The Hunter and Other Stories Part 16

He blew breath out.

Abruptly she sat up straight, twisting herself around, taking the lapels of his coat in her hands. "Don't answer now," she begged, her face close to his. "Don't say anything till tomorrow. And listen, Kipper, I'm not trying to hold you. I know that wouldn't hold you, wouldn't bring you back. It'd-it'd be more likely to drive you away, but-but-" She took her hands away from his coat and rubbed the back of one across her mouth.

"But what?" he asked harshly.

She giggled and said, "And I'm not expecting a little one." Merriment went out of her face and voice. She put both hands on his leg, her face close to his again. "I don't know what it is, Kipper. I just would like it. Maybe I'm bats, but I would like it. I never asked you. I wouldn't ask you if you were staying-honest-but you're going and maybe you wouldn't mind. Maybe you would. I just thought I'd ask you. Whatever you say. I won't ask you again and I know it's silly, so I won't blame you the least little bit if you say, 'No.' But I would like it." She swallowed, patted his leg, said, "Anyhow, you're not supposed to answer me till tomorrow and if you just want to forget it then I'll let you-won't say a thing about it," and sat back on her portion of the seat.

Kipper's lean face was stony.

Five blocks pa.s.sed. He said, "It's a go."

"No, no," she began, "you mustn't-"

He put his arm around her and pulled her over against his chest. "It'll be the same tomorrow." He cleared his throat harshly. "I'll do anything you say." He took in a deep breath. "I'll stay if you say so."

She began to tremble and tears came out. She whispered desperately, "I want you to do what you want to do."

His lower lip twitched. He pinched it between his teeth and stared through the window at street-lights they pa.s.sed. He said slowly, "I want to go."

She put a hand up on his cheek and held it there. She said, "I know, darling, I know."

SCREEN STORIES.

COMMENTARY.

Das.h.i.+ell Hammett's earliest produced screen story was initiated with a memo sent by David O. Selznick to studio chief B. P. Schulberg, his boss at Paramount, on July 18, 1930. "Hammett has recently created quite a stir in literary circles by his creation of two books for Knopf, The Maltese Falcon and Red Harvest," wrote Selznick. "I believe . . . that he might very well prove to be the creator of something new and startlingly original for us." Schulberg was persuaded. Hammett accepted a contract with Paramount to write a screen story, moved from New York to Hollywood, and promptly turned out seven handwritten pages for "After School," soon after revised, expanded, and ret.i.tled "The Kiss-Off."

Hammett's treatment was adapted by Max Marcin, with a screenplay by Oliver H. P. Garrett, directed by Rouben Mamoulian. The film was released on April 18, 1931, as City Streets, starring Sylvia Sidney and Gary Cooper. It is a first-rate example of the period and genre, notable for its landmark use of voiceovers, what one reviewer called "phantom dialogue." Hammett had mixed feelings about the picture, though he was enamored of Sylvia Sidney (who was then romantically involved with Schulberg). "She's good, that ugly little baby," Hammett said, "and currently my favorite screen actress."

City Streets was in theaters and director Roy Del Ruth's adaptation of The Maltese Falcon was in postproduction on April 28, 1931, when Darryl Zanuck sent a letter to Hammett rejecting his final draft of "On the Make," a screen treatment he'd commissioned for Warner Bros. some three months earlier. The deal would later serve as evidence in a precedent-setting legal contest between Hammett and Warner Bros. over the owners.h.i.+p of character rights in the Falcon. "I had agreed," explained Hammett in his affidavit, "that I would write another original Sam Spade story for motion picture production by the defendant featuring the actor, William Powell." Warner Bros. paid a total of ten thousand dollars for the first two drafts, but in the end decided to cut its losses. "The finished story has none of the qualifications of Maltese Falcon, although the same character was in both stories," explained Zanuck.

Hammett and Zanuck's remarks notwithstanding, the Sam Spade in Hammett's novel and Gene Richmond in "On the Make" have little in common, not including geography. "On the Make" is a rare Hammett story set in Southern California. Sam Spade as portrayed by Ricardo Cortez in Warner's 1931 adaptation of the Falcon, however, does prefigure Richmond's rapacious tactics and unprincipled worldview. The two are greedy scoundrels, rather than existential antiheroes. It seems Hammett gave Zanuck what he'd asked for-a variation on his sleazy filmic detective, unctuous rather than cagey and grasping where the original (and later, Bogart) was reticent.

With Zanuck's rejection, the story reverted to Hammett, who again reworked the tale, as it is published here. It was sold to Universal in 1935. Gene Richmond's name was changed to T. N. Thompson-otherwise known as Mr. Dynamite-in a script liberally reworked by Doris Malloy and Harry Clork. Mr. Dynamite was released in 1935, starring Edmund Lowe as the corrupt detective and Jean Dixon as his girl Friday. Lively banter between the two would have echoed William Powell and Myrna Loy as Nick and Nora Charles in MGM's The Thin Man, still playing in theaters eleven months after its initial release. Universal's blend of comedy and crime drama was far less successful, however. Mr. Dynamite drifted into obscurity.

Despite occasional misfires and notoriously erratic work habits, Hammett's timely and unique talent was a magnet for Hollywood's early filmmakers. In 1931 and 1932 Hammett reported potential writing a.s.signments for George Bancroft for Paramount, Wallace Beery for MGM, Ronald Colman for United Artists, for Gloria Swanson, and for Universal. Among the extant works in Hammett's archive are a handful of unfinished screen treatments that are likely products of those aborted negotiations.

Hammett's draft of "The Devil's Playground" dates to those heady years-when he was a hot property and current and cultural events had aroused Hollywood's interest in China. The Sino-j.a.panese War, Grace Zaring Stone's popular novel The Bitter Tea of General Yen (1930), and Pearl Buck's Pulitzer Prizewinning The Good Earth (1931) sent Hollywood's filmmakers scrambling for high oriental drama. It's easy to imagine Hammett's sweeping romantic adventure playing opposite Shanghai Express, Red Dust, Roar of the Dragon, or War Correspondent-all set in China and released in 1932. The typescript that follows is an amalgam of two overlapping drafts. Repet.i.tious pa.s.sages have been omitted and names have been regularized.

THE KISS-OFF.

I.

A high school is letting hundreds of youngsters out into a street. A girl of 16 waits for a boy of the same age. His clothes are old and neat; hers are newer and a bit gaudy. They are happy together in a quiet, casual way. They go to shooting gallery where boy works after school. Girl remains behind until the proprietor has left boy in charge, and then joins him. She shoots at targets with pistol; is a terrible shot. The boy shoots, seeming to pay little attention to what he is doing, but putting his bullets where he wants them. After a while she persuades him to show his skill again. Proprietor returns in middle of exhibition and gives boy h.e.l.l for wasting cartridges. The girl runs away.

II.

The girl goes home to a shabby furnished flat-not a tenement. Her mother-a frail woman with a weak once-pretty face-is in the kitchen cooking. The girl's step-father-Tom Cooley-is sitting with white-stockinged feet on the dining-room table, reading a newspaper. He is a fleshy man of forty-something with a round, good-natured face and a jovial manner. He looks at the clock and asks the girl where she has been since school let out. She won't tell him. He scowls, insists. The girl keeps quiet. Her manner isn't defiant-just spiritlessly stubborn. He twists her arm, threatens her with a fist (but keeps his feet on the table); she won't tell. He grins at her with paternal pride, pats her cheek, gives her a half-dollar, and praises her: "Good kid! Don't never tell n.o.body nothing!"

The girl helps her mother get the meal on the table. Cooley good-naturedly helps himself to the choicest and largest portion of each dish. After the meal he prepares to go out. The girl's mother puts his shoes on and laces them for him; the girl brings him collar, tie, and coat.

III.

Tom Cooley goes to the building where Blackie lives, a large middle-cla.s.s apartment building with dim corridors. Turning a corner of the corridor toward Blackie's apartment, Cooley stops, peeps. Agnes-Blackie's woman-is letting Jack Willis out of Blackie's apartment. Agnes is young, tall, hard, beautiful, reckless. Willis is a hard-faced, handsome, tall, debonair man in evening clothes. Cooley watches them. Willis draws Agnes through the door with him, pulling the door partly shut to screen them from inside, and puts his arm around her. The door is yanked open from the inside by Blackie. He is larger than Willis, tougher, and mad. His fist starts for Willis-and stops. Willis has stepped back, put a hand in an overcoat pocket, and is covering Blackie with the gun that is there. Willis says suavely: "You're making too much dough out of my booze to pick a fight with me, Blackie." Blackie says: "Yeah, but don't make me forget it." He puts out a big hand, takes Agnes by the neck, and pushes her indoors. Willis lifts the gun in his pocket again, hesitates, shrugs, and turns away. Blackie goes in and closes the door.

Cooley runs down the corridor a little distance and then comes back, whistling as he walks, looking innocent. He meets Willis at the bend in the corridor and greets him cheerfully. Willis speaks to him, goes on, turns to look thoughtfully at him, and then calls him back. "Tom," he says, "I've been thinking that if anything happened to Blackie, and you could hold his mob together, I'd be willing to do business with you. You could handle the customers better than he-your disposition's better." Cooley purses his lips, scratches his chin, and holds out a fat hand. "That's eggs in the coffee with me, chief," he says. They shake hands, and Cooley goes on to Blackie's apartment. Blackie opens the door. Agnes is getting up from the floor, holding her jaw with one hand. She goes into the bedroom to sulk and rage on the bed. Blackie and Tom Cooley go into the living room where Slim-Blackie's bodyguard-is sitting in front of a bottle. Both Blackie and Slim like Cooley-everybody does. Cooley encourages Blackie to drown his anger with the stuff in the bottle, and sees that Slim drinks with him. Slim doesn't need much urging. Blackie has to go out, to collect payment for a s.h.i.+pment from a cabaret owner. He asks Cooley to wait till he gets back, and keep an eye on Agnes, telling of his suspicion that she and Willis are cheating on him. Cooley pretends surprise. Black and Slim go away afoot, Slim strolling a little behind Blackie. Neither of them are drunk, but they've got fair edges on.

IV.

As soon as they are gone Agnes comes out of the bed-room, takes a shot or two from the bottle, and walks the floor, cursing Blackie. Cooley eggs her on, until she says she's going to kill Blackie some day. "Suppose he don't live that long?" he suggests. She looks sharply at him, sees he means something, and they go into conference; and then he phones the girl-his step-daughter. The girl takes an automatic from a bureau drawer, puts it in a handbag-almost too small to hold it-and goes to meet her step-father in alley behind Blackie's apartment. Cooley takes the gun and tells her to wait. She waits submissively. He posts himself in court running from alley to street, beside apartment building.

While Blackie was conducting his business with the cabaret proprietor, Slim had taken more drinks, and now he's definitely tight. On the return trip he lags nearly a block behind Blackie. When Blackie pa.s.ses the court where Cooley is hiding, Cooley shoots him down. A pedestrian on the other side of the street sees him, but it is too dark for the pedestrian to know anything except that a man did the shooting. Slim, staggering up, sees half a dozen men running down the court and shoots at and misses all of them-until a garbage-can trips him and he goes down.

Cooley runs down the court to the alley-where he has left the girl-and gives her the gun, saying: "Chuck it in the river. If you get nabbed, dummy up and I'll see you through." Then he runs behind apartment building, scrambling up the rear fire-escape to Blackie's apartment. The girl stuffs the gun into the too-small bag again, runs up to cross street, and then strolls down it. A policeman runs around the corner and asks her if she has seen a man. She says, "No." The policeman-having been told by the pedestrian and Slim that the killer was a man-hurries away hunting for him.

V.

Agnes helps Cooley through the window from the fire-escape, fans him cool, gives him a cigar she has kept burning-with a long ash, as if it had been smoked peacefully by a man sitting still-and they sit down to a half-played pinochle game-a picture of peace when the police arrive. The police don't really suspect them, but they search them and the apartment, finding nothing. Outside, other police are searching alley and court with flashlight, hunting for clews, finding nothing except the empty sh.e.l.ls Cooley's gun had ejected. Agnes, Cooley, and Slim are taken to headquarters for questioning, but purely as a matter of routine.

The girl with the gun has safely got through to the bridge over the river, but there she is picked up by two detectives returning from the scene of the shooting, who happen to spot the bulging outline of the gun in the too-small handbag when she pa.s.ses under a street light. They take her to headquarters and give her everything they've got in the way of third-degrees; but she dummies up and stays dummied up, refusing to tell them who she is, refusing to open her mouth. The police bring Cooley, Agnes, and Slim into the room where the girl is, to see if any of them know her. Cooley cries: "My G.o.d, my little daughter!" and begs her to talk, to tell the police everything, not to break her dear mother's heart, and so on. He even weeps real tears; but he keeps two fingers of his right hand crossed where she can see them. He is shown the gun and instantly identifies it as his-kept in his bureau drawer.

They fail to get anything out of the girl. Cooley, talking the affair over with the police and an a.s.sistant district attorney, after they have left the girl, helps them arrive at a theory that some boy-friend of hers killed Blackie-they know it wasn't a girl-and slipped her the gun to chuck in the river. Cooley admits sadly that he hadn't been very strict with her-not as strict as if she'd been his daughter instead of his step-daughter-and she had probably got in with a bad crowd. "This younger generation," he says, "ain't got much respect for law and order." He agrees that the best thing for her would be a reform school till she's of age. He, Slim, and Agnes leave headquarters, Cooley jerking his head toward the building in which they have left the girl, and telling the others: "She's a good kid. It's all in knowing how to raise them."

VI.

Blackie's mob meets-with Willis-in Blackie's apartment, and agree to string along with Cooley. They don't suspect him. They suspect Willis, but business is business and there's no profit in taking a dead man's part. Agnes packs her clothes and goes away with Willis.

Cooley goes away with Slim-his bodyguard now-strolling a little behind him. They come to the shooting gallery where the boy is-in the proprietor's absence-practicing. Cooley is impressed by the boy's skill. So, in another way, is the proprietor, who has just come around the corner on the other side of the street. Cooley, beckoning to Slim, goes to the gallery and has Slim try his marksmans.h.i.+p. Slim is a fair shot, sometimes scoring, sometimes not. Cooley offers the boy a drink from his flask. The boy doesn't drink. Cooley asks him: "Want a job?" The boy says: "Got one." The proprietor, who has arrived now, says: "No, you ain't. I've told you before, them cartridges cost money, and, besides, you showing off that-away makes people ashamed to shoot in front of you." (The boy doesn't look into anybody's face. The closest he comes to it is to look at their chests. He moves very deliberately, holding himself rather rigid, and has a cool, unsmiling, poker face.) The boy comes through the gate in the counter. Cooley holds out a couple of bills to him. The boy pockets them. Cooley, under cover of the counter and his coat, gives the boy an automatic. The boy pockets it. Cooley says: "All you got to do is go along behind me and see that nothing happens." Slim cuts in, protesting. Cooley tells him good-naturedly: "You drink too much and don't shoot enough, Slim. Look what you let happen to poor Blackie." Slim drops his hand to his pocket and glares at the boy. The boy looks at the handkerchief blossoming out of Slim's breast pocket, on the left side, over his heart; stares coldly at it. Slim looks from the boy to the handkerchief, to the target he and Cooley had watched the boy shoot at, back at the boy again, fidgets; rubs his lips with his tongue, and goes away. The boy follows Cooley down the street.

VII.

After nearly five years in reform school, the girl-now of age-is turned loose, and comes home to Cooley's house. Cooley has prospered. His house is a large, ornate affair in a good neighborhood, expensively furnished, but never kept clean. Cooley still sits around collarless and shoeless; he scratches his matches on the wallpaper or the top of a mahogany table or whatever happens to be nearest; and he's as cheerful as ever. The boy, now the Roscoe Kid (it'll have to be explained to the customers, of course, that a "roscoe" is a gun), doesn't look any older than he did before. His clothes are better, but still very quiet and neatly worn; and he keeps pretty much to himself, holding himself apart from his a.s.sociates. (Out of his skill with a gun, and his pride in it, has grown a self-respect that the others haven't.) The girl's five years in school have hardened her: in place of her former lack of spirit is now something that the Kid doesn't like. He looks into her eyes when she first comes in, sees the thing he doesn't like, and thereafter looks at her as he looks at the rest of the world-no higher than the chest. A frowsy plump woman in a soiled dressing gown is lying on a chaise longue eating chocolates and reading a magazine when the girl comes in. The girl looks inquiringly at her. Cooley says: "That's Pansy. Your Ma died on me."

The girl thinks the Kid is giving her the go-by because he considers her still a school-girl, and because of her clothes. She gets money from Cooley and goes shopping, returning to the house all gaudied up. Willis is there. He falls for her immediately and she cracks wise with him, trying to impress the Kid; but the wiser she acts, the more the Kid draws back into his sh.e.l.l. Willis suggests that Cooley ought to throw a party that night to celebrate the girl's being sprung, and Cooley agrees. Willis, leaving, asks Cooley if it's all right for him to make a play for the girl. Cooley says it's all right with him.

The girl goes upstairs, puzzled by her lack of success with the Kid. Pa.s.sing his room, she hears him moving around, peeps in. He's sweeping the floor. She sees that his room is clean, neat, and orderly-the only one in the house that is. She sees, then, where she has gone wrong with him. She goes to her room, leaving the door open, and, after changing to quieter clothes, begins cleaning up the room. When he pa.s.ses her door she asks him to lend her the broom, to help her move the furniture so she can sweep out the couple of years' acc.u.mulation of dirt that has been swept under bed, dressers, etc. She's quiet and demure now, and by the time they've finished with the room she has got him looking into her face again-they are once more as they were before she was sent over. She asks him about his shooting-reminding him of when they used to go to the gallery after school. He takes her down to the cellar where he has a private gallery laid out. She shoots, and is as bad a shot as ever. He shoots, and is as good as ever, or better. She's got him now: he puts down his gun as if he didn't like it, and says to her: "You and I don't belong here. This racket's all right for the rest of them, but not for us. Let's give it the kiss-off-get out of it-find something straight." The girl kisses him as Pansy calls down the stairs that it's time to dress for the party.

At the party that night the girl-between having her liberty and having the Kid-is too happy to be quiet: she's got to blow off. But the Kid is no good at celebrating: he doesn't drink; he's too quiet, reserved, especially among all these people he doesn't like very much. Willis is good at celebrating, and he's after the girl. Willis doesn't mean anything to her except somebody to blow off steam with, until she sees that the Kid has become sullenly jealous. He's stopped looking into her face when she talks to him. She begins to get angry with him; Willis leads her on; she starts drinking and playing up stronger to Willis to infuriate the Kid. The further she goes with Willis, the more the Kid draws back in his sh.e.l.l, and the angrier that makes her; until, finally, when she's had a few more drinks, she tells, as a swell joke, about the Kid asking her to give the racket the kiss-off and go straight with him.

Willis smiles, uneasily, when she tells it, but n.o.body else does. They know the Kid too well to laugh at him. Embarra.s.sed and angered by the way her joke has flopped, the girl throws herself at Willis, putting her arms around his neck, putting her mouth up toward his. His mouth starts down toward hers, and stops. The Kid is standing close to them, staring at Willis's chest-at the left side. Willis tries to make himself go through with it-kiss the girl-but can't. He loosens her arms from his neck, smiling apologetically, and goes out of the room. The Kid, looking at n.o.body, goes upstairs.

Cooley follows Willis to the front door. Willis says: "Make the Kid lay off. You said I could have her." Cooley, smiling, tries to soothe Willis, but refuses to interfere. Willis says, as he had said to Blackie: "You're making too much dough out of my booze to pick a fight with me, Tom." Cooley nods amiably, adding: "And with the Kid walking behind me-on good terms with me-I'll live to spend it." Willis leaves. The party breaks up. When the others have gone Cooley says to the girl: "What swell ideas you got-b.o.o.bing the Roscoe Kid! Ever try patting an electric fan?" The girl, more sick than tight now, frightened at what she has done, goes up to the Kid's room.

He's packing his bag. She tries to apologize, but he cuts her off and goes down with his bag, telling Cooley he's through-leaving. Cooley tries to talk him out of it, fails, asks him to wait five minutes. Cooley goes up to the girl's room and tells her she'll have to square herself with the Kid. She says she tried, but it was no good. He insists that she can if she tries hard enough, but she sticks to it that it's hopeless.

Downstairs, the Kid waits till the five minutes are up, then starts for the street door. The noise of Cooley beating the girl stops him. He goes upstairs and tells Cooley he'll stay. Cooley goes out of the girl's room leaving them there together.

At his own apartment, Willis tells Agnes to get her stuff together and get out the next day. Then he phones Slim, who comes there. Willis tells him: "Slim, I've been thinking that if anything happened to Cooley, and you could handle his mob-hold them together-I'd be willing to do business with you." Slim says: "The Roscoe Kid would have to be taken care of first, and that ain't a job I'd want." Willis argues with him, dazzles him with the thought of the money that Cooley makes, that Slim could make in his place; and Slim finally agrees, on condition that Willis take part in the removal. They plan it together-with Agnes, in the next room, listening in. Willis phones a dive keeper, and has him phone Cooley and ask him to come to his place. Then Willis and Slim go out to collect some a.s.sistants and spring their trap.

The girl is trying, unsuccessfully, to square herself with the Kid when Cooley gets the dive keeper's summons, and calls the Kid down to go with him. They go in one of Cooley's cars, Cooley driving, the Kid beside him.

When Willis and Slim have gone, Agnes calls Cooley's number, and tells the girl, who answers the phone: "Tell Tom not to go out. It's a trap of Jack's and Slim's." The girl says: "They've gone." Agnes then goes to the police. The girl, knowing where her step-father and the Kid have gone, sets out to overtake them in another car. She arrives just as the trap is sprung-in a street that is half torn up by a sewer ditch. The girl gets there in time to jam her car between Cooley's and the attacking car, partially upsetting the latter. The Kid yanks her out of her car into his, shoots Slim-who was trying to take a crack at her-and has Willis and the others covered by the time they straighten up from the b.u.mp the girl's car gave them.

Cooley spots the police coming, from both sides. There's no getaway open. Cooley takes charge, giving orders. The Kid shoots the street light out, giving them darkness. The girl scrambles out and sticks the Kid's and Cooley's guns out of sight in the loose dirt along the ditch edge. They're all out of their cars when the first of the police arrive. Cooley pretends he's glad to see them, saying some men tried to stick them up. Asked which direction they went, he says, "That-away," making an almost complete circle with his arm. One of the police gets up from examining Slim, who is lying in the street. "Is this one of them?" he asks. "Is he dead?" Cooley asks, and is told that he is. "He's one of them," Cooley says.

Agnes comes up with the rest of the police, and laughs at Willis, boasting of having spoiled his plan. The police question Cooley. "Why, she must be goofy," he says, embracing Willis. "He's the best friend I got. He saved my life. If it hadn't been for him they'd of got me sure." Agnes, enraged at Cooley's attempt to rob her of her revenge, denounces him as the murderer of Blackie. A couple of policemen take hold of him. Then Willis suavely tells the police Agnes sent him and his friends into this trap where Cooley, the Kid, and the girl tried to shoot him down, just as Cooley and the girl had shot Blackie down five years ago.

The Kid grabs the girl and jumps backward into the ditch. The buried guns are close to his hands then. He gets them out and holds off the police for a moment, telling the girl to beat it down the ditch. Everyone's attention is on him. Agnes picks up Slim's gun from the street and shoots Willis. The Kid and the girl take advantage of this break to get a running start down the ditch. Around a bend in it they find the opening of a small tunnel, boarded above to keep loose dirt from blocking the entrance. They go in. The Kid knocks the board loose. Earth has settled over the entrance by the time the pursuing police arrive.

Huddled in their sewer, the girl doesn't have much trouble squaring herself with the Kid, getting his forgiveness. At a little before daybreak they sneak out, brush off their clothes, and set out for the edge of town. When they are on the bridge where, five years ago, she had been picked up with Cooley's gun, she asks the Kid for his guns, kisses them good-bye and tosses them into the river.

Later in the morning they board a train at a small station some miles from the city, with a ticket reading still farther away. They're happy together. The Kid slumps comfortably down in the seat beside her, no longer holding himself rigid; nor has he a poker face now; and when he gives up his ticket he looks into the conductor's eyes with a friendly smile.

DEVIL'S PLAYGROUND

Guy Wayne, American soldier of fortune, is instructor in the army of the tuchun, or military governor, of a western Chinese province, holding a colonel's commission. With him are two white noncoms-Hank, a small, dried-up, heavily mustached, bowlegged oldish man, and Bingo Kelly, a big, slow-moving, good-natured husky.

Early one evening while Wayne is lying with his head in the lap of the tuchun's favorite wife, Hank climbs through the window to tell him a peeping servant has carried the news to the tuchun. Wayne tells the woman she will have to run away with them, but she has her own idea of how to take care of herself. She tears her clothes, disarranges her hair, and begins to scream rape. Hank wants to cut her throat, but Wayne, half-amused, says no. Hank throws her down on the floor, rolls her up in rug, and they stow her away, upside-down, out of sight. Wayne blows a kiss at her as he and Hank drop out the window.

Strolling through the streets, returning the salutes of Chinese soldiers, apparently chatting casually, with only the side to side s.h.i.+fting of their eyes denoting watchfulness, they go to where Wayne has left his car. Wayne gets into the car while Hank goes off afoot. Wayne rides outside the town, to where Bingo is drilling a machine-gun detachment. After a low-voiced conversation between the two white men Bingo marches his detachment over a hill, out of sight of the town, and spreads them out facing the town, their guns tilted high in the air.

By the time Bingo has his men placed, Hank appears around the hill, riding a horse, leading two saddled horses and a small pack train. Wayne nods to Bingo, who roars a command at his men. They begin firing, their bullets going high in the air over the hill and down on the sand between it and the town. Wayne and Bingo, slowly at first, then swiftly, move to join Hank, mount, and ride away without attracting the machine-gunners' attention.

When the tuchun's men, hurrying from town in pursuit of Wayne, see the barrage the machine-gunners are laying down, they halt in confusion. The machine-gunners cannot of course see them over the hill. By the time officers have made a wide detour and have stopped the machine-gun fire, the three white men are far away and night is falling.

For days Wayne and his companions travel northward through Mongolia, intent on reaching the Yenisei River and traveling down it to the Siberian Railroad. Their way lies through wild, windswept country; they have friendly encounters with native herdsmen, less friendly ones with roving bands of Chinese, Russian, Mongol hors.e.m.e.n, but Hank has brought along a couple of machine guns and plenty of ammunition, so they hold their own.

At length they come to the outskirts of a fairly large town. They bury their machine guns and most of their ammunition before entering it. As they approach the town they are overtaken by a large limousine, which bears down upon them with screaming siren and no slackening of speed, compelling them to scramble off the narrow road. As the limousine goes past, Wayne catches a glimpse of a beautiful woman's face looking haughtily out at him.

In the town, they have no sooner found lodgings than they are taken before the local authorities to explain their presence. Hank, acting as spokesman and interpreter, tells a straight story of their leaving the tuchun's service, and the authorities apparently are satisfied. The three men are allowed to go back to their lodgings.

There is a note brought to Wayne. Curtly worded, it summons him immediately to the house of a W. Ruric, by whom the note is signed. He resents the tone of the note, crumples it into a ball, tosses it into a corner of the room, and tells the messenger that is the only answer. Half an hour later the three men are arrested and thrown into a cell, where they spend the night. Hank, engaging one of their guards in conversation, learns that they have been arrested as deserters from the Chinese army and will probably be sent back to the tuchun.

Late in the morning, the woman they saw in the limousine visits them. She is accompanied by a dandified man whom she introduces as Mr. Verner. Speaking unaccented English, she says she is Wanda Ruric, and asks Wayne why he did not answer her note. He explains that he thought it was from a man and resented its tone. She apologizes for the note's curtness and explains what she wanted.

She has some mining concessions in the interior, inherited from her father, and some months ago had sent a Dutch engineer with laborers to begin operating the mines. Since then she has heard nothing of them. The country in which the mines are located is wild and peopled by fanatic natives who might easily resent strangers' presences there and refuse to recognize the authority of the government granting the concessions. She wants to know what happened to the engineer and his force. From what she has heard of Wayne and his companions she thinks them the men to find out for her. She will pay well. Will they take the job?

Wayne says, "Sure," but they are in jail and will probably be sent back to China. She a.s.sures them that is easily fixed, thanks them sweetly, and goes away. In a very few minutes the three men are released and go back to their lodgings. Wayne sends Hank out to learn what he can about Wanda Ruric.

Meanwhile, in her luxurious residence, Wanda is listening to Verner, who is arguing that she is making a mistake in trusting the three adventurers. She replies that there is nothing else she can do, since she can find no natives able to do the job and he-Verner-is too definitely a city man, as well as too ignorant of Mongolia, to be of much use. Verner persists in his objections until finally she says: "All right, I'll go too-to keep my eyes on them." Verner protests, but she is stubborn, so he says then he will go too, to which she agrees.

Hank returns to his companions with the information that Wanda Ruric inherited tremendous wealth from her father, a Russian engineer, and has been managing his various enterprises since his death; that she is through her wealth and influence practically the ruler of the town and surrounding country; and that Verner is a recent arrival from either London or New York, where he seems to have been her father's financial representative.

Wayne nods, says: "Uh-huh! I guessed that. When we didn't pay any attention to her note she had us thrown in jail, and only let us out when we promised to be good and to do what she told us. Now we'll go back to her and tell her what she can do with her job and let her throw us in the can again if she wants." The others are dubious, but they follow Wayne back to the girl's house.

There, before they can speak, she tells them she and Verner are going with them. Hank and Bingo are all against this, but Wayne, still angry at the means she had used to make them accept her offer, and knowing how tough the expedition will be, sees in it a chance to pay her back, and agrees readily. The three adventurers leave and begin to prepare their caravan, which will now be quite a large one, since Wanda must take along a maid and all sorts of things.

Verner leaves Wanda's house furtively and, speaking the native language with evident familiarity, sends some thugs he can depend on to join the expedition. Wayne and his companions, confident of their ability to handle men, are willing to hire any who seem tough and experienced enough, so Verner succeeds in packing the caravan fairly well with his own men.

The expedition gets under way. Hank and Bingo complain about its size and the slowness with which they travel, but Wayne seems content. The first night out, after they have pitched camp, he makes a play for Wanda, in a very casual and off-hand way. She repulses him haughtily, reminding him that he must keep his place as hired man. He shrugs indifferently and transfers his attention to her maid, with whom he has better luck until Wanda angrily separates them.

As they get into wilder country things begin to go wrong. Pack animals-a.s.sisted by Verner's crew-die, stray off, stampede, and are only recovered after hours' work. Hank, who knows something of the country, tells the others he thinks the guides are leading them astray. There are fights between Verner's men and the other natives in the caravan, and the others are driven into deserting. The country becomes wilder and wilder, the natives they encounter more and more hostile, often stirred up by Verner or his messengers. Verner conceals from Wanda and the three adventurers his intimacy with the country through which they are pa.s.sing and sticks to his city-man-in-the-wilderness role.

The three ex-soldiers have continual trouble with their men, can keep their guides on the right route only by constant threats, and have to take turns standing guard at night. One night Bingo discovers Verner in friendly conversation-in the native tongue-with the unfriendly lama of a temple near which they are camping. Before he can tell the others, Verner has him killed, then sending away the last of their guides.

They go on. Wayne continues to play with the maid to infuriate Wanda. She tries to even things up by making a play for Verner, but quickly stops him when he gets too enthusiastic in private. Verner knows then that she is falling for Wayne. There is growing antagonism between him and Wayne, and between her and Wayne. Wayne pretends serene indifference to this, as to the rest of their troubles.

Few pack animals remain now, but Wayne insists that no matter what else is discarded, they must hang on to their machine guns and ammunition. He throws out most of Wanda's luggage, cuts Verner short when he protests. She is too proud to protest, too h.e.l.l-bent on not letting him see how hard the journey is for her, and insists on leaving her maid behind in one of the villages they pa.s.s.

They come at length-travel-worn and bedraggled-to Wanda's mine and see that it is being worked. White men appear-not Wanda's engineer. Before Wayne can stop her, she rides up to the men and haughtily asks them what they are doing on her property. Verner rides after her, and then Wayne and Hank-some distance behind, since they had dismounted to set up their machine guns-but none succeeds in heading her off. When the men at the mine see Verner, one of them calls him a double-crossing so-and-so, and shoots him down. A battle starts. Wayne succeeds in getting the girl back, though Hank is shot while covering their retreat. Hank and Wayne set up their guns and finally clear out the mine, though Hank dies as soon as the battle is won. Wayne's remaining men have fled, as have all the enemy. He and Wanda are alone. He blames her for Hank's death, telling her if she had let them get their guns placed before stirring up the enemy they need have suffered no casualties. She breaks down, goes completely to pieces. Wayne relents then and soothes her tenderly.

They remain at the mine several days, recovering their strength. Then they begin the homeward journey, carrying as much provisions as they can, since there are no pack animals-theirs fled or were ridden away during the battle-and automobiles-of which there are several-are useless in the country through which they must pa.s.s. In spite of the hards.h.i.+ps encountered, both find the return trip quite endurable, since they are now admittedly in love with each other. Presently they reach a village where they can buy horses and further provisions, and finish their journey without more trouble.

Home, the girl resumes the management of her business affairs; her lost haughtiness, imperiousness, begins to return. She and Wayne quarrel. He says this life isn't for him-he's going to run along and catch that Siberian train for Moscow and America. She angrily tells him to go if he wants, that he'll always be a tramp, etc., etc. He goes.

Next morning she comes to him-contrite-while he is loading his pack animals, begs him to stay. He says no; her life isn't his; she was swell when they were tramping, but he can't stand her manner when she is in her normal setting. She says all right, she'll go with him, tramping, just as she is. He looks quizzically at her, nods, saddles a mount for her. She gets on it and they head north. They ride along in silence a little while, he phlegmatic, she defiant, determined, then gradually begin to talk, recovering their former relations.h.i.+p. Presently, riding side by side, he puts an arm around her, kisses her. Their horses halt. He rubs his chin, looks back towards the town, looks sharply at her, grins, says: "Well, after all, if you'd promise honestly to behave-to stop being the Queen of Sheba-maybe we would be more comfortable back there." She laughs and promises. They turn and go back.

ON THE MAKE.

Close-up of a railroad station newsstand. Gene Richmond, his back to the camera, is leaning over the counter talking to the girl in charge. His voice is blotted out by the combined sounds of hurrying feet, puffing locomotives, rattling trucks, clanging gates, distant cries of newsboys and taxi-drivers, and a loudspeaker announcing unintelligibly the names of cities for which a train is about to leave.