SHAREHOLDERS’ BLOOD
GRAND (TRUNK) FEATURE SERIAL.
CANADIAN FILMS LIMITED.
We are in the Wild West of Canada—a land full of mustangs and moccasins. People with hard faces are riding about in strange clothes. Gently nurtured maidens are scrubbing out the cowshed, or digging up the manure heap. The hired-woman is sitting in the sunlight with a book. It is a typical scene in a British Dominion; we know it is Canada, however, because there’s a flick, and the screen says:
THIS IS THE CITY OF BISON SNOUT,
FED BY THE GRAND TRUNK RAILWAY,
CANADA’S PREMIER RAILROAD.
Then there’s another flick, and, lo! a magnificent train, racing across the prairie, gives us a hint that we are watching Canada’s premier railroad in operation. The screen obligingly confirms this impression by—Flick:
LUXURY, SPEED, AND SECURITY.
THE GRAND TRUNK MILLIONAIRES’
LIMITED THUNDERING ACROSS THE
CONTINENT
ON ITS JOURNEY TO BISON SNOUT.
The scene changes, now, to a precipitous hill overlooking the smiling valley through which the train is thundering. Far away you can see her plume of smoke, racing across the sky. And here, in the foreground, are two sinister figures, mounted on the inevitable mustangs, masked and visored, grim and silent. Oo! They look like Irish gunmen; and as soon as they espy the train they turn simultaneously to each other and exclaim with sinister emphasis—Snick:
THERE’S BOODLE IN THIS.
Click—and we’re back again with our two desperadoes, galloping like mad from their point of vantage towards their luckless prey. (Noise off—cloppety, cloppety, cloppety, clop.)
Next we have a close-up of the train as it speeds over the landscape. The passengers are sitting back in their places, wreathed in smiles. They like their train. They think it particularly safe; and behind it all there is the feeling of immense security derived from the thought that they are travelling in a British Dominion of the British Empire under the waving protection of the Union Jack on which the sun never sets. The orchestra interprets their thoughts, and ours, by playing a selection of patriotic melodies.
Now we are shown something really out of the way. Thus: Snick:
ON THE FOOTPLATE.
Flick:
SWAYING ALONG AT HUNDREDS OF
MILES AN HOUR, THE JOVIAL
ENGINEER AND HIS MERRY COLLABORATORS
PASS THE TIME WITH
DANCE AND SONG.
Click: And there they are, swaying like dipsomaniacs, dancing like dervishes, and opening their mouths like bullfrogs in a drought. Of course, you can’t hear what they’re singing, but a gramophone (off) obligingly strikes up at this moment:
Sons of the sea,
All British born,
Sailing every ocean,
Laughing foes to scorn—
and so on. A little inappropriate to the setting perhaps; but, oh, how apposite to what follows!
Suddenly the face of the jovial engineer clouds over. He shades his eyes with his hands. Rushing to the eyeholes, he peers out into the day. His collaborators copy him. We know something is coming. We stir uneasily in our seats. Somehow we can’t help associating this action with the two sinister——What’s that? He’s beckoning to the chief mate (or whatever the fellow’s called). The chief mate’s beckoning to him. Neither dares leave the eyeholes. How can they communicate with each other? Still the train speeds on. Oh! the engineer’s drawing his revolver. Ah! it’s empty! So is the chief mate’s. So is everybody’s. He flings it down with a curse. He’s going to speak to the chief mate. He’s speaking: Snick:
SAY, YOU GUYS, IT’S HELL OR HOME.
AND ME FOR HOME!
Flick:
STOKE UP YOUR BOILERS, YOU BLEAR-EYED
SKUNKS!
An underling flings open the door of the furnace. He staggers back. Empty! He rushes with a shovel to the coal bunkers. The others rush after him. Oh, there’s no coal! The train’s slowing down every minute. The desperadoes are riding nearer and nearer. We can hear the thunder of their hoofs—I mean their horses’ hoofs. (Noise off—cloppety, cloppety, cloppety, clop.)
Ah! what are they doing now? They’re going to throw one of the underlings into the furnace to keep the train going. They’re going to burn the engineer and the chief mate. They’re going to pull the engine to pieces and burn that. Anything to escape. Anything to escape....
Suddenly the chief mate, who’s looking through the eyehole, gives a great shout. He’s very excited and relieved. He’s speaking—listen, look, I mean.
Flick:
WHY IT’S ONLY THE SHERIFF’S BOYS
HAVING A GAME WITH US!
The others do not agree with him. They point rudely at him, and curse him for a fool. But he only smiles and says through his smile:
Click:
SURE—IT’S THE SHERIFF RIGHT
ENOUGH. I SEEN HIS LIL’ BUTTON.
HIS DEPUTY’S WITH HIM.
I DONE SEE HIS BUTTON, TOO.
They rush to the eyeholes again. There’s no doubt this time. They throw up their hats and cheer. They are beside themselves. They even go so far as to pull up the train. The passengers crowd to the windows. At first they are alarmed. They shrink back. They mutter among themselves. Click:
IT’S A HOLD-UP.
BUSH-RANGERS.
and so on. But the engineer puts all that right. He descends royally from the footplate and walks along the train reassuring them. Flick:
IT’S ALL RIGHT, LADIES AND GENTS.
IT’S ONLY THE SHERIFF OF THE
DOMINION COME TO PAY US A SURPRISE
VISIT.
What a joke! How they laugh! And cheer! They crowd to the window. They swarm out on to the line. They offer expensive drinks to the engineer and his collaborators, which are accepted. They pass round the hat.
And then the sheriff approaches. He asks them to line up. They are delighted. Another priceless joke. Ha! Ha! Ha! What a wit the man has, to be sure! He suggests they should produce their valuables. Only too delighted. Their stocks and shares, jewellery—everything, in fact, they have with them.
THEY’RE “OF NO VALUE” TO YOU
NOW.
Ha! Ha! Ha! They’re doubled up with laughter. They’re holding their sides. What a funny man. What a very fun——Eh? He’s speaking again.
GET A MOVE ON IF YOU DON’T WANT
A DOSE OF LEAD!
Oh, of course, very subtle. It’s all part of the joke. He’s acting so well, isn’t he?
What’s he doing? He’s putting all their valuables into a bag. He’s taking them away. He’s a——He’s a robber! Oh, no! Oh, not that! But he is. Old men are weeping over the loss of their life’s savings. Old women——Oh, this isn’t funny at all!
A handsome young woman is speaking to him. She’s pleading, she’s on her knees.
Click:
IF YOU TAKE THAT IT MEANS I
CAN’T GET MARRIED. WE WERE
GOING TO START HOUSEKEEPING
ON MY FIRST PREFERENCE STOCK.
She’s broken down. He’s laughing, the brute! He’s roaring with laughter. So’s his fellow desperado.
Who’s this? What a funny fat man! Oh, it’s going to end happily after all. He’s a policeman, I suppose, but his hat looks a bit queer. Oh, an American hat—I see. He’s very angry with the brigands—the sheriffs, I mean. He’s speaking.
Click:
THIS OUTFIT’S WORTH AT PAR
£37,073,492.
Flick:
“THIS WOULD MAKE MY APPRAISEMENT
OF ALL THE STOCK, THE VALUE
OF WHICH IS HERE IN ISSUE, NOT
LESS THAN $48,000,000.”
Oh, it’s too bad! They’re laughing at him, too.
Plick:
GET AWAY HOME, YOU FAT OLD GUY,
BACK TO THE STATES WHERE YOU
BELONG.
He’s very angry indeed. He’s turning away in high dudgeon. He makes a last appeal.
Flick:
BUT AIN’T YOU THE SHERIFF?
Blick:
WHY, YES; BUT WHAT’S THAT GOT TO DO WITH IT?
Snick:
WELL, I MEAN TO SAY——
Click:
A MAN’S GOTTER LIVE, AIN’T HE,
EVEN IF HE IS A SHERIFF? AND
THEY’RE ONLY DURNED ENGLISH
GUYS, ANYWAY.