. Theo

John Austin seemed to be carried along on great, mountainous waves. Then the waves seemed to stop and he was falling . . . falling. He heard a voice ask. Ready, doctor? ” It seemed a funny thing to say. A great darkness fell, and when a light came he was talking to strange creatures about his early days at sea.

Worst case I’ve ever had, sister,’’ said one of the strange creatures. “ He seems mentally indifferent. We’ll have to save him. Confound these famous people.” Austin finally came to his senses. A nurse was by his side. “Where . . . where am I? ” he asked. ‘ln the general hospital, Mr Austin. You had a little accident, but you’ll soon be al] right. In a week you’ll be able to start another lovelv book like ‘ Wild Bells.’ ”

“Damn ‘ Wild Bells’ and all other bells,” replied the invalid.

In every great crisis there is a small thing or a small person that saves the day.

Thus,, in the General Hospital, science and skill fought to save John Austin. Yet, they couldn’t. It was left to Evelyn O’Donoghue, a very junior probationer nurse gifted with the candour of her Irish ancestors "who had passed many a happy day killing one another. She was transferred to Austin's ward. Listlessly he watched her as she nimbly went about her many duties. A nice enough looking girl; but, of course, she admired “ Wild Bells.” At last she came to his bedside. He noticed, with wonder, that she did not stare at him; neither did she say anything about “ Wild Bells.” “Would you like some broth?”—there was not even a, trace of awe in her voice. Yes, please.” Why he asked for broth Austin did not know. He had religiously refused everything he could for several days. “ All right, I’ll get it. Won’t be a minute,” and the trim little figure—graceful even in the old-fashioned uniform of the Central Hospital—sped down the ward.

Amazed, John Austin watched her. He struggled up to a sitting position in his bed, and found himself wishing she’d hurry. His doctor entered the ward. “ Good Lord, ! what’s happened ? ” gasped the worthy medico as he hurried to Austin.

“ I’m having some soup, or something like that,” said 'the patient. “Have just what you like, old man.” The doctor was almost in tears.! He felt now that his career was made. He

dashed away to telephone Austin’s people.

Nurse O’Donoghue brought the broth. As Austin took it, she made no reference to “ Wild Bells.” He was amazed. “ I say, nurse,” he asked. “ Have you read ‘Wild Bells’? It’s er—it's my book.” “No ! It’s tripe ! ” “What?” “ No, I would not read it. I struggled through two pages of it. It’s rot. If you must write, turn out some more like ‘ Bowsprit.’ I wasn’t going to read it after my sample of ‘ Wild Bells.’ - But ‘ Bowsprit ’ is magnificent, even although the critics say it’s only a sea story.” “ You really mean that about ‘ Wild Bells ’? ” “ I do. You ought to be ashamed of yourself, Mr Austin. Why did you write that awful thing? ” “ For spite.” “ I'm glad to hear it. I'm reading ‘ The Singing Waves ’ now. Why don’t you stick to sea stories?” She collected the broth basin and was gone. “ That,” said Austin to a big bunch of flowers, “ is my idea of a rational human being.”

The hospital matron towered above the afternoon tea.

“ You can’t trust the Irish, doctor,” she said. “ Fancy that girl taking such a mean advantage of us. Of course, I went to the wedding, though it seems a little strange for a matron to accept an invitation from a p'robationer. But, of course, he is almost a millionaire, so I went along to see how she would look among all those wealthy people. The sly little cat is popular among them, doctor. I suppose she crawls after them. I heard one woman say her Irish twang is charming. I think it’s awfi.l, the unprincipled, toadying creature.”

Unmatronly words, perhaps, but it was the matron who had left those flowers every morning on Austin’s locker.

“ Ah, well, matron,” replied the doctor. “ There’s gratitude for you. Never a word about my work or yours in the newspapers. There was a whole column about her, and another about him. They say he is not writing any more books like ‘ Wild Bells.’ It wouldn’t have hurt to put in a line or two about my operation. Yes, thank you, matron —just a half cup.”