“A talking picture!” Pep heard someone whisper.
“It’s great!” echoed another voice.
A magnificent Newfoundland dog came bounding down the beach. Its young master held a coil of rope in his hand. He seemed swayed by conflicting emotions. Then he appeared to arrive at a conclusion.
He would not see that noble ship go to pieces on the rocks! He secured one end of the rope to the collar of the animal and made signs. The intelligent dog lifted his head. A joyous, willing bark rang out. It was real—like the call—like the whistle.
“Ginger!” exclaimed Pep Smith, in a stupefied way.
The dog disappeared. Then a dim light showed far out at sea and there sounded out the distant echo of the foghorn of a steamer. It was so familiar to the audience, so natural, that more than one among them probably lost himself and almost fancied he was standing on that lonely storm-lashed beach with the wrecker.
The film ran its course—the rope was carried by the faithful dog to the imperiled ship. A safety line was sent ashore. Passengers and crew were all saved and among them a beautiful young girl.
The last picture showed a lovely garden—the grounds of the home of the father of the rescued girl. She was reading a book in a vernal bower. The wrecker, her lover, appeared. Birds swayed among the blossoming branches of the trees. He spoke—she listened. Then, arm in arm, they walked slowly from the garden to the accompaniment of soft bird notes that filled the whole house with the most ravishing melody.
The lights came on amid furious and genuine applause. A delighted and excited old man jumped up on his chair and waved his hat, shouting:
“Three cheers for the best show on earth!”