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