“Yes, one of those Western plays, eh?” Perry’s gaze went back to the man at the piano. There was something about him that awakened recollection. He was a tall, broad-shouldered man of twenty-six or -seven, with clear-cut and very good-looking features, and a luxuriant mustache, as Perry could see when he turned to smile at one of the violinists. He played the piano as though he thoroughly enjoyed it, swaying a little from the hips and sometimes emphasizing with a sudden swift bend of his head.
“He can play all around the other guy,” said Fudge in low and admiring whispers. “Wish I could play a piano like that. I’ll bet he can ‘rag’ like anything!”
At that moment the house darkened and the program commenced with the customary weekly review. Fudge sat through some ten minutes of that patiently, and was only slightly bored when a rustic comedy was unrolled before him, but when the next film developed into what he disdainfully called “one of those mushy things,” gloom began to settle over his spirits. He squirmed impatiently in his seat and muttered protestingly. A sharp-faced, elderly lady next to him audibly requested him to “sit still, for Mercy’s sake!” Fudge did the best he could and virtue was rewarded after a while. “Royston of the Rangers,” announced the film. Fudge sat up, devoured the cast that followed and, while the orchestra burst into a jovial two-step, nudged Perry ecstatically.
“Here’s your Western play,” he whispered.
Perry nodded. Then the first scene swept on the screen and Fudge was happy. It was a quickly-moving, breath-taking drama, and the hero, a Texas Ranger, bore a charmed life if anyone ever did. He simply had to. If he hadn’t he’d have been dead before the film had unrolled a hundred feet! Perry enjoyed that play even more than Fudge, perhaps, for he was still enthralled by yesterday’s dreams. There were rangers and cowboys and Mexicans and a sheriff’s posse and many other picturesque persons, and “battle, murder and sudden death” was the order of the day. During a running fight between galloping rangers and a band of Mexican desperados Fudge almost squirmed off his chair to the floor. After that there was a really funny “comic” and that, in turn, was followed by another melodrama which, if not as hair-raising as the first, brought much satisfaction to Fudge. On the whole, it was a pretty good show. Fudge acknowledged it as he and Perry wormed their way out through the loitering audience at the end of the performance.
They discussed it as they made their way along to Castle’s Drug Store where Perry was to treat to sodas. For Fudge at least half the fun was found in talking the show over afterwards. He was a severe critic, and if the manager of the theater could have heard his remarks about the “mushy” film he might have been moved to exclude such features thereafter. When they had had their sodas and had turned back toward Perry’s house, Perry suddenly stood stock-still on the sidewalk and ejaculated: “Gee, I know where I saw him!”
“Saw who?” demanded Fudge. “Come on, you chump.”
“Why, the fellow who played the piano. I’ll bet you anything he’s the cowboy!”
“You try cold water,” said Fudge soothingly. “Just wet a towel and put it around your head——”
“No, listen, will you, Fudge? I want to tell you.” So Perry recounted the odd coincidence of the preceding evening, ending with: “And I’ll bet you anything you like that’s the same fellow who was playing the piano there to-night. I recognized him, I tell you, only I couldn’t think at first.”