The B. M. Bower Megapack

by B. M. Bower

  With the first loop Schwab went sick, and after that he had no wish except to die. Whether the Thunder Bird rode head down or tail down he neither knew nor cared. Nor did Johnny. As he yelled he looped and he dived, he did tail spins and every other spin that occurred to him. For the time being he was “riding straight up and fanning her ears,” and his aerial bronk was pulling off stunts he would never have attempted in cold blood.

  He thought it a shame to have to stop, but North Island was there beneath him, a flock of planes were keeping out of his way and forgetting their own acrobatics while they watched him, and Johnny, with an eye on his gas gauge and his mind recurring to his parting words with Captain Riley, straightened out reluctantly and got his bearings. There was room enough for one more nose dive, and he took it exuberantly, trying to see how many turns he could make before he must quit or smash into a building or something.

  There was the field, just ahead of him. He flattened, banked, and came down circumspectly enough, considering how his head was whirling when he finally came to a stand. He crawled out, looking first at Schwab to see what he was doing.

  What Schwab was doing has no bearing whatever on this story. Schwab was not feeling well, wherefore he was not showing any interest whatever in his surroundings and probable future. John Ivan Jewel laughed unfeelingly while he beckoned a guard who was coming up at a trot and needed no beckoning.

  “Here’s another man for your boss to take charge of,” Johnny announced. “And lead me to him right now. I’ve got a date with him.”

  This guard was a new guard and looked dubious. But presently the captain’s orderly appeared and took charge of the situation, so Johnny straight-way found himself standing before Captain Riley “Well, I’m back,” he announced cheerfully. “And I’ve got Schwab out there.”

  Captain Riley dismissed the orderly before he unbent enough to reply. But then he shook hands with John Ivan Jewel just as though he had not seen him a couple of hours before. He was a very pleased Captain Riley, as he showed by the broad grin he wore on his freckled Irish face.

  “Schwab,” he said, “will be taken care of. He’s a deserter from the army, you know. Held a captaincy and disgraced the uniform in various ways, the crowning infamy being the sale of some important information, a year or so ago when things were at the touchiest point with Mexico. We nearly had him, but he deserted and got across the line, and since then he has been raising all kinds of cain in government affairs. Of course, his capture is a little out of my line, but I don’t mind telling you that it’s a big thing for me to have both these men turned over to me. I can’t go into details, of course—you would not be especially interested in them if I could. But it’s a big thing, and I want you to know—”

  The telephone interrupted him, and he turned to answer it.

  “Yes, yes, this is Captain Riley speaking. Yes, who is this, please? Who? Oh, yes! Yes, indeed, no trouble at all, I assure you. Yes, I will give the message—yes, certainly. I shall send him right over. At your command, believe me. Not at all—I am delighted, yes; just one moment. Would you like to talk with him yourself? Just hold the line, please.”

  One should not accuse a man like Captain Riley of smirking, but his smile might have been mistaken for a smirk when he turned from the telephone. He straightened it out at once, however, so that he spoke with a mere twinkle to Johnny.

  “Some one in San Diego,” he said, “would like to speak with you. I judge it’s important.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  OVER THE TELEPHONE

  “Hello?” cried Johnny, wondering vaguely who could be calling him from San Diego. “Oh—who? Mary V! Why, good golly, where did you come from? . . . Oh, you did? . . . Say, that was some bronk-riding I did up there among the clouds—what? . . . Oh, yes, I just happened to feel that way.”

  In the U.S. Grant hotel Mary V was talking excitedly into the ’phone. “I don’t know why I happened to drive down here, but I did, and I just got here in time to see you come flying over and then you did all those flip-flops—Johnny Jewel, do you mean to tell me that’s the way you have been acting all the time?”

  “Oh, no—I happened to have a fellow along that I wanted to give him a treat!”

  “A treat! Do you call that a treat, for gracious sake? What are you doing over there? I want you to come over here just as quick as ever you can, Johnny. Bland is here; I brought him down with me because he’s a very good mechanic and besides, he was very much worried and trying to find you, so I thought he could help, and he did. He saw the Thunder Bird come sailing overhead before I noticed it, for I was driving, and a street car was hogging the crossing and trying to head me off, so I didn’t happen to look up just then. And when I did—why, Johnny, I thought sure you were coming right down on top of us! Did you do that deliberately just to scare me, you bad boy? Now you come right over here just as quick as ever you can! I am sure I have been kept waiting long enough—”

  “You have,” Johnny agreed promptly. “I’m coming, Mary V, and when I get there you’re going to marry me or I’ll turn the town bottom side up. You get that, do you? Your dad ain’t going to head us off this time, I’ve made good, and doggone him, I can pay that note and have enough left over to buy me an airplane, or you an automobile or both, by golly! And tell Bland I’ll make it all right with him, too. I kinda left him in the lurch for awhile, but I couldn’t help that. I’ve been thinking, Mary V, what I’ll do. I’m going to give Bland the Thunder Bird. Doggone it, he’s done a whole lot for me, and I guess he’s got it coming. There’s planes here that can fly circles around the old Thunder Bird, and I’m going to have one or break a leg. I’ll . . . What’s that? . . . Oh, all right, I’ll come on and do my talking later. Being a government line, I guess maybe I’d better not hold this telephone all day. Sure, I’m crazy to see you! All right, all right, I’m coming right now!”

  “With apologies for overhearing a private conversation,” said Captain Riley, “speaking of getting a new plane, why don’t you enlist as an aviator? I can use you very nicely and would like to have you here. How would a second lieutenancy strike you, Jewel? I can arrange it for you very easily—and let me tell you something: Before many months roll by it will be a matter of patriotism to serve your country. We shall be at war before long, unless I miss my guess. Better come in now. You—your being married will not interfere, I should think—seeing you intend to continue flying, anyway. I wonder, by the way, why I am not invited to be present at that wedding?”

  “Well, good golly! You’re invited right now, if you mean you’ll go. Mary V will be one proud little girl, all right. And say, Captain, of course I’ll have to talk it over with Mary V first, but that offer you just made me sure listens good. I tried to enlist—that’s what I wanted all along—but I was turned down. But if you’ll say a word for me—”

  “Your Mary V is wanting,” Captain Riley grinned. “And if I may judge from the brief conversation I had with her over the ’phone just now, we had better be on our way!”

  STARR, OF THE DESERT (Part 1)

  CHAPTER ONE

  A COMMONPLACE MAN WAS PETER

  Daffodils were selling at two bits a dozen in the flower stand beside the New Era Drug Store. Therefore Peter Stevenson knew that winter was over, and that the weather would probably “settle.” There would be the spring fogs, of course—and fog did not agree with Helen May since that last spell of grippe. Peter decided that he would stop and see the doctor again, and ask him what he thought of a bungalow out against the hills behind Hollywood; something cheap, of course—and within the five-cent limit on the street cars; something with a sleeping porch that opened upon a pleasanter outlook than your neighbor’s back yard. If Helen May would then form the habit of riding to and from town on the open end of the cars, that would help considerably; in fact, the longer the ride the better it would be for Helen May. The air was sweet and clean out there toward the hills. It would be better for Vic, too. It would break up that daily habit of going out t
o see “the boys” as soon as he had swallowed his dinner.

  Peter finished refilling the prescription on which he was working, and went out to see if he were needed in front. He sold a lip-stick to a pert miss who from sheer instinct made eyes at him, and he wished that Helen May had such plump cheeks—though he thanked God she had not the girl’s sophisticated eyes. (Yes, a bungalow out there against the hills ought to do a lot for Helen May.) He glanced up at the great clock and unconsciously compared his cheap watch with it, saw that in ten minutes he would be free for the day, and bethought him to telephone the doctor and make sure of the appointment. He knew that Helen May had seen the doctor at noon, since she had given Peter her word that she would go, and since she never broke a promise. He would find out just what the doctor thought.

  When he returned from the ’phone, a fat woman wanted peroxide, and she was quite sure the bottle he offered was smaller than the last two-bit bottle she had bought. Peter very kindly and patiently discussed the matter with her, and smiled and bowed politely when she finally decided to try another place. His kidneys were hurting him again. He wondered if Helen May would remember that he must not eat heavy meats, and would get something else for their dinner.

  He glanced again at the clock. He had four minutes yet to serve. He wondered why the doctor had seemed so eager to see him. He had a vague feeling of uneasiness, though the doctor had not spoken more than a dozen words. At six he went behind the mirrored partition and got his topcoat and hat; said good night to such clerks as came in his way, and went out and bought a dozen daffodils from the Greek flower-vendor. All day he had been arguing with himself because of this small extravagance which tempted him, but now that it was settled and the flowers were in his hand, he was glad that he had bought them. Helen May loved all growing things. He set off briskly in spite of his aching back, thinking how Helen May would hover over the flowers rapturously even while she scolded him for his extravagance.

  Half an hour later, when he turned to leave the doctor’s office, he left the daffodils lying forgotten on a chair until the doctor called him back and gave them to him with a keen glance that had in it a good deal of sympathy.

  “You’re almost as bad off yourself, old man,” he said bluntly. “I want to watch those kidneys of yours. Come in tomorrow or next day and let me look you over. Or Sunday will do, if you aren’t working then. I don’t like your color. Here, wait a minute. I’ll give you a prescription. You’d better stop and fill it before you go home. Take the first dose before you eat—and come in Sunday. Man, you don’t want to neglect yourself. You—”

  “Then you don’t think Hollywood—?” Peter took the daffodils and began absently crumpling the waxed paper around them. His eyes, when he looked into the doctor’s face, were very wistful and very, very tired.

  “Hollywood!” The doctor snorted. “One lung’s already badly affected, I tell you. What she’s got to have is high, dry air—like Arizona or New Mexico or Colorado. And right out in the open—live like an Injun for a year or two. Radical change of climate—change of living. Another year of office work will kill her.” He stopped and eyed Peter pityingly. “Predisposition—and then the grippe—her mother went that way, didn’t she?”

  “Yes,” Peter replied, flat-toned and patient. “Yes, she went—that way.”

  “Well, you know what it means. Get her out of here just as quick as possible, and you’ll probably save her. Helen May’s a girl worth saving.”

  “Yes,” Peter replied flatly, as before. “Yes—she’s worth saving.”

  “You bet! Well, you do that. And don’t put off coming here Sunday. And don’t forget to fill that prescription and take it till I see you again.”

  Peter smiled politely, and went down the hall to the elevator, and laid his finger on the bell, and waited until the steel cage paused to let him in. He walked out and up Third Street and waited on the corner of Hill until the car he wanted stopped on the corner to let a few more passengers squeeze on. Peter found a foothold on the back platform and something to hang to, and adapted himself to the press of people around him, protecting as best he could the daffodils with the fine, green stuff that went with them and that straggled out and away from the paper. Whenever human eyes met his with a light of recognition, Peter would smile and bow, and the eyes would smile back. But he never knew who owned the eyes, or even that he was performing one of the little courtesies of life.

  All he knew was that Helen May was going the way her mother had gone, and that the only way to prevent her going that way was to take her to New Mexico or Colorado or Arizona; and she was worth saving—even the doctor had been struck with her worth; and a bungalow out against the hills wouldn’t do at all, not even with a sleeping porch and the open-air ride back and forth every day. Radical change she must have. Arizona or New Mexico or—the moon, which seemed not much more remote or inaccessible.

  When his street was called he edged out to the steps and climbed down, wondering how the doctor expected a man with Peter’s salary to act upon his advice. “You do that!” said the doctor, and left Peter to discover, if he could, how it was to be done without money; in other words, had blandly required Peter to perform a modern miracle.

  Helen May was listlessly setting the table when he arrived. He went up to her for the customary little peck on the cheek which passes for a kiss among relatives, and Helen May waved him off with a half smile that was unlike her customary cheerfulness.

  “I’ve quit kissing,” she said. “It’s unsanitary.”

  “What did the doctor tell you, Babe? You went to see him, didn’t you?” Peter managed a smile—business policy had made smiling a habit—while he unwound the paper from around the daffodils.

  “Dad, I’ve told you and told you not to buy flowers! Oh, golly, aren’t they beautiful! But you mustn’t. I’m going to get my salary cut, on the first. They say business doesn’t warrant my present plutocratic income. Five a week less, Bob said it would be. That’ll pull the company back to a profit-sharing basis, of course!”

  “Lots of folks are losing their jobs altogether,” Peter reminded her apathetically. “What did the doctor say about your cough, Babe?”

  “Oh, he told me to quit working. Why is it doctors never have any brains about such things? Charge a person two dollars or so for telling him to do what’s impossible. What does he think I am—a movie queen?”

  She turned away from his faded, anxious eyes that hurt her with their realization of his helplessness. There was a red spot on either cheek—the rose of dread which her father had watched heart-sinkingly. “I know what he thinks is the matter,” she added defiantly. “But that doesn’t make it so. It’s just the grippe hanging on. I’ve felt a lot better since the weather cleared up. It’s those raw winds—and half the time they haven’t had the steam on at all in the mornings, and the office is like an ice-box till the sun warms it.”

  “Vic home yet?” Peter abandoned the subject for one not much more cheerful. Vic, fifteen and fully absorbed in his own activities, was more and more becoming a sore subject between the two.

  “No. I called up Ed’s mother just before you came, but he hadn’t been there. She thought Ed was over here with Vic. I don’t know where else to ask.”

  “Did you try the gym?”

  “No. He won’t go there any more. They got after him for something he did—broke a window somehow. There’s no use fussing, dad. He’ll come when he’s hungry enough. He’s broke, so he can’t eat down town.”

  Peter sighed and went away to brush his thin, graying hair carefully over his bald spot, while Helen May brewed the tea and made final preparations for dinner. The daffodils she arranged with little caressing pulls and pats in a tall, slim vase of plain glass, and placed the vase in the center of the table, just as Peter knew she would do.

  “Oh, but you’re sweet!” she said, and stooped with her face close above them. “I wish I could lie down in a whole big patch of you and just look at the sky and at you nodding and perking
all around me—and not do a living thing all day but just lie there and soak in blue and gold and sweet smells and silence.”

  Peter, coming to the open doorway, turned and tiptoed back as though he had intruded upon some secret, and stood irresolutely smoothing his hair down with the flat of his hand until she called him to come and eat. She was cheerful as ever while she served him scrupulously. She smiled at him now and then, tilting her head because the daffodils stood between them. She said no more about the doctor’s advice, or the problem of poverty. She did not cough, and the movements of her thin, well-shaped hands were sure and swift. More than once she made a pause while she pulled a daffodil toward her and gazed adoringly into its yellow cup.

  Peter might have been reassured, were it not for the telltale flush on her cheeks and the unnatural shine in her eyes. As it was, every fascinating little whimsy of hers stabbed him afresh with the pain of her need and of his helplessness. Arizona or New Mexico or Colorado, the doctor had said; and Peter knew that it must be so. And he with his druggist’s salary and his pitiful two hundred dollars in the savings bank! And with the druggist’s salary stopping automatically the moment he stopped reporting for duty! Peter was neither an atheist nor a socialist, yet he was close to cursing his God and his country whenever Helen May smiled at him around the dozen daffodils.

  “Your insurance is due the tenth, dad,” she remarked irrelevantly when they had reached the dessert stage of cream puffs from the delicatessen nearest Helen May’s work. “Why don’t you cut it down? It’s sinful, the amount of money we’ve paid out for insurance. You need a new suit this spring. And the difference—”

  “I don’t see what’s wrong with this suit,” Peter objected, throwing out his scrawny chest and glancing down his front with a prejudiced eye, refusing to see any shabbiness. “A little cleaning and pressing, maybe—”

  “A little suit of that new gray everybody’s wearing these days, you mean,” she amended relentlessly. “Don’t argue, dad. You’ve got to have a suit. And that old insurance—”