Part 13 (1/2)

”Some work, Sammy,” returned Tom. ”Well, we can't go at it now--it will take us two hours to straighten things up. We'll do it after supper.”

”Going after Tubbs for this?”

”What's the use? I don't blame him for getting back at us. I guess, after all, that joke I played on him was rather rough,” replied Tom.

It took the best part of three hours to put the room back into shape.

Some ink had been spilled on one of the mattresses, and the gla.s.s over one of the photographs had been broken, but that was all the real damage that had been done, and it looked to be accidental. The wad of paper in the keyhole was picked out piece-meal by means of a big fishhook. The key was in the heap on the floor, having been flung through the open transom after the door was locked and plugged.

”Well, he got back at you right enough,” said Songbird, while the room was being re-arranged.

”Dot's chust vot he did, py golly!” came from Max Spangler.

After this incident the boys settled down to their studies for the best part of a week. Tom was now doing very well, although he still complained of his head.

”I've got an idea,” said Sam, one afternoon, after the Eclipse photo playhouse in Ashton had been opened. ”Why can't we make up a party some afternoon or evening and take the girls to the show?”

”I thought of that,” answered Tom. ”But don't you think it would be best for us to go alone first and see what sort of a place it is? Some of these country show places have pretty rough audiences.”

”Oh, Ashton isn't such a common town as that, Tom. But maybe it would be better to size it up first. What do you say if we go down next Wednesday evening? We might make up a little party, with Songbird and the others.”

”That suits me.”

The matter was talked over with the others, and it was speedily arranged that nine of the students should go, including Sam, Tom, Songbird, and Spud. Stanley could not get away, and Max had some lessons he wanted to make up.

”I hope they have some thrilling films,” said Tom, when the time came to leave for Ashton. ”I hate these wishy-washy love stories and would-be funny scenes. I once saw a s.h.i.+pwreck that was fine, and a slide down a mountainside that couldn't be beaten.”

”Well, we'll have to take what comes,” said Sam. ”I understand they change the pictures twice a week.”

When the students arrived at the playhouse in Ashton an agreeable surprise awaited them. Instead of the dingy hall they had expected to see, they saw that the place had been completely transformed. There was a large electric sign over the door, and several big billboards announced the various attractions. A crowd was purchasing tickets at the booth in front, and already the showhouse was half filled for the first performance of the evening.

”'Her First Love,'” read Tom, from a billboard. ”That sounds a little mushy. 'Broncho Bill's Reward,'” he went on. ”That might be interesting. 'Lost in the Ice Fields of Alaska, in Two Parts.' Say, that sounds as if it might be something worth while,” he added, brightening up.

”Yes, I'd like to see some pictures of Alaska,” returned Songbird.

”Provided they weren't taken in Hoboken, or somewhere like that,”

answered Sam. ”Some of these moving pictures are great fakes. They take real scenes in China right in New York City, and show you the bottom of the sea, taken on the sixth floor of an office building in Chicago!”

”Never mind, I guess we'll get our money's worth,” said another of the students, and then the crowd pa.s.sed inside, each youth buying his own ticket, as was the usual custom.

They managed to get seats almost in the center of the hall, which was long and narrow, just the shape for such an exhibition. They noticed that a tall, lanky town boy was usher, and Tom nudged Sam in the ribs.

”Just think, William Philander might have had that job!” he chuckled.

”Well, you did the best you could for him,” answered Sam, dryly.

The end of a funny reel was being shown and the audience was laughing heartily. Then came an ill.u.s.trated song, sung by a young woman with a fairly good voice, and after that ”Broncho Bill's Reward,” a short drama of the plains, with cowboys and cattle thieves, and a sheriff, who aided Broncho Bill to get back his employer's cattle and win the hand of the girl he loved.

”Maybe you could write some verses about that girl,” suggested Sam to Songbird, in a whisper. ”You could call it 'The Cowboy's Sweetheart,'

or something like that.”

”So I could,” murmured the would-be poet, and immediately commenced to make up rhymes, which he scribbled on some paper in the dark.