I Don't Know How the Story Ends by J.B. Cheaney

Author:J.B. Cheaney [Cheaney, J.B.]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Publisher: Sourcebooks, Inc
Published: 2015-07-27T23:00:00+00:00

Chapter 11

Chips and Blocks

After a restless night, unsettled by dreams of being chased through the Keystone Studios by the Little Tramp, I was still in bed at eight fifteen the next morning. But not for long, for that is when a resolute set of knuckles rapped on my door. “Who—?” I called out irritably.

“Me,” came the reply. “Can I come in?”

I sat up and reached for my wrapper. “You may. If you must.”

Ranger flung open the door and flopped down on Sylvie’s empty bed without ceremony. “Sam just phoned. He wants us to meet him in the projection room at Vitagraph, eleven sharp.”

“What?”

“No, the question is why, not what. He didn’t say, but he sounded just a little bit excited, and if you know Sam, that means a lot excited.”

I pulled my hair out from under my collar, trying to wake up. “Do you think it’s about the picture?”

“Sure, it’s about the picture. What else?”

“Well…a lot has happened since last we met, as you recall. And last night—”

“I know. But something’s up. I don’t know what it is, but I’ve got a hunch it could change everything.”

Never was a hunch more totally proved out. When we arrived at the stuffy little projection room off Prospect and Talmadge, Sam answered our knock with his eyes almost all the way open.

“What’s up?” Ranger demanded without even saying hello.

“Not much,” Sam lied. “Just some film I wanted you to see. Have a seat.”

Inside that placid exterior was a barely contained, jackrabbity excitement. There was also, I noticed when he turned toward the projector, a rather livid bruise high up on one cheekbone. I took a seat in the front row, and Ranger dropped next to me while Sam flicked a lever on the projector.

Scratches of light appeared on the screen and then, so overwhelmingly that it knocked us back in our seats, the picture thronged with marching men. They seemed to keep coming on and on. The Lasky Home Guard wasn’t that large, but the camera made it seem like legions.

“Sam!” Ranger exclaimed. “How’d you manage to loop the film?”

“Not now,” Sam replied. “Watch this.”

Looping the film (whatever that meant) was not all he’d managed to do. We watched with growing amazement as the camera caught hordes of feet swinging smartly around a corner, rows of helmeted heads swinging by the reviewers’ stand, and even a view from above, booted feet striding proudly out from under the helmets in a way that reminded me of Mr. Chaplin’s roll dance.

Then Ranger himself appeared on the screen, a rifle on his shoulder and a face like flint. It was as if the camera had crouched on the sidewalk, lain on the street, dodged near, backed away, and popped up like a hovering dragonfly, all in the space of a couple of minutes. Ranger had been popping up with exclamations the whole time, but I nearly fell out of my chair with the next scene—it was me! Weeping into a handkerchief in front of the broken-down picket fence on the way to Daisy Dell.

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