He felt the hands lift him and carry him to a car and put him in it. He sank into the seat. He was cold again and began to shiver.

"What should we do with him?" he heard the man's voice ask. "He looks sick."

A woman's voice answered. "He's probably drunk," she said coldly. "Do you know where he lives? We'll have to take him home."

The word "home" dug deeply into Johnny's mind. He forced his eyes open. "Not home," he said weakly, his voice cracked and hoa.r.s.e. "I ain't got no home!"

The faces in the front seat turned around and looked startledly at him. Johnny recognized the man. It was Bob Gordon, who did the Westerns at the studio. He didn't know the woman. It was probably his wife.

"Gordon," he said wearily. They could hardly hear him. "Take me to Doris Kessler's house." He shut his eyes.

9.

Peter stirred restlessly in his bed. He opened his eyes and looked toward the window. The sky outside was gray with morning and the thin sound of the falling rain echoed hollowly in the rain gutters on the side of the house. He looked at the alarm clock near the bed. It was six o'clock. He sighed with relief. Another hour and he could get out of bed. He hadn't slept all night.

He stretched his body wearily. He had been a fool to worry about Johnny, everything had probably been all right. The sound of an automobile coming up the driveway came to his ears. He sat up in the bed and listened.

There were the sounds of a man's footsteps on the gravel. He could hear them coming up the front steps and then stop. Suddenly the doorbell rang. It sounded like an alarm through the house.

He sprang from his bed and, s.n.a.t.c.hing up his bathrobe, ran down the stairs. He was tying the bathrobe around him when he got to the front door and opened it.

Bob Gordon was standing there. He looked at Peter's suddenly frightened face. "Mr. Kessler," he said excitedly, "I got Mr. Edge in my car outside."

Peter looked at him dumbly.

"I found him lying in a puddle of water on your street, just two blocks from the house," Gordon hastened to explain. "He looks sick."

Peter found his voice. "Bring him in, bring him in," he almost stammered. "What are you waiting for?"

He followed Gordon down the steps to his car, neglectful of the rain that was falling on him. There was a woman in the car. He paid no attention to her.

Gordon opened the door to the back seat. Johnny was lying there, huddled in a small ball, his lips blue and cold. Gordon got in the car and began to lift him out. Johnny didn't move. Gordon looked at Peter.

Peter took Johnny's legs and Gordon slipped his arms under Johnny's shoulders and they carried him into the house.

Esther was standing in the door when they got there. "What happened?" she asked, her frightened eyes on Johnny's limp form.

"I don't know," Peter answered in Yiddish. They put Johnny on the couch in the foyer. His wet clothes dripped water down over the couch onto the rugs.

Esther ran over to Johnny and knelt by his side. Her hands flew over him, loosening his collar and tie. She pressed her hand against his forehead as the butler came up. She looked at them. They were watching her with typical male uselessness in time of sickness. "He's burning up," she said, getting to her feet. She turned to them, her voice crisp and a.s.sured. "Papa," she said to Peter, "go and call the doctor right away." She turned to the other two men. "Take him upstairs and undress him and get him in bed."

The men sprang to do her bidding. "Put him in Mark's room," she said to the butler. Mark was in Europe and would not be using it. She followed them upstairs.

A few minutes later Peter came into the bedroom. "The doctor will be right over," he told them. He looked at the bed. "How is he?"

"I don't know," Esther said, "but I think he's got a terrible fever."

Peter sneezed.

Esther looked at him. "Papa," she ordered, "go and change into dry clothes. One sick one around here is enough."

Peter hesitated a moment and then went into his own bedroom. Esther turned to Gordon. "You must be soaked," she said sympathetically. "Come downstairs and I'll get you some hot coffee."

"I'm all right," Gordon protested. "My wife is in the car and I have to get down to the studio."

"You left your wife in the car?" she asked incredulously. Her tone became emphatic. "Go bring the poor girl into the house. I won't let you go until you've both warmed up. The studio can wait."

Peter came into the dining room while Gordon was telling how he had found Johnny. Gordon saw him and repeated the story for his benefit. "I was driving down to the studio early to get some work done before the crew came on when we saw him lying in the road."

"It's a good thing you found him," Peter said when the doorbell rang. He got out of his chair and hurried to the door.

It was the doctor. They followed him upstairs and stood anxiously in the room while he examined Johnny. At last he got up and turned to them. "You've got a very sick man here," he said in a low voice. "I ought to get him to a hospital, but I'm afraid to move him in this kind of weather. He's got a bad case of double pneumonia complicated by some sort of shock that I can't understand. I'll have to put him in an oxygen tent."

Peter looked at Esther then back at the doctor. "Whatever is necessary, doctor," he said. "Don't spare any expense. That boy's gotta be all right."

The doctor looked at him. "I can't promise anything, Mr. Kessler," he said quietly, "but I'll try. Where is the phone?"

They could hear the doctor's muted voice coming from the hall through the closed door as they stood around the bed. Esther looked at Peter. "We'll have to call Dulcie and let her know," she half whispered.

Peter nodded hesitantly, looking down at Johnny. "I guess so," he agreed.

Johnny stirred on the bed. He opened his eyes and they stared out feverishly at the others. He tried to raise his head but couldn't, it fell back weakly against the pillow. His eyes closed wearily. His voice was faint, so faint they could hardly hear him, but it was filled with a desperate determination that made it sound like an explosion in the quiet room. "Don't-tell-Dulcie-" His lips were barely moving. "She's-no-good!"

Unconsciously Peter's hand found Esther's and squeezed it tightly. His eyes filled with tears and he looked down at Johnny. Now he knew what had happened.

It was a late Sunday afternoon, three weeks later. The slanting rays of the sun sparkled against the water in the pool, making it soft and iridescent. Its warmth fell across their faces as they looked down at the chessboard between them.

Peter made a move. He looked up at Johnny and smiled. "Knight to rook seven, check!" he announced. "That ought to hold you."

Johnny's face was still wan and pale as he studied the board. His position was hopeless, for on Peter's next move he was checkmate. He looked up at Peter; his eyes sparkled with a faint mischievous light. "This calls for something brilliant." He grinned.

Peter's smile was triumphant. "Nu, so go ahead and be brilliant," he chortled. "It won't do no good."

Johnny looked at him for a moment, then his grin broadened into a smile. "I will be brilliant," he said, laughing, "I resign!"

Peter began to reset the chessmen on their board. "Another game?" he asked, looking at Johnny.

Johnny shook his head. "No, thanks," he answered, "two lickings in one day is enough for me."

Peter leaned back in his chair and let the sun play on his face. They were silent for a while. Johnny took out a cigarette and lit it. The smoke drifted idly from his nostrils.

Peter watched him. Johnny's face was somber and thoughtful. "You made up your mind?" Peter asked. "You're going down there tomorrow?"

Johnny nodded his head. "I want to get it over with as quickly as possible," he answered tersely.

"I know," Peter said, "but do you feel well enough to go yet?"

"Reno is as good a place as any to recuperate," Johnny replied.

They were silent again for a few minutes, then Peter spoke. "I sent out their contracts Friday. Canceled. Morals clause."

Johnny didn't answer for a moment. When he spoke, his voice was harsh and strained. "You didn't have to do that," he said quietly. "After all, I know they mean boxoffice."

Peter looked at him. "Do you think I would have them around my studio after that?" His voice was indignant. "I couldn't stand seeing their faces any more!"

Johnny looked across the pool. "If I had only known before, if I only could have guessed! What a fool I was! I should have known better. All those things in the paper and I laughed at them, didn't believe them. And all the time the laugh was on me!" His voice was bitter. He covered his face with his hands. "Why didn't somebody tell me?" he asked brokenly between opened fingers.

Peter's voice was filled with pity. He dropped his hand on Johnny's shoulder. "n.o.body could tell you, Johnny," he said softly. "It was something you had to find out for yourself."

The air in the musty old courtroom was dull and lifeless as the court clerk intoned in a singsong voice: "In the case of John Edge versus Dulcie W. Edge, is the plaintiff in attendance?"

"He is." Johnny's lawyer motioned to him to get to his feet.

Johnny stood up slowly and faced the white-haired judge. The judge's face looked tired and bored. This was nothing but routine for him. He looked down at Johnny. "Mr. Edge," he asked in a low monotonous voice, closing his eyes as he spoke, "is it still your desire that this divorce be granted?"

Johnny hesitated a moment. His voice sounded strange to his ears. "It is, your honor."

The judge opened his eyes and looked at him and then down at the papers before him. He picked up his pen and wearily signed his name to the bottom of them, turning each paper over to the clerk, who stood next to him with a blotter in his hand. Finished, he looked down at Johnny. "Then it is the judgment of this court that this divorce be granted."

The clerk picked up the papers and walked to the side of the bench. He looked up at the courtroom. "In the case of Edge versus Edge, the decision of the second district court of Nevada, the Honorable Justice Miguel V. Cohane presiding, the divorce is granted to the plaintiff on the grounds of incompatibility."

Johnny's lawyer turned to him and smiled. "That's it, Mr. Edge," he said. "You're a free man now."

Johnny didn't answer. He watched the lawyer step forward and take the papers from the clerk's hand and come back to him. The lawyer held out the papers toward him.

Johnny took the papers and put them inside his jacket without looking at them. He held out his hand to the lawyer. The lawyer took it. "Thank you," Johnny said.

He turned and started to leave the court. At the door he paused a moment and looked back. The walls of the room were a dirty worn gray, paneled in brown rotting wood. The benches were a light yellow and covered with knife cuts and pencil marks. It was a fitting place for his marriage to come to an end.

Suddenly his eyes were wet and he turned and hurried out into the street. What was it the lawyer had said? "You're a free man now." He shook his head. Would he ever be free? He didn't know. There was a heavy sunken feeling inside him.

He stopped at a news-stand and bought a paper. Idly he opened it and glanced at the headlines. There was a streaming red banner across the top of the front page.

Stocks Tumble for Second Time in Month!

Millions Lost as Wall Street Panicked!

N.Y. Oct. 29 (AP)-The ticker ran more than three hours behind sales today as on the floor of the staid New York Stock Exchange excited ordinarily conservative businessmen screamed and fought their way through milling mobs. Their only concern was to sell, sell, sell! Sell, before their fortunes were gone and the stocks fell any lower in this, the greatest recorded break in stock-market history.

AFTERMATH.

1938.

SAt.u.r.dAY.

I woke up with a splitting headache. The pulses in my forehead were pounding like trip hammers. I sat up in bed and swayed for a moment. I tried pressing my hands against my temples to quiet the pain, but it was no good. It didn't help at all.

A sudden nausea ripped through my stomach. I fought it down as a foul taste came into my mouth. The wretched feeling pa.s.sed and I knew the worst was over. I looked up. "Christopher!" I yelled.

Where the h.e.l.l was he? He was never around when I wanted him. "Christopher!" I yelled again.

The door opened and he came in carrying the breakfast tray. He hurried to the bed and put the tray down in front of me. "Yes, suh, Mistuh Johnny," he said, lifting the cover off the tray.

The smell of the food almost made me sick all over again. It seemed to turn my stomach. "What's the matter with you today?" I shouted exasperatedly. "Take it away and get me a bromo!"

Chris hurriedly put the cover back on the tray and picked it up. He started for the door. I stopped him.

"You don't have to take away the papers," I said.

He came back to me and I took the papers from the tray. There was a hurt expression on his face, but I ignored it. I looked at the headline in the Reporter.

"Farber and Roth to Magnum Board," it read.

I put the paper down and leaned against the back of the bed. It hadn't been just a dream, then. Dreams didn't make headlines in the Hollywood Reporter.

I read the story slowly. It was just as I had heard it from Bob. At the board meeting last night they had elected Roth vice-president in charge of production and Farber to the board with special advisory powers.

G.o.d d.a.m.n them! Angrily I rolled the paper up into a small ball and flung it on the floor just as Christopher came back into the room. "They couldn't do this to me," I said aloud.

Christopher's black face was startled. "Whut dat you say, Mistuh Johnny?" he asked as he hurried to the bed with the bromo in his hand.