CHAPTER II

ROADHOUSE

There is a Magic Lantern near every American coeducational university. Sometimes its placard reads _Paradise Pavilion_, sometimes _The Royal Palms_, or _The Moonlight Gardens_. But usually the wording is _The Magic Lantern_. Dancing. Refreshments.

Even though there chances to be some slight variation in this legend, the place itself is unvaryingly the same. A plain, barn-like structure on the outskirts of town. A "hot" orchestra, a good dance floor, a number of tables, and a great many small booths. The menu is composed almost exclusively of startling combinations of the sandwich theme, and the rather dingy waiters seem to take for granted that you will want ginger ale--as a beverage, or a vehicle.

But herein the policy of this particular Magic Lantern differed from its fellows to so marked a degree that it might have been named something like _The Coffee Pot_. It was generally insisted that the ginger ale which its waiters dispensed was supposed to be for thirst-quenching purposes only. The menu bore a line: "Kindly do not embarrass the management by bringing intoxicating liquors to this establishment," and the floor-man had instructions to whisper politely but firmly in the ear of any young man who appeared to have enlargement of the hip. Thus was kept a tolerant attitude on the part of the University officials.

The "no drinking" edict was, of course, rather a startling position for a roadhouse to assume--especially a collegiate roadhouse. It seemed impossible that business could continue in the face of such strictness. But business did. The proprietor, asked for a reason, would point to the excellent sandwiches, the superlative floor, and the fact that his orchestra leader had come to his establishment by way of Paul Whiteman with stops for tutelage under Vincent Lopez and Roger Wolfe Kahn. Sport O'Malley, however, would have given a different answer.

Boys like Sport--whoopee-makers, the careless, riotous playboys of the university playgrounds--aside from knowing all the newest, smartest chatter and the freshest dance steps, customarily also know where liquor may be obtained. And Sport O'Malley knew that despite the advertised status of The Magic Lantern toward electrifying beverages, those beverages were to be had by anyone who had three dollars for a fifth of gin, or seven for a quart of whisky.

The proprietor of The Magic Lantern had seen them come--and go--these Sport O'Malleys. Each semester, sooner or later, every type of the whole collegiate world drifted into his place--looking for fun or for trouble, in curiosity or boredom, or merely in search of companionship. He liked them all from the grinds to the rowdies, and some he even respected. Others he did not. Others--like Rudy Bronson's friend.

Sport O'Malley knew of his rating with old Bland, and, oddly enough, it worried him. Oddly, because it is a self-evident fact that the Sport O'Malleys of American universities do not worry about anything--much less the esteem of roadhouse proprietors. Their one anxiety traditionally is maintained for those forbidding men, the deans; their only fear that they will fail to continue to escape official notice.

Of course they are well-known to everyone else on the campus, both for their personalities and their aims--which are modest, concentrated, and founded on logic. Their ambition solely is to have fun for a few of their best years, and they pursue that desire with the caution of a good cause. Wisely, theirs is never an active part among the noisy, conspicuous projects of the college; for, prefacing a distaste for labor, is the knowledge that the life of an "active" man is only one or two years. An attempt to tarry longer in the spotlight invariably leads to the discovery of clay feet--whereas there is no limit save that of inclination on the time a playboy may spend in school.

In fact, such is the usual Sport O'Malley's aptitude for glittering the social life of the institution, his stay is encouraged. No foes are bred among office-seekers to complain about the length of his record; no attention is focused by having rival coaches wail "That guy just _can't_ be eligible again this year!" He avoids the dating evidence of program committees, centers his escapades far enough from the campus to escape unwanted official attention, and semester after semester glides gaily along.

Old Bland had seen them come and go, these Sport O'Malleys. Consequently, knowing both the attraction and the dangers of the type for impressionable young women, he was careful that his daughter should have as little to do with them as possible.

Molly Bland was that most delectable of creatures, a cute blonde. She had an impertinent small nose always quivering just a little because of the merriment which seemed always to be bubbling within her, and an impertinent small mouth always parted just a little as if in an instant she expected to receive a most delightful kiss. Sport O'Malley truthfully thought her one of the most engaging members of the opposing sex that he ever had encountered; and watching her in her role of hostess to the customers of The Magic Lantern, he now was plunged more deeply than ever in a conviction of injustice concerning the elder Bland's forbidding attitude.

Wasn't it fierce? Here was the old man always insinuating that he, Sport O'Malley, could balance a chair on his chin and walk under a worm, while all the while the proprietor was pouring his cheap, cut alcohol into the undergraduates of a university which had not banned his place only because it was supposed to be straight. Most of the fellows knew that all you had to do was drop a hint to one of the waiters, and after a bit a bottle would be slid into your lap! As a consequence of these ruminations, the opinion of customer for owner was even less than that of owner for customer. Old Bland thought Sport O'Malley worthless; but Sport thought of Molly's father as a two-faced crook.

"It gets me!" he burst out to Rudy. "In fact it gets me down!"

"What does?" Rudy inquired. He was looking about the long, table strewn room, drinking in his first contact with that stimulating atmosphere peculiarly associated with night resorts. "It all looks pretty swell to me."

"I'm talking about old Bland, who owns this place. I've got a crush on his daughter--see her over there? The little blonde? What a grand kid she is! I love her, Rudy, but her old man won't let me come near her. Treats me as if I were a leper or something."

"She's a very pretty girl," Rudy admitted. "What does he seem to object to about you--in particular, I mean?"

Sport grinned. "Oh, just the fact that I don't take life as seriously as--well, you do. He'd love you, Rudy. You're just the kind of young man that older people trust. Why wasn't I born with an appealing pan?"

"It hasn't seemed to bother you much so far," Rudy reminded him.

"Not in some places. But with fathers, for instance, it isn't so good. They trust eggs like you, who look honest and sincere and all that sort of thing." Suddenly his eyes lighted. "Say, I've a grand idea! I'll introduce you as my brother from home. He'll take a look at you--and then maybe he'll think that there's some good in the O'Malley family after all."

"But----"

"No buts! I need your help in this, and I'm going to get it or straighten the curl out of your hair with a table leg." He stood hurriedly. "Come on. The other fellows will be here any minute. With that gang around to crab our act, deception will be about as easy for us as skating is on one leg!"

Reluctantly, Rudy got to his feet and followed Sport across the dance floor. He was painfully embarrassed, not only because he felt that he lacked the necessary acting ability to carry out the masquerade, but because he hated deception of any kind. Too, he was rather worried about lending his so-called honest face to any project which Sport, with his eccentric notions of right and wrong, might introduce.

Rudy was no prude, but back of him was a line of New England forebears who had taken the truth as a serious business, who had asked honesty and straightforwardness before all things. Their shades restrained him now, and wending his way through the press of the dance, he was in a turmoil of indecision. He hated to let Sport down--but he hated more to lie.

Yet there seemed little he could do about the matter without causing the sort of scene from which his sensitive nature characteristically rebelled. And when Sport touched a short fat man upon the shoulder and said, "Mr. Bland, just to prove to you that we O'Malleys are not thoroughly a bad lot, I want you to meet my brother," there was little that Rudy could do but put out his hand and mutter, "Pleased to meet you."

"Rudy is just down from home. He's going to take me back in his flivver." Suddenly the good points of his improvisation struck him. He turned to Rudy. "You are going to take me back home in your flivver, aren't you, Rudy."

"Why, certainly," Rudy said. "If you want me to."

"Want you to!" snorted Mr. Bland. "Well, what else did you come down here for?"

"Oh," said Sport hastily, "coming down for me was only part of it. You see, Rudy is very anxious to be a good saxophone player. He's been taking a correspondence course from Ted Grant, the greatest saxophonist in the world. And he heard about your remarkable leader over there, and decided that the logical thing to do was come down and meet him. You know, one fine musician paying his respects to another."

It was evident that the canny Irishman had played on a sensitive chord in the proprietor's make-up. "Well, that's right nice of you, Mr. O'Malley," he said to Rudy. "I rather pride myself on having the best band in the state, insofar as regards places like this. And I've always thought that Bennie needn't take his hat off to any of them. Come on over and meet him."

"Sure," said Sport, "Bennie'll be happy to meet one of his admirers."

"Why, I--," Rudy began.

"Go along with him, Rudy. I'll follow in a minute. I've just seen a fellow over here that I've got to speak to."

With few doubts as to the sex of the "fellow" whom Sport had to talk to, Rudy allowed himself to be led over for an introduction to Mr. Bland's greasy little orchestra leader. That devil Sport! Making him lie in order that he might snatch a few minutes with his current flame! He was more than a little minded to tell Mr. Bland of the trick that had been played upon his credulity; but the old fellow was so obviously tickled that someone should have wished to compliment the music of his establishment that Rudy could not find it in his heart to disappoint him.

Bennie bowed condescendingly when the little proprietor made the introduction. "Oh, yes," he said, "I have a great many fans who I never have seen. It has become noised about that I played with Whiteman and Lopez, and--" as he talked on with the insufferable conceit of a small mind, Rudy began desperately to seek some way of escape.

But Sport was gone, and though the other members of their party by this time had arrived, he was unacquainted with them, and therefore to approach their table alone would have been an impossibility for one of his reserved temperament.

"You see," Bennie was going on patronizingly, while plump Mr. Bland beamed his pride, "after my experience with the leading orchestras of the country, I find it difficult to keep musicians in out-of-the-way places up to concert pitch. Most small town orchestras are recruited locally, and you boys, while undoubtedly willing----"

Rudy's face flamed. The gentlest and most inoffensive of young men, the oily leader's rambling barrage of self-praise at last had touched a point which he was unable to pass in silence.

"Perhaps you underestimate some of us, Mr. Harris," he said curtly. "It is true that I come from a small town. But it also happens that I am a pupil under the direct instruction of Ted Grant."

"Ted Grant!" Bennie's arrogance fell away like a dropped mantle. "You're studying under Ted Grant, the greatest saxophonist in the world?"

"None other," Rudy answered with a touch of pride. "Not only that, but the last time I heard from him he said that he was very pleased with my progress. He said that I showed the makings of a great musician."

Instantly Bennie stepped down from the slightly raised platform on which he stood. "Then," he said, "you must play for us! All my life I have been envious--and respectful--of Ted Grant. Many times I have tried to get into his band, to study his methods. And now you, one of his prize pupils, are right here where I can watch you play."

Rudy gulped. "But--but I haven't my instrument."

The leader immediately thrust his own saxophone into the boy's unwilling hands. "You will play mine. It is a genuine Ted Grant saxophone, his best model."

"But----"

Mr. Bland clapped him heavily on the shoulder. "Excellent, my boy! What an advertisement for my place to have a Ted Grant pupil play for us." He signaled to the drummer for a roll; and when he had the attention of the whole room, he climbed to the platform with outstretched arms.

"Ladies and gentlemen. We are greatly honored by having with us to-night the star pupil of Ted Grant, young Mr. O'Malley. Mr. O'Malley kindly has consented to play a number for us."

A great burst of applause rolled across to the trembling figure of Ted Grant's star pupil. But he did not hear it. Across the room he had caught sight of the open mouth and horror-stricken eyes of Sport O'Malley.

Sport was signaling frantically, shaking his head and waving his arms, giving every sign of protest aside from an actual shout that he wanted anything but for Rudy to play.

But his "brother" only grinned, rather painfully, and climbed up on the platform.