Adams Street was quite a busy scene on a Saturday night, for the stores kept open and the residents of a half-dozen neighbouring hamlets came in to do the week’s buying. While they were making their way through the leisurely throng Sid had a fleeting vision of Rusty Crozier, or thought he had. Stanley said it was quite likely, as Rusty was a great movie “fan.” Then they were part of the jam in the entrance of the Scenic Temple, and Blash, because of superior height, had been commissioned to fight his way to the ticket window. Followed a scurry down a darkened aisle and the eventual discovery of three seats together and one in the row behind. Blash volunteered for the single one and since it was directly behind the seat occupied by Dick the latter subsequently shared with Stanley the benefit of Blash’s observations and criticisms. A news weekly was on the screen when they arrived, and Blash had little to say of the pictured events, but when Episode 17 of “The Face in the Moonlight” began he became most voluble. Stanley kept telling him to shut up, but Dick, who didn’t find the serial very enthralling, rather enjoyed Blash’s absurdities. A comedy followed and then came a Western melodrama with a hero who took remarkable chances on horseback and a heroine who had a perfect passion for getting into trouble. There were numerous picturesque cow-boys and Mexicans and a villain who, so Blash declared delightedly, was the “dead spit” of Mr. Hale, the instructor in physics. Just when the picture was at its most absorbing stage the piano ceased abruptly and after an instant of startling silence a voice was heard. “Is Mr. Wallace Blashington in the house? Mr. Wallace Blashington is wanted at the telephone!” The piano began again and the usher, a dimly seen figure down front, retreated up the aisle like a shadow. The three boys in front turned to Blash excitedly. “What is it, Blash?” asked Sid. “Better go see,” counselled Stanley. “Are you sure he said me?” whispered Blash. He sounded rather nervous. “Of course he did! Beat it, you idiot! Come back if you can. Ask the man next you to hold your seat, Blash.” “We-ell--but I don’t see----” muttered Blash. Then he got up, dropped his cap, groped for it and found it and pushed his way past a long line of feet, stepping on most of them. At the back of the theatre an usher conducted him to the ticket booth and he picked up the telephone receiver. “Hello!” he said. “Hello! This is Blashington!” “Hello! Is that you, Mr. Blashington?” asked a faint voice from what seemed hundreds of miles away. “Yes. Who is talking?” “Mr. Wallace Blashington?” “Yes! Who----” “Of Parkinson School?” “Yes! What--who----” “Hold the line, please. Baltimore is calling.”