I Don't Know How the Story Ends by J.B. Cheaney

he pulled the bell cord, and we stepped off at the next stop. We were on a street lined with sun-blasted, blocky buildings and spindly palm trees. Vitagraph read the sign over the main gate. Ranger led us down an almost-deserted street, turned at an alley, and paused to exchange a few words with the little man who was sweeping trash into a pile. The man pointed to a door, and out of the corner of my eye, I saw Ranger slip something into the man’s pocket. It looked like a cigar.
    Stenciled on the door was Projection Room 2 . Ranger’s knock was answered by Samuel Patrick Service.
    â€œAre we set?” Ranger asked him in a not-quite-whisper.
    â€œAlmost.” Sam stood aside to let us into a small, windowless room that reminded me of a nickelodeon. There was a screen on one wall and two short rows of chairs facing it, and at the opposite end was a gray, blocky machine I took to be a projector. Sam went straight to it after letting us in, and I watched him mount a round reel, like a bobbin, on the front of the machine.
    â€œHow does it look?” Ranger asked him.
    â€œNot bad. Some of the cuts are jumpy.” Sam pulled a strand of film from the front reel. Holding Sylvie by the hand, I drew nearer while he threaded the film through the projector as deftly as Mother threaded her sewing machine. The loose end went onto an empty reel, which he spun until it snapped taut. “Ready.”
    Meanwhile, Ranger had been winding up an old gramophone and searching through a stack of records. Finding the one he wanted, he set it on the turntable and pulled a chair close. “Ladies? Please take your seats.”
    Sylvie whooped with glee. “Are we seeing a picture? Is it Babylon ?”
    Ranger held up a finger, signaling for silence. “Ladies and gentlemen, thank you for the pleasure of your company at this exclusive, private showing of The Mother and the Law , directed by D. W. Griffith.” His voice deepened on the great man’s name.
    Right away, I suspected I was being set up somehow. “Where did you get the film?”
    â€œFrom a friend,” Ranger explained (unsatisfactorily), then hurried on: “We only have the last reel, so I’ll tell you what happens in the first part. There’s a girl, called Dear One, and a young man called the Boy, and both their fathers work in a mill. But there’s a strike, and when the strikebreakers come in, there’s some shooting and the boy’s father gets killed. The mill closes, so they all have to move to the city to find work. Dear One’s father dies, and the Boy falls in with a bad crowd, but they meet and fall in love and he goes straight. Roll it, Sam.”
    Ranger pulled the overhead light cord, and Sam threw a lever, causing the projection machine to lurch into a loud whir. Light blazed from the screen as Dear One and the Boy appeared, poor but happy in their little home. Ranger placed the needle on the record, and strains of a “To a Wild Rose” helped mask the noise of the projector. After a while though, I stopped noticing the noise so much. The figures on the screen seemed almost real—not like the antic Cops of Keystone.
    Trouble soon heaves over the horizon. The Boy’s old partner in crime, known as the Musketeer of the Slums, tries to lure him back to shady ways. When he’s refused, the Musketeer plants evidence on the Boy’s person to make it appear he’s been gambling illegally. The Boy is arrested and goes to jail, leaving his wife with their baby, her only joy—until some upright society ladies take the baby to an orphanage, because a woman with a jailbird husband is no fit mother.
    The Boy gets out of jail. But that very day, the Musketeer comes to their apartment and tries to take advantage of Dear One! The Boy appears just in time, and there’s a fight. A shot rings out, and the Musketeer falls dead!
    (Ranger had a wooden block ready and slammed it on the table when the