“LES SLACKER.”

Wanganui Herald, Volume LI, Issue 15189, 9 April 1917, Page 7

“LES SLACKER.”

EITE-REEL FIGHT. AMUSING NEW YORK SKIT. W. 0. M'Goeiian, boxing writer for the New York Tribune, is responsible for one of the liveliest sporting satires that lias oomc across tire Pacific for a long time. It is the scenario for a fivereel film, and it proceeds :—- REEL 1. Les Slacker, a poor but ambitious pugilist, is riding through the streets of Sydney, Australia, in his last year’s limousine. Ho has taated nothing but food all day, and has nothing to protect him from the cold but a sealskin coat of simple cut. The thought that he has but a few hundred thousand pounds sterling between himself and starvation causes him to register sorrow. .Suddenly the sound of the bagpipes fa heard off stage, and a recruiting squad files in. The sergeant halts the limousine. “Why don’t you come and fight, my lad?” demands the recruiting sergeant. “You should be a fighter with those shoulders.” “I am a fighter,” returns Les Slacker haughtily. “I am ready to light at any time to "obtain money to support my twelve aged and orphaned grandparents. How much is the purse and how many rounds?” “The purse is a shilling a day.the promoter is the King, and it is a fight to the finish,” returns the recruiting e©r-gca-r-t. Lets Slacker registers indignation. “The terms are preposterous,” Ire says angrily. “I would never fight for that paltry sum. You do not seem to realise that I am Les Slacker, the champion. Beides, I have my aged and orphaned grandparents to think of.” Les signals to his ohauffenr. “Homo James,” he says. “These persons a-ro insulting.” As the automobile slides away, a pale slender youngster runs up to the sergeant. “I would like to enlist,” he says. “But you are not a fighter, my lad, says the sergeant. “No, sir,” replies the youngster; “That's why I want to fight,” REEL 11. Lew Slacker, the poor but ambitious pugilist, alights before his Australian mansion. His footman has gone to the colours, so Ijes is compelled to remove his own coat. Wearily he makes his way to the drawingroom, which Iras not been swept out that day because of the scarcity of labour, caused by the war. His twelve aged and orphaned grandparents are sitting, each in a pjjisli-liued chair, wearing their last year’s diamonds, and the grandfathers are reduced to 100 .sovereigns a week. There is nothing in the pantry but food, and the wine cellar contains nothing but champagne and a few other simple beverages. “We are through our tasks already, Les,” says the oldest of the grandparents. 1 “i’here are so few coupons for ufl to clip since this awful war. Les Slacker bursts into tears. “Oh, my dear grarfdparents, what shall we do?” he sobs. “All of the young men who used to pay to sec me box have gone to the war, and many of them have been killed. 1 fear that we shall have to curtail expenses.” instantly all of Les Slacker's grandparents start te sob in chorus. The sight fa too much for the tender-hearted young Slacker. His face registers high resolution. “I will go to America,” he-says. Hw grateful grandparents rush to embrace him.

REEL IIL Leri Slacker, the high-minded young pugilist, is hiding on the dock at Newcastle, Australia. His handsome countenance registers traces of suffering from the contant persecution of persons who have been proffering him white feathers. Off stage the pipes of the recruiting squad are skirling some of that irritating Highland music. A stoker comes oat to listen and leaves the coal hatch open. Registering determination, Les Slacker dashes through the hatch and hides himself in the coal. “They can’t get me,” he says. “I'm too clever. My ring experience has taught me how to duck. REEL IV. Ibi&dawn in New York harbour. The first rose-tints are striking the Statue of Liberty. (Close up showing the Statue of Liberty all lit up.) Suddenly sn aeroplane drops down through the morning mist and is about

to aliglit on tiie deck of the oil tanker Gasoline, which is dropping anchor in quarantine. Tex Rickard and Sam McCracken, the boxing promoters, emorgd and climb to the deck of the Gasoline. “Where i.s Les Slacker'*’ they demand. “Here.” replies a clean’, fresh young voice. “I am Les Slacker.” A young man drops the pan of potatoes which lie has been set to peel ami stands before them. “1 was forced to assume this rude disguise by my tormentors in Australia,” he explains. “The blighters think that a fighter ought to fight." “Will, you box for us?” demands Rickard. “Kow, much per boutf" asks Res Slacker. “Remember that lam thesoia snport of twelve aged and indigent 'grand paren te. “One hundred thousand dollars pet bout,” replies the promoter. “They will all be ten-round bouts, and there is no danger.” “At last,” says Les Slacker, “I haws reached a country where a fighter ip apreciated for his true worth. I wili consider. If I cannot get any mare;than. that I will box for the sum jurat to show 1 what a great lighter’ I am.” In the, meantime the decks have been cluttered up with, eager promoters who are waving fchousand-do!la r bills at LeP Slacker. For an instant a shade of anxiety crosses the handsome face of LeJ Slacker. “None of these Johnnies are recruiting sergeants, are they?” he asks.

KEEL Y. Las Slacker, the noble ytmng pugilist, is being interviewed by the sporting writcis. “Pardon me a minute,” be says. “I must send a cable to_ my aged and orphaned grandparents in Australia to let them know of my safe arrival. Taking out a dianKmd-staddod founts ain non with winch lie signs his cheques, Les dashes off an affectionate cablegram. (Close up of the cable gram). It reads; Dear Grandparenfts. —the game her?' is 90ft. They pay twenty thousand pounds a bout. Throw away the old diamonds. Will mail some new ones by next post. LES. “Now, gentlemen,” says Les Slacker, “I am at your service. One's first duty naturally is to his grandparents. Shall 1 tell you what a great fighter I am.?” “Are vou going to enlist?” asks one of the sporting writers. The handsome face of Lee Slacker registers well-bred annoyance. “My good man, I certainly shall enlist.” The band at the Waldorf-Astoria strikes up “God Save the King.” “I shall enlist,” continues Les Slacker, his handsome face registering the full fervour of his .patriotism, “and I shall do it the moment peace is declared-” The Atlantic fleet in the harbour fins , a salute of 21 guns, and the sporting N writers hurl the Christmas hats presented by Squire Ebbets, of Flatbnsh, inter the air. _ j Les Slacker, in his agitation, drops a shilling, and stoops to pick it up -as the tableau' goes into a fadeaway.