“LES SLACKER.”

Manawatu Herald, Volume XXXIX, Issue 1677, 20 February 1917, Page 4

“LES SLACKER.”

FIVE-REEL FIGHT. AN AMUSING NEW YORK SKIT. W. 0, MeGeehan, boxing writer for the New York Tribune, is responsible for one of the liveliest sporting satires that has come across the Pacific for a long time. It is the scenario for a five-reel film, and it proceeds: — REEL I. Les Slacker, a poor but ambitious pugilist, is riding through the streets of Sydney, Australia, in his last year’s limousine. He has tasted 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 is heard on stage, and a recruiting s(juad 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 fight at any time to obtain money to support my twelve aged and orphaned grandparents. How much is (he purse, and how many rounds?” “The purse is a shilling a day, the promoter is your King, and it is a fight to the finish,” returns the recruiting sergeant. Les Slacker registers indignation. “The terms are preposterous,” he says angrily. “I would never fight for that paltry sum. You do not seem to realise that I am Les Slacker, the champion. Besides, I have my aged and orphaned grandparents to think of.” Les signals to his chauffeur. “Home, dames,” he says. “These persons are insulting.” As the automobile glides 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 1 want to light.” REEL 11. Les Slacker, the pour but: ambitious pugilist, alights before his Australian Mansion. His footman has gone to the colours, so Les is compelled to remove his own coat. Wearily he makes his way to the drawing-room, which has not been swept out that day because of the scarcity of labour, (mused by the ! war. His twelve aged and orphaned grandparents are sitting each in a plush-lined chair, wearing expressions of dejection. The grandmothers are 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. “There are so few coupons for us to clip since this awful war." Les Slacker bursts into tears. “Oh, mv dear grandparents, what; shall we do?” he sobs. . “All of the young men who used to pay to see me box have gone to the war, and many of them have been killed. I fear that we shall have to curtail expenses.” Instantly all of Les Slacker’s grandparents start to sob in chorus. The sight is too much for the ten-der-hearted young Slacker. His face registers high resolution. “I will go to America," he says. His grateful grandparents rush to embrace him. REEL 111. Les Slacker, the high-minded young pugilist, is hiding on the dock at Newcastle, Australia. His handsome countenance registers traces of suffering from the constant persecution of persons who have been proffering him white feathers. Off stage the pipes of the recruiting s<|uad are skirling some of that irritating Highland music. A stoker conies out 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. ft is 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 an aeroplane drops down through the morning mist and is about to alight on the deck of the oil tanker Gasoline, which is dropping anchor in quarantine. But at the same moment a submarine shoves its tower above the water alongside the Gasoline. Tex Rickard and Sam McCracken, the boxing promoters, emerge and climb to the deck of the Gasoline. “Where is Les Slacker?” they demand. “Here,” replies a (dear, fresh young voice. “I am Les Slacker.” A young man drops the pan of potatoes which he has been set to peel and stands before them “I 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. “How much per bout?” asks Les Slacker. “Remember thpt I am the sole support of twelve aged and indigent grandparents.” “One hundred thousand dollars per bout,” replies the promoter. “They will- aJI be ten around'bouts,

and there is no danger.” “At last,” says Les Slacker, “I have reached a country where a fighter is appreciated for his true worth. I will consider. If I cannot get any more than that, I will box for the sum just to show tvhat a great fighter I am.” In the meantime the decks have been cluttered up with eager promoters who are waving thousanddollar bills at Les Slacker. For an instant a shade of anxiety crosses the handsome face of Les Slacker. “None of these Johnnies are recruiting sergeants, are they?” he asks. REEL V. Les Slacker, the noble young pugilist, is being interviewed by the sporting writers. “Pardon me a minute,” lie 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 diamond-studded fountain pen, with which he signs his cheques, Les dashes off an affectionate cablegram. (Close-up of the cablegram.) It. reads: — Dear Grandparents. —The game here is soft. They pay twenty thousand pounds a bout. Throw away the old diamonds. Will mail some new ones bv next post. LES. “Now, gentlemen,” says Les Slacker, “1 am at your service. One's first duty naturally is to his grandparents. Shall I tell you what a great fighter I am?” “Are you going to enlist?” asks one of the sporting writers. The handsome face of Les 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 fires a salute of 21 guns, and the sporting writers hurl the Christmas hats presented by Squire Ebbetts, of Flat bush, into the air. Les Slacker, in his agitation, drops a shilling, and stoops to pick it up as the tableau goes into a fa dea wav.