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Show f V Hi Cti w.n.i. service drw THE STORY THUS FAR: Amos Croy and his wile settled on a farm In Missouri, Mis-souri, where Homer was born. Sunday meant church, company tor dinner, and steer weighing. The Croys attended the Omaha Exposition, where Homer had his first taste of the outside. He finished high school and college, then went to New York City to work. After his mother's moth-er's death, Homer returned to New York, had his first novel, "Boone Stop," pub lishcd. He received word that his father was falling and rushed home. His father fa-ther told him the farm was clear, a fine one and wanted him to always keep it. Soon after Homer returned to New York Mr. Croy died. Homer was unable to attend the funeral. CHAPTER XXI It broke my heart to go back to the farm. A succession of renters had about stripped it; the cave where we had hidden from the cyclones cy-clones was falling in; the fences were down, the hog pens my father fa-ther had taken so much pride in were ankle deep with filth; the corn rows were green with cockleburs. In a way, I was glad my father could not see it I was tempted to sell it. But I could not quite do that, for the feel for a farm is deep and abiding; especially if it is wrapped with tender ten-der youthful memories. No, I could not sell it Nothing could make me do that. A black shadow appeared. A member mem-ber of my family got into trouble and wanted to put a mortgage on the farm of $8,500. I thought of what my father had said as I had sat on the camel-backed trunk, but the situation situ-ation was so serious that the mortgage mort-gage had to go on. It was as if a hand had squeezed my heart. I came back to 10 Standish Road, depressed. I looked at The Little House with the Big Mortgage and my heart went down again. As so often happens, this was the time my stock was up, when everybody thought I was prosperous. My name was in the papers, I had sold the first talking picture for Will Rogers at what everybody assumed to be a whacking price; and I let them think so. uncomfortable as I sometimes felt. Meantime there was that $210 a month; and some months I was not making that. How often they came around! The Irving Trust Company had the mortgage on both the lot and the house. I can still see those printed print-ed forms that came snowstorming in with the blank spaces filled in with ink. If by a certain day, the money had not been paid, an impersonal voice would call up and say that we had undoubtedly overlooked it. I was trying to write humor. In all the writing business there is nothing noth-ing so hard to sell. You'd think every magazine would want humor; and every magazine says it does. But they don't buy it Chiefly because be-cause no two persons ever agree as to what is humorous and what is pretty terrible. In a magazine office, of-fice, among the manuscript readers, there is always a divided opinion; so, usually, the editor plays safe by taking something everybody agrees on. Finally the lane turned, but not before it was almost at the precipice. preci-pice. I got a new tenant for the farm, Mr. and Mrs. Spide Logan. Thank God it was just in time! I had known Spide when I was a boy, but not very well. His first name was a nickname, but it had become so universal that it took an old-timer to know that he had another. He had long legs, in his growing days, and the boys had started to call him "Spider," finally it had shortened to Spide and Spide it still is. Never had I realized what a blessed difference differ-ence a good tenant could make. We drew up a contract which said, in effect, we were partners and we would go share-and-share alike fifty-fifty with certain provisions. I was to furnish the land and the fences and the seed; he was to furnish fur-nish the "power," which meant horses, then, and the help to operate the farm. The contract got down to a finer point than that; for instance, I was to pay half the fuel oil, if we ever made enough money to buy a tractor. Then a little twist in the contract: I was to get one-third of the eggs. I did take it for a while; and thankfully, too but finally final-ly told Nellie Logan the egg money was hers. The barn, which Pa had built after aft-er the cyclone had whisked the first away, was now a noble ruin. When you went in it you ran a chance of having it come down on you. One tenant had fancied a door, so the door had departed with him. We had to build a new barn. How we were going to build It, I didn't know. But that barn meant something to m emotionally. I had played In the old barn, I had slept In it during the haying season when an exciting hired man told exciting stories. One night a storm had come up. I wasn't quite brave enough to stay. But the hired man did. You had to respect a nan like that. It Is truly astonishing what you can do when you have to. But It also makes a person feel that half the time he Is a pretty weak vessel. The barn was to cost a thousand dollars. The sum was staggering. I went to Joseph Jackson, president of the bank, and told him my troubles trou-bles and he drew up some papers nd after a while there was a thou- tid dollars In the farm account. I suppose ours was the first barn in the world that didn't cost more than the amount originally planned. When, finally, the barn was up, we didn't have enough money to paint it But, Nellie Logan turned the hens loose on the job. By that I mean she had to take her egg money and turn it into paint. But at last Nellie and the hens and I painted the barn! I built that barn by mail and in my imagination. They told me the day the first load of lumber would be hauled and I was on that load of lumber; they told me the day the slushers would arrive and I saw them taken out to the barn lot. They told me when the head carpenter would arrive, and I saw him put on his apron and drop his hammer in the loop on his leg. And .the barn progressed, they sent me snapshots of it, and I watched it grow. I was like a father a thousand miles from the hospital. But at last it was born my white-and-blue-trim child. Some way or other I raised the money mon-ey to go out and see it, and Spide was down to meet me, as Pa used to be, and we climbed into his car. We came in from the east side of the farm and, when we topped the hill, there was the barn shimmering in the sunlight At least, it seemed shimmering. Of course it was a bit different from what I had expected isn't a child always? but there it was a fine white, stanch, center-drive, center-drive, hip-roofed barn with two lightning-rod points. And on the front of it there was painted: The Homer Croy Farm, J. Theodore Logan, Lo-gan, Manager. I think you would IP r!r: I hated the farm. like that barn; I think anybody would. Owen Davis was turning my story into a film play for Will Rogers. I remembered what my friend had said about Hollywood needing somebody some-body with the homey touch. In spite of the almost desperate situation, situa-tion, Hollywood was managing to get along without me, for the telephone tele-phone didn't ring, except from the bank and a few scattered bill collectors. col-lectors. The bank wanted to know, since I had sold a motion picture for Will Rogers, why I didn't pay up. I told them I had got only a crumb or two from Mr. Fox's table; they said they knew how to handle people like me. The picture was released and made an outstanding success. I went down to my club, The Players, and let them look at me. I was congratulated con-gratulated right and left. Lots of drinks . . . money that should have been going to Mr. Boerner, the grocer. gro-cer. But that is human nature. It was sweet, indeed, to nibble the fruit of success the first I had had since West of the Water Tower. But there was no fruit in the bank. I hated the farm. It was taking everything and giving nothing. And yet there was still a lingering love for it, as one might have for'a person per-son who has broken his heart. For the first time in its existence our town saw people lining up before our banks demanding their money. Two of the banks closed and people went on relief. A word my father had never heard. The Salvation Army played on the streets where It had never played before. Knots of farmers, in patched clothes, stood on corners. Food was doled out In tho basement of tho church where Billy Sunday had shaken his fist at the devil. When I went down to the depot to get on the train, I felt exactly as I did when I had left Pa in bed that last time. I felt the farm would slip away, too. I told myself I did not care. I was weaned away from It; !t was doing nothing but demanding money. I was a city man. A man could not be tied all his llfo to a piece of Innd just because he chanced to bo born on It. Sell It for whatever I could get. pay the Insurance company com-pany and, If there was anything left, at least I'd be that much ahead. But even while I was telling myself my-self this. 1 knew I could not go through with it Any more than one can desert a member of the family who has become a burden. There Is, indeed, truth in the old adage that the blackest hour is Just before dawn. I have seen it work out too many times to doubt it. This special dawn began very simply sim-ply by a telephone call from the McCann-Erickson advertising, agency, agen-cy, in New York. Would I come in and see them? Would II I would have crawled. But you don't tell an advertising agency that. You pretend you are a very busy and successful writer and say you think you can manage it and work out a date convenient to all. It Is quite an art The best hope I had was thai they might want me to submit something for a radio program. But also I knew that advertising agencies expect ex-pect the poor author to take all the risk. Well, I would growl a little j about doing it on speculation, but I I'd do it Maybe something would j come through . . . that is the hope ' an author lives on. And the only way, so far as I know, to make a success of writing is to keep putting in an oar here and there. After a while you may get your boat moving. mov-ing. I found a most impressive gentleman gentle-man who, after some cigarette talk, wanted to know if I had been to Hollywood lately. I told him I hadn't. While I kept wondering to myself what this strange conversation meant. Certainly Cer-tainly he had nothing to do with pictures. pic-tures. Scenario writers were not hired on Madison Avenue. "I've received a telegram from Chicago about you," he said and picked up a yellow sheet and slowly read it through to himself. Hours it seemed to me it took. Who in Chicago would wire to him about me? I kept asking myself. But also I knew the ways of advertising advertis-ing companies were inscrutable. He laid the telegram down. "Have you any scenarios you have written?" writ-ten?" "Scenarios?" I said, for things are not done that way. "Yes." "I might have a copy of one. I don't know. I'd have to look through my things." "Will you do that? I wish you'd bring it in and write down a list of everything you've done for the movies." He picked up the telegram and again silently read to himself. Then put it down. "Can you do that today?" I said it so happened I could. Then we shook hands and I went out. I looked through my things and found a scenario and two or three "treatments" and some odds and ends, and raced back. He picked up one of the manuscripts. manu-scripts. "Is that what a scenario looks like? I never saw one before." Then looked through It In his slow methodical way. I thought "If he doesn't know anything about scenarios, why did he send for me?" But maybe this was the way advertising agencies work. "I'll let you hear from me as soon as I can," he said finally. I went out again, unable to make head or tall of the mysterious affair. Maybe I should have asked what it was all about. Or should I? I simply sim-ply didn't know. Three or four days passed, then came a telephone call. Could I come In to see him? I said I could manage It "I've Just talked to Chicago," he said, "and they want me to ask you some more questions." He glanced at some notes on his desk and cleared his throat. "Have you ever written a training film?" I hadn't the slightest Idea what a training film was. But I wasn't going go-ing to show It. "No. I haven't," I said as If I hadn't got around to the chore. He cleared his throat again and said "Hmmml" and my heart dropped to my belt. "Do you think you could?" be asked. I said I thought I could. He considered this for some moments, mo-ments, looking among his papers and wrinkling his brows. Finally he said. "I guess you are wondering what this is all about?" "Well, yes," I said as If the Idea had flashed Into my mind. "I haven't been permitted to divulge di-vulge my client, but I think I enn do so now." I leaned forward to show I was Interested. "It Is for the Standard Oil Company of Indiana. They want to moke a film which will help their dealeis." I wasn't quito sure what a "dealer" "deal-er" was. but I wasn't going to snow that, cither. "I think I can do that," I said modestly. "If everything Is agrcenblc In Chicago, Chi-cago, could you go to work at once?" I said I thought I could. My heart, now back In place, was flopping under my shirt front "How much would you expect In the way of remuneration?" My heart gave a violent thump. I knew that anybody who sold "remuneration" "re-muneration" had money. (TO DE CONTINUED) |