"Tell It To Sweeney", the Conklin-Bancroft opus at the Metropolitan this week, depicts the trials and tribulations of two temperamental throttle pushers at a rapid tempo. "Come on, Salome, get hot," shouts Cannon-Ball Casey, engineer de. luxe, to his sawed-off but antagonistic fireman, Luke Beamish, who blows off quite as much steam as either the classy "Oriole Limited" or the relic of the Gay Nineties, the "Isobel." And between "the greatest mistake since Vesuvius" and the little "pipesqueale" there materializes enough excitement to keep the two locomotives "throttle up" throughout most of the picture and the audience free of the blase boredness which the average moving picture of the day almost invariably provokes.

As a team the Chester Conklin-George Bancroft combination has a flying start. They play one another off so well that even the antiquated engine, the "Isobel", has to take a back seat, and "Isobel" has captivated her audience as well as her engineer in a case of "love at first toot." But while Conklin and Bancroft are not always funny, they are always fast in a brand new comedy background, namely the railroad field which seems to have infinite possibilities, especially when this pair are out to make a run. Indeed, these two comedians seem to be out to undo the jinx that makes so many slapstick favorites of the footlights flops of the Kleig lights. They spare neither themselves nor each other in making "Tell It To Sweeney" extremely hectic and reasonablly funny.

Bancroft takes the part of engineer Cannon-Ball Casey recently fired for starting "The Midnight Flyer" at noon during an eclipse, but at present chief throttle pusher of the fast 'Oriole Limited" who prides himself upon his wrestling prowess. His troubles start when Luke Beamish, "what the world lacked when they built the Panama Canal" when it comes to getting "hot" with a shovel, is taken off the old "Isobel" and made his fireman. Luke is the father of the prettiest girl of the railroad yards, or something like that, and Casey as well as Superintendent Sweeney's collegiate son manage to run into plenty of milk cans and fall off plenty of platforms getting maudlin over her. Casey finally challenges his rival to a wrestling match which looks discouraging for him of the shellacked locks until he tells Luke and Doris, the fair one's handle, that he was one time intercollegiate wrestling champion or captain of the Yale boxing team,--and how! Doris is not so sure, however, and at the L. and M. picnic she starts a little game of "now, you catch me" and before long young Sweeney is far away in the woods and forgetful of the match. Consequently things look bad for Luke who has bet his roll on the former intercollegiate prom trotter. Not to let his money go so easily, he accepts the challenge and forthwith begins another battle of the century in which every comedy gag in the versitile pair's bag of tricks is uncovered. In the end, Luke wins, of course, when the two of them roll down a declivity and Cannon-Ball meets a stump halfway down with Luke on top.

In the meantime, Doris and her man decide they will tie up for life, so the next day they head for a Justice of the Peace in a neighboring town in his little roadster. Superintendent Sweeney hears of it, and Cannon-Ball Casey is told to break all records in getting to Oxford ahead of the eloping pair. In rapid succession the audience is offered a limited "running wild". . . . . Old "Isobel" proving her worth . . . . a smash up in which a load of hay plays a major part . . . . a record lowered . . . a marriage almost thwarted. Almost, mind you. Leave the climax to Casey and Luke. They do everything but "Tell It To Sweeney."

However, if the picture is exceptional this week, the stage attractions at the Metropolitan are more than distinctive in comparison with the ordinary run. "Flyin' High" is as successful a number based upon the flight of Captain Lindbergh as has been attained, which is not saying very much. The Greater Metropolitan Stage Orchestra under the direction of Gene Rodemich is the center of attraction with some grotesque looking imitation airplanes and a chorus of bespangled aviatrixes for atmosphere. Dances by a genial young person, Jerry by name, and "a couple of collegians from East Boston" are the hit of the offering, and deserve the many encores given them.

In addition, there are the innumerable organ renditions, traveloques and what nots which never fail to obscure the Metropolitan's main presentation and annoy the audience with their infinite variety. However, this week the entertainment is as balanced and stimulating as even the most critical would expect