COMPLETE DRAMATIC SHORT STORY. THE OUTCAST.

Digger (Invercargill RSA), Issue 2, 26 March 1920, Page 2

COMPLETE DRAMATIC SHORT STORY. THE OUTCAST.

A STRANGE VISITOR. j j "A person to see you, sir !" "A what?" queried Mr James Salter. "A person to see you, sir," repeated Miss Turrell, elevating her pretty nose, if possible, a trifle more. Jimmy Salter smiled up his sleeve. He knew exactly the extent of Miss Turrell's disapproval of a visitor by the angle of her expressive little nose. However, he concealed his merriment. "Has the person got a namoi' he asked genially. "I don't know," returned Miss Turrell. "If he has he xefuses to reveal it." "H'm ! A mysterious sort oi Johnny. Show him in, anyway, and we'll have a look at him." A moment later Jimmy Salter received the genuine shock of his life. A lean, dirty, cadaverous wreck of a man shuffled into tiie room, hesitated for a moment or so and then held out his liand with a sort of fk-rce aggresive movement, as if he quite anticipated a refusak "How do, Jimmy?" he muttered, Jimmy SJater stared. Miss Turrell, arrested in her departure, stared also, and breathed quickly. She sniffed the scent of drama in the very air. Mr Jimmy Salter was everything a young girl's ideal of what manhood ought to be. Immaculate, debonaif, distractingiy handsome. The visitor was a draggletailed tramp. He had not shaved fer days. He had not bathed for an indefinite number of weeks. He wore the choker of the hovligan, the greasy, over-peaked cap of the Paris Apache. His clothes would have been an offence to a decent scarcecrow. There was a crash. Jimmy leapt to his feet, and his chair went over backwards. He literally rushed at the scarecrow man, and shook him by the shoulders with an amazing affectionateness that seemed incapable of any milder form of expression, "Drexel!" he said, with a choke in his voice. "Jack Drexel ! By the Lord, it's you." Miss Turrell sat in her little office a moment iater, feeling and looking rather stunned. She was out of her depths. This was something altogether outside and beyond all the vast experience of life which she had accumnlated in the course of nineteen years. An hour later Jack Drexel, the scarecrow person, and Jimmy Salter, the fashionable solicitor, were still closeted together in the latter's pleasant office. The door was locked, and they were talking gravely. Of the two Salter looked the more grave. "Look here, Jack!" he said. "Have you come to me for advice?" "No," rep-lied the other shortly. "I v/ant nobody's . dvice. I have come home to do a certain thing. There's nothing very complicated-about it, and if I had wanted the law and the lawyers to wrangle over my little difficulty, I could have done that seven years ago, couldn't I?" "Exactly; and in my opinion it's a pity you didn't. Anyway, you haven't come to me for advice, what have you come for?" "Chiefly to see if there is one man who knew me in the old days who is still ready to shake me by the hand, in spite of the wreck I've become. Secondly, I want some money, enough to fit myself out as a gentleman, and take my place as one for a few weeks." "That's easy. You are a fairly — sll-to-do man. You left your small capital in my charge when you choose to disappear from the face of the earth. You haven't spent a penny of it for seven years, and, under my careful investment, it has flonrished like the green hay tree. In a word, you are jnore than twice as well off as when you went away, in return for which I hope you will not think hard things ahout solicitors any more. Now, whether you like it or not, I am going to give you some advice, and I" charge you nothing at all for it." "Fire away!" said Drexel ungracionsly, "You might as well sare yonr breath £ox a more paying client. " "Look here, Jack! What have you come home for ? It's not to resume yonr old life, because you say that in. a few- weeks you ava going back to the South Seas or vthereever was the last outlandish place you _caxne fxxanA'

"I've come home to get my own back," muttered Drexel grimly. "Which, in a word, means revenge ! To revenge yourself on Harold Archer?" Drexel nodded. "Well, my advice to you is to leave it alone. You won't go about the business in the proper legal manner. Y"ou want to deal out justice with an axe. That may be all right in the South Seas or the Klondyke Trail, or the Montana Ranges, or in most of the places where you've been spendyour time the last seven years; but not here, Jack. In this place, and in this I year of Grace, that sort of thing is not ] done. j "I admit your grievance. I admit that t yoi 've been miserably wronged by Archer. But you should have stood up to your trouble- when it came at you, instead of running away from it and nursing it for seven years. "Do you know what you've done? You've got the whole thing out of proportion. You've got yourself into such a frame of mind that you're inclined to believe that even homicide would he justifiable." "You wrote a play — 'The Star of India.' And a dashed good play, too. You submitted it to an actor-manager, named HaroUi Archer, who was by the way of being a friend of yours. Archer kept it some time, and then returned it, with regrets that he was unable to make use of it." "He did not return it," interrupted Rxerel. "He sent a letter of regret in a large envelope, torn and burst open. It was the device of a child. I was asked to believe that the manuseript had been returned, but had been lost in the post tbrough the bursting of the envelope, But ihe letter was not lost." "Very good," continued the solicitor, "We will say he adopted this transparent device. A few months later he briugs out a play called 'The Veil of Silence.' That is a great play. It ran for three years, and Archer made pots of money out of it. You claim it as a colourable imitation of your play. ' ' ' 'It is my play ! ' ' snapped Drexel. ' "The names are changed. It is staged in China instead of India, The Hindoo characters a.e Chinamen. A few urdmportant details are altered, and spoilt. But the play is my play, and Harold Archer never wrote anything like it, and never could." "Very good," continued Salter. "I believe it is all as you say. But there is a bit more in it than that, and I'm going to spealc plainly to you. Archer married Diana Carrington. I believe you were once ma s tlian a little absorbed in that direction yourself?" Drexel shrugged his shoulders, and Saitc went on grimly, "You were only in the same boat as several other eligible young men, myself included. But slie chose to marry Archer — before he produced your play, mind— and she loves him." "How do- you know?" growled Drexel. "Because I have common sense and ordinary perception, and I know the colour of the light which shines in a woman's eyes when she finds herself married to the man for whom she would give np all t-he rest of the world, and count it well lost." "And what's all this to do with me?" demanied Drexel. "Just a theory of mine," went on SaJte\ "I admit that Archer may be all sorts of a scoundrel, but I would sooner s-xe you laugh at all this business, and go and write another play that will wipe the floor with the 'Star of India.' " "Why ?" "BecaoLJ that would be more like the man you were, and the man I believe you still are under the skin, And because I believe there is still some good in Archer, or he would not win and keep the love of a good woman, as he has won and kept it.'* That may be your way of looking at the matter, but mine is differe.nt," said Droxe'.,. as he went out, A new play by Harold Archer was bllled to make its appearance in. a West End theatre shortly, It we© a fragment of newspaper giving this information which had brought Drexel back irem th© Sonthern. PaciRo, Be xeaEsed that Eato was playimg into Ehr hands^ and that the revenge for whock

he had waited seven years was imminent. The new play was entit-led "The Outcast." Once he had obtained some new clothes and got himself fitted out as a gentleman, it did not take Drexel long to find out what the play was like. Within a week he had wituessed a dressrehearsal. Before it was half through he knew that Archer was riding for a fall that would finish his play-writing career for ever. This was obviously not a stolen play. He had written it himself, probably with the curious idea that having produced one success he could foist another on the public by the mere weight oi his reputation. But Drexel knew better, The play was rubbish. The whole thing depended on one character — the outcast. And the part was hopeless — a dull-witted torrent of words which the best actor in thc world could not have raised from the level of boredom. But Drexel was not content. to wait for this fiasco and count that as his revenge." He had arranged another programme, which he proceeded to put into execution : a few nights later. He knocked at the door of the big house in the neighbourhood of Regent's Park, and asked for Mr Archer. He had seen him and Mrs Archer go out a few minutes before, so was not sui'prised when he was told they were not at home. He said he would wait, and was conscious of a thrill of excitement when he was shown into the study — the very room he intended to get into by fair means or foul. He had lived for seven years too near the stern realities of existence to be over particular about methods. He was determined to make a search for the manuseript of his play. He had a presentiment that Archer would not have destroyed it. He thTew a glance round the spacious and handsomely furnished study as soon as the servant left him alone. There was a massive oak writing-desk. "Not very iikely to be there," he muttered. His eyes went instinctively to a safe standing in a eomer. "A tin-pot aEair," he said with a grirn smile of satisfaotion, "I could force it with a sardine tin-opener." He produced a polished steel inplement from his pocket. It was in two sections, beautifully made and tempered. He was iu the act of fitting it together when there came a surprising interruption. "What is that, if you please?" It was a little girl who had been curled up in the depths of a big armchair at the further end of the room. Her fair curls were rumpled all over her head, and her big blue eyes were winking snspicionsly as if she had been asleep. In Drexel's disordered and shocked mind nothing prettier couid. have stepped out of fairyland. He grabbed at the shining instrument to save it from falling, Then, feeling a curlons gfddiness, he sat down in a chair. "Who are you little lady?" he demandeJ, as she advanced gxavely towards him. Drexel was in evening dress, and the child seemed instinctively to recognise him as a friend. Pxn Moily,'- replied the little one— rMol],y Arche^ You ought to1 know my nameT* Dr.exd mommitarily pressed his hand to EL iorehead, Indeed, he ought to know neii, She had the wo-nderful, deep blue eyes, .and the soft, smiling mouth of the IvomaTi h.® had lcsved ycais ago. He Ireiled hiroself "y?ith A-hterce efiorft,

"But you haven't told me what that is?" demanded Molly. "That! Oh, that's called a jemmy." "A jimmy." "No; a jemmy." "Well, I said a jimmy, silly ! What's it for?" "To open things, Never mind about that. How old are you?" "Five and a half, nearly," said Molly, all in one breath. "And I'm always a good girl— except sometimes. Are you going to tell me a story, Mr Drexel?" The amateur burglar almost jumped out- of his chair. "How do you know my name?" "Of course I know it!" returned Molly. "I've seen your pictures, haven't I? There's one on the mantelpiece — see. And there's another one in the drawing-room — a big one. And father and mother talk to me about you." Drexel felt himself losing grip of his surroundings. Sure enough, there was a photograph of himself on the mantel, in a silver frame. But he had no time ccllect his scattered wits. Molly was insistent. "Will you tell me a story, please? I've go: to go to bed soon, so there isn't much time." "I'm afraid I can't," muttered Drexel, Lying not to look at her. He had a shocked, stunned feeling, and was conscious of nothing but a desire to get out of the house. Why had he come here?" "If I kiss you, will you tell me a story V* Before he realised it, Molly was on his knees, and was pressing her little rosetud mouth to his. Something tore at hira inside his throat, and he struggled with himself and fought it down, For more years than he cared to remember no child's or woman's lips had touched his. Without realising what he was doing, he crushed the little one t-o him, and Molly put her soft little arms round his neck and responded with a delicious enlhusiasm. "There! That was a big one, wasn't it? Now begin, please." Drexel plnnged desperately. "Once upon a time there was a little pet lamb— "Oh, I don't want a story about a little pi t lamb ! I want one about a big grizzly beai that eats had little girls — not like me, or about a wolf with big white tooths— I mean teeth." "I'm sorry; I don't know any stories about bearg or wolves." "Don't you? Father knows heaps. He'U tell you some when he comes horne." "Do you love your father?" "Of couxse ! Don't you My father'S t-he best father in the world!" "How do you know that?" "Because mother says so, and becaue® he loves me ever so. Shall we have ai game? Look! Would you like me to shcv' you a secret? Promise you won't show anybody else, or it won't he a secret, wih it?" "I- promise," said DrexeL Molly sprang from his knees and 1:1 11 round to the side of the big writing-desk* With elaborate secretivmess she prea>el some hidden part of the ornamentatiok an 3 a secret drawer in fxont of the de sprang open. Molly gurgled with delight and jampe^ ICca a bonncing halk Drexel glared dow* into the open drawer with dilated ey05', . He was looking at the manuseript ot t Old play, "The Star of India." ^ He snatched it out, and_grabbed ks |ContinuBd on pa£9 ^

THE OUTCAST. (Continned from page 2.)

And when Molly looked round a moment later after re-sliutting the drawer, sha fcund the room empty. Drexel was crossing^the street in front v f the house, when he heard a cry behind hirn "The jiinmy ! You've fcrgotten the jimmy !" What foltewed was stamped on his brain like tlw flarrie picture revealed by a fork of lightning. Molly came flying into the road after hina, her whisp of white silk frock fiutteving, and her bauy curls astream behind her Out of the darkness a- huge motorlorry leapt, thundering upon her. Drexel leapt at the same moment. For a lleeting fraction of time he was conscious of silky hair in his eyes and the clasp of a tiny body against his own. Then something monstrous flung him aside like a rag doll. Twenty hours later Drexel came to his senses in Archer's house. He was in bed, Mrs Archer was leaning over him, and her husband was sitting a little way off. If e\ tr remorse and repentance were written on a man's face, they were written on Harold Archer's. / With returning memory, Drexel' s eyes clouded with a mist of horror. He dragged himself up on the pillows. "Molly " he cried hoarsely. "What about Molly?" "She is all right, Jack " said Diana Aicher quickly. "She has told us all about it — how you came here and talked to her." "And how I stole my copy of "The Star of India' from the secret drawer in the desk ?" "Yes, that too!" replied Mrs Archer sadly. Harold Archer came to the bedside, themuscles of his face working in the effortto control his emotion. "You saved her life, uack," he said unsteadily, "at the risk of your own. They sny it was a miracle you were not killed. God knows I deserve this little enough from your hands." "Cut it out, Harold, old lad!" said Drexel, with the happiest smile his face hao seen for a long time. "And I'm not so easily killed, I assure you. Where's thaf- manuscript of mine?" "It is here," said Mrs Archer. "It was picked up by your side in the road." "Oblige me, Diana, by putting it in the fbe And that's the end of that little dif-fc-rence of opinion." Diana Archer burst into tears. "Try to forgive Harold," she sobbed. "He told me all about it long ago, and together we tried to find you, but could not. All the money the play has made we have kept rmtouched, and we can now hand it over to you. Now that you have returned. Harold will announce in the papers that you are the atuhor of this play." "Harold, my boy," said Drexel, wiping his brow with his hand, "my head is going on like a thousand beehives, but if you attempt to do anything of the sort, I'll rise from this bed and beat you to a frizzle. As for the money, put it in the bank f'.r Molly." "And while we're on the subject, that play of yours, 'The Outcast,' is an absolute rotter. When the organ in my brain stops performing, I'll rewrite the namepart for you, and we'll bring it out as a coilaboration, and share the spoils." "Miss Molly is crying to see the gentleman," announced a maid at the door. "But the doctor says she is not to see him yet," said Mrs Archer.

"Doctor he hanged!" growled Drexel. "It Molley is sweet enough to wish to see me I'll hamstring any doctor who tries to prevent it." "And Harold, for the love of Mike, tell me a bear story — a big, frightful, hobgoblin sort of a bear ! I dare not face that blessed child again unless I have a bear story to tell her," The End.