Читать книгу The Crimson Tide - Robert W. Chambers - Страница 8

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“Say, Palla, when you kiss your old home good-bye, there’s only one place to go. Get me?”

“New York?” she inquired, amused.

“That’s me! There’s a guy down there I used to correspond with––a feller named Puma––Angelo Puma––not a regular wop, as you might say, but there’s some wop in him, judging by his map––or Mex––or kike, maybe––or something. Anyway, he’s in the moving picture business––The Ultra-Fillum Company. I guess there’s a mint o’ money in fillums.”

She nodded, a trifle bored.

“I got a chance to go in with Angelo Puma,” he said, snapping his eyes.

“Really?”

“You know, Palla, I’ve made a little money, too, since you been over there living with the Queen of Russia.”

“I’m very glad, Blinky.”

“Oh, it ain’t much. And,” he added shrewdly, “it ain’t so paltry, neither. Thank the Lord, I made hay while the Slovaks lasted. … So,” he added, getting up from his chair, “maybe I’ll see you down there in New York, some day–––”

He hesitated, his blinking eyes redly intent on her as she rose to her slim height.

“Say, Palla.”

She looked at him inquiringly.

“Ever thought of the movies?”

“As an investment?”

“Well––that, too. There’s big money in it. But I meant––I mean––it strikes me you’d make a bird of a movie queen.”

The suggestion mildly amused her.

“I mean it,” he insisted. “Grab it from me, Palla, 52 you’ve got the shape, and you got the looks and you got the walk and the ways and the education. You got something peculiar––like you had been born a rich swell––I mean you kinda naturally act that way––kinda cocksure of yourself. Maybe you got it living with that Queen–––”

Palla laughed outright.

“So you think because I’ve seen a queen I ought to know how to act like a movie queen?”

“Well,” he said, picking up his hat, “maybe if I go in with Angelo Puma some day I’ll see you again and we’ll talk it over.”

She shook hands with him.

“Be good,” he called back as she closed the front door behind him.

The early winter night had fallen over Shadow Hill. Palla turned on the electric light, stood for a while looking sombrely at the framed photographs of her father and mother, then, feeling lonely, went into the kitchen where Martha was busy with preparations for dinner.

“Martha,” she said, “I’m going to New York.”

“Well, for the land’s sake–––”

“Yes, and I’m going day after to-morrow.”

“What on earth makes you act like a gypsy, Palla?” she demanded querulously, seasoning the soup and tasting it. “Your pa and ma wasn’t like that. They was satisfied to set and rest a mite after being away. But you’ve been gone four years ’n more, and now you’re up and off again, hippity-skip! clippity-clip!–––”

“I’m just going to run down to New York and look about. I want to look around and see what–––”

“That’s you, Palla! That’s what you allus was 53 doing as a child––allus looking about you with your wide brown eyes, to see what you could see in the world! … You know what curiosity did to the cat?”

“What?”

“Pinched her paw in the mouse-trap.”

“I’ll be careful,” said the girl, laughing.

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