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About The Omaha morning bee. (Omaha [Neb.]) 1922-1927 | View Entire Issue (July 29, 1924)
know what had happened or had for gotten about it. She tiptoed to their tiny bathroom and bathed her face. The mirror said that she looked drunken. The bride. Her hair had looked very pretty yesterday, when some one was Haying “the bride" every few mo menu. After »he bad busied herself with It for a time, and had found the house dress, hanging primly among the things she had arranged with precise care earlier In the week, she felt better prepared to meet the fully widened eyes of day. (To Be Continued Tomorrow.) _ _ a Ml I O 1 V V JO ELLEN I By ALEXANDER BLACK. Copyright, 1124. j| l. ___ _* difference to know, whatever you might know. It would make a lot of difference to be able to speak. In the morning, unless the doctor was wrong and Marty was quite recov ered, you could tell your own mother and Marty's mother, you could cry out from the secret place and sum mon others to where the aloneness was to have been. . . . They had never teen alone. At the very threshold of aloneness she had to call a stranger. And the stranger had left a drug to stand guurd over Marty. It was as If a specter sat in there holding Marty still . . . until the morning. Then there wo* n gray light In the little parlor. She had been asleep. It was very early, for the light was faint, rerhaps the clink of the milk man’s bottlea or some other strep' sound had aroused her. She got up, and found that she felt stiff. It would be the cramped position In which she had been lying for the hours be tween. She went to the bedroom door There wns no sign that Marty had moved. His clothes had been flung over a chair. Hie face looked pink and comfortable, as If his body didn't (Continued From Yeotordnjr.) "You run and tend to him. I’ll be along In five minutes." Jo Ellen did run back. Marty had twisted into a sitting position on the sofa. He sobbed again when he saw her. "He's coming. In five minutes. You must stay as I put you." He submitted to being stretched out again with his feet on the chair. "It isn’t hurting so badly?” "No,” he said. "The pain ... It isn’t that. But—don’t you see ... I can’t move . . . here—” he ran his trem bling fingers over the thighs. “Numb. Funny feeling. You don’t think, do you—” “Don’t let us think until the doctor comes. If you’ll be good I’ll go down and watch and fetch him In.” The five minutes seemed to have the dimensions of an hour. She thought it an outrage that he should not be breathless when he came. “Woll, young man,” he grunted when Jo Ellen brought him in, “what have you been doing?” Marty stared with his terror-strick en eyes. “I don’t know,” he said. The doctor took oft Marty’s coat and vest. “You were hurt in the war?” Marty nodded. “Where was it?” His fingers were busy. “In the back . . . lower. Yes . . . there.” “Where I’m touching you now?” “Yes.” “Does that hurt?” "A little. That’s where the pain got me when I tumbled.” “You were In the hospital over there?” “Yes." “An operation?” “They had to sew me. It was a gash.” “From a shell, I suppose.” Marty repeated with a curious ab sent sound. “A shell.” The doctor was silent while his fingers rested on Marty’s wrist. "You’ll have to be patient until we see what’s happened. You gave your self a Jolt." Then he looked up at Jo Ellen. "A glass of water." Jo Ellen hurried Into the little kitchen and heard the doctor follow ing. With the glass, unfilled, In her hand she turned to him. “Is it any thing serious?” “Serious? It’s serious to be hit by a fragment of shell—In the spinal re gion. You don’t want me to lie to you? A lesion—this may have com pleted it. That would he serious." He was opening his drug ease, and Jo Ellen dumbly filled the glass at the faucet. The doctor said, “not so much," New York -•Day by Day— \/ By O. O. MclN'TYRE. New York, July 29.—New York breeds the worst and most vicious type of criminal. This Is a phase of the great city that Is overlooked In the gust of boasting of Its pomp. Despite Its great charities the me tropolis is a city that neglects many outcasts. The bobbed-haired bandit was a striking example. New York allowed her and thousands of others to drift Into the dank basements where cheap excitement and twisted romance go hand In hand. She at one time or other came under the rule of all the agencies of righteousness. None of them set her feet irf the right path and kept them there. At 15 she was a child laborer and like hundreds of other spent the evenings picking up sailors on the Brooklyn water front. She was the child of a drunken father and a deserting mother. She went straight from the base ment to prison Just as hundreds of others are doing. The other day I walked through some of the mean, narrow streets running off the Bowery—Mulberry, Roosevelt, Baxter and others. I saw scores of children living In dirt, neglect and squalor. Many had already started on careers of begging and stealing. Their pinched faces showed undernourish ment and they habit themselves in rags to beg. A boy of 9 was smoking a clgaret on the stoop of a tenement home. Another about the same age was expectorating amber sprays of tobacco juice. "Mister give a dime for the mov ies?" begged one. He was asked what kind of movies he liked. "Killing and shooting,” he replied. Querulous mothers were lazing through the day In dark hallways most of them reek ing with fumes of whisky. Fathers are odd-job men who spend many weeks In prison for petty of fenses each year. New York is ap parently too big for Its people to catch the undercurrents of misery that swirl in the tenements. The poorest man In our town was a fellow who cut weeds In backyards and beat carpets for a living. He had six children and lived In a lean-to across the creek. He earned 50 cents a day when he worked and was given the noon dinner by those who employ ed him. His squalor seemed pathetic, yet he lived like a prince compared to those In New York tenements. He gave his children a grammar school education and they had substantial food from his garden. One of his hoys became a publlo accountant and a daughter a trained nurse. The chorus man Is a pathetic fig ure In theatrical life. Rarely does he rise shove the chorus. Outside of theatrical producers, I have met few who knew a chorus man. They are clannish and live In a world all their own—a world of theatrical boarding houses. They dress well nnd of course are good looking—an asset they must have to be In the chorus. Jealousy that Is so rife In the theater world never touches them. They have groat reverence for the more fortunate players with whom they appear. Just now the chorus man has struck some very lean days. There are only about five shows In town employing them. One of the popular chop houses In the Roaring Forties Is owned by a vaudeville actor who Is on the rond most of the time. It bears his first name and Is a haunt of the two a day artists. A sign on the wall reads: "IVe know you are all good, hut most of our patrons are more interested In food than tnlk. An honest taxi driver returned a Jewel case containing $75,000 worth of Jewels that had been left In his ear to the owner. His reward was • half dozen silk handkerchiefs ICopyrtfht, 1934.J j ,C then dropped a pellet into the glass. "Put him to bed," he said, “and keep him quiet.” It was as he spoke that his eyos followed a white speck—perhaps It had rested in Jo Ellen’s hair—fol lowed it on its way to the floor. As his foot crunched the grain of rice he asked bluntly, "When were you married? • "This afternoon," answered Jo El len and understood his intent glance. "And you not being an experienced nurse,” he continued casually, “I'll give you a lift—I mean him a lift. Get the bed ready.” Glancing at the glass, into which he decided to drop another pellet: “He’ll sleep. Keep him quiet in the morning until I come.” Having swallowed the drink, Marty was gathered up by the doctor and carried Into the bedroom. Jo Ellen sat on the edge of the sofa, her hands knotted. She knew that the doctor looked at Marty’s back. She heard the doctor say: “You've roughed it and seen things. Keep your nerve. Don’t worry. I’ll look you up early tomorrow." She had an impression of the doctor sit ting beside the bed. and that he said something in a low tone to Marty. It might have been simply the word “quiet." The silence became frightful. Why didn’t the doctor go? At last he came out and retrieved his hat and drug case. It seemed to Jo Ellen that a sen fence of awful silence had been im posed upon the world. With his hand on the knob of the door the doctor turned, then moved over to where she stood, in a stiff ■-US \S NOK^Gti\ NfATER. I \ rtMT »'UU.lOr'4 IATION 1 ^ J >40 * vox or r C>^ XV4'S WftXER^y i , JnOXAG£ - -ygTT L» ULC. "Too bad," he said, with a hard on her shoulder. "I'm as sorry as If . . . is If I had known you both. You look like the kind that would be plucky. Don’t you worry, either. Go to bed. He won’t wake till morning." She stood beside the closed door. There seemed to be only one thing that had to be settled at once. Should she telephone to Marty's mother? It would be a knife in her throat to do It, but if It had to be done—at once— she would do It. Very likely his mother would not have reached home. She might still be In Inwood . . . No, she couldn’t call Inwood. In the morning . . . after the doc tor had said his say . . . after Marty woke up. Yes. In the morning. She was sure Marty wouldn't wish her to sail his mother yet. She sat again on the edge of the sofa, her eyes following the features of the room, all that had been placed by their collusion. The effect was very good. Particularly ‘‘homey," Marty had Insisted. She unhooked the shoulder flap of her dress and began to cry silently. VI. Half undressed, she lay curled on the sofa, starlngly awake, for a long time. The walls of the room seemed to stare hack out of the dark. Street lights filtered through the two open windows to create fantastic shadows. Occasional street noises had a cruelly Indifferent inflection. Sometimes they seemed contemptuous, or to be whis pering Jokes about the way things happened in the world, things people tried to hide or to pretend. There was, too, a fearful solemnity in the silence, and even In the sounds, as If the monstrous breathing of life went yn with no regard at all for anyone’s Individual miseries. If you were very happy you were willing to be alone with your happiness. You were glad the rest of life didn't interfere. Happy lovers, for Instance, hated Intrusions Perhaps they didn’t ask life to look the other way. They Blrfiply didn’t care a whoop about the rest of life. When you were unhappy you wished life would relent and lend a hand, or fit least show a decent Interest. But It wouldn’t do that. And It was best that It should be so. The present situation proved that. Intrusion would magnify the calamity ... if it was a calamity. There was no way if knowing that in the morning it might not turn out that Marty’s hurt was less a disaster than it had seemed. The shock of the stumble had done something. The doctor's face indicated that he knew precisely what it had done. But doctors made mistakes, and they had little tricks to tool you—for good reasons, no doubt. They couldn’t tell you everything. Setting- Marty into bed and doping him might mean much or little. It might mean a night’s sentence or a ,lfe sentence. You were free to go m guessing what the doctor might mean by this or that. As for this third figure which she had rushed out to find, there was the doctor side of him and the man side of him—say the gentleman side of him. You wouldn’t be sure which side was speak ing. Perhaps in the morning he would be more completely the doc tor. In the morning . . . Yes, In the morning—that Is, when It was the day nfter the wedding you wouldn't be asking questions of the darkness. You would know some thing, and It would make a lot of1 gosh • i wtsu we Back HcNie . This \ BuS'wess of camming- our/ ) \<i GeTTIHG- TIBESOMe / UlWERtS SPARK f>tu6? / AM ' . A A«r _- I 5.EEW HIM j/' \ Mi^Uh _• ^2* \ ****** J BRINGING UP FATHER I'M thinking t>ER\O0t>LV I or COINC, OUT frvNO ^— HAVthtC, MX HWR <T~__ 7 WELL (m^^ie: ^2/—— —-—— f SMAKT. eh » <SOlKX» UP \ lb //ft. Gi'jwvs wouce Avio wrriKie va Ta*s A'l^TCCM WE, LAW CEE "TwS CA'ieoAD -^, ns- iuwpv Ano StCWJ /AUO DANCSEftOOS y xko"A*E. A SEffTS ACT } ( Ward - , | rrs- am?uv. / 1 The Day. of Real Sport By Briggs r,-g . ». v-U', 'VTT-V.r» .*" ** . 1 ■» ^h(J> r ' '..1 Vo VUH WWT_-±f i,*w£tA£ Y—*t |!|i!I!| Hum ETS£?J#|| V#!l! •i»;iij|l IT HEFTr OR • J Ta P(.u£> <r J j!1 i'OM&TH V ^ _ _rX r~^L t ,£vu‘ i ) WATCRMf-LOrJ . --- THE NEBBS WE’LL TELL THE WORLD. _. Directed tor 1 he Umana pee y / I SELECTED YOUR TiRM PvSTHE FlRMTHRoUGU ) i WHICH WE WILL DO OUR ADVERTISING &ND l ( AM GOING TO spend $100,000 immediately 1 \ «— uoE P»RE GOING "TO SPREAD THC VIRTUES OT / \ noxage to the tour Corners or ^_^ Vl , r?r-v THE Ef\RTW /NOW SbO'WE. pgsOHAltfl [got -CVAC STOP* / *7*g,£r£ ftOVE^TvSiNN«T —"WE QU\OCER I - *lCO<V* MOMEVOAKor T*L NOU -SHOOT -ME Or A.MVSER - TU. M**E \ SETTER l LL So&OE "WE MOST POPULAR \ UKE VT & in-WCEk»GUSWLM6UMX 'v---- _ i ll W&.v/E"WE BMMES SWING >-N. ’ uO« *GC* BEFOPL "THEV S*T V /THE BETTER\ v 'MAMMA' AMP'PftP^ __✓ ( WC'U. LIKE ) XT * j £ Barney Google and Spark Plug Sparky Organizes a Little Hunt of His Own. Drawn for The Om.h. Bee by Billy D«B«k T-o---—-:-1 t. i »' I rag ■ ‘W * I I'. .. , a W i W . f NEll'S BELLS " ME NWST HA'JE \ WANDERED OEF »NTb n, "The vmooos anb GcT j V LOST WlZj Ref iaterad SEE JIGG3 AND MAGGIE IN FULL U. S. Patent Olflea PAGE OF COLORS IN THE SUNDAY BEE Drawn for The Omaha Bee by McManus (Copyright 1924) -, ,--■---!-1 [ TOO OOH'T*HEAN flPS V TO TELL ME TOO _ YZ WOULD COT. THAT ~M v/ELL' I BEAUTIFUL HEAD y~~ ,_, or HMR or TOOR*b J ) i I r.: OH • MR'b JICC.'b-DOtS'T TELL ME THAT TOO AvRe coinq to £>oe> TOUR HMC TOO S1LLT CHILO• sour e>E^UTlF(jL H/MR ■ YOU 5ROTE • YOU WOULD J QQ LET ME CET MV HA'R. W BOBDEO^YOO DON'T{ CAR.E. - YOO WOULDN'T >QgW >_ CARE I OiEO-' -■ WHO ME? . .. * v ' y JERRY ON THE JOB iFt a thing is dead it cant be killed Drawn for<S*,hr^“a Bee by Hoban r k j /&GEWT ^00 D rS soisu, Grr P'cro WacA s 8eOA”?CASr*«s AU> )*' v 'tvem SLamc ? ►-/ /*"Poo. noScoy ^ Eo>0 H?2E. Cam r»; r A_ PlGE A*.t. j'-piv. ■fit*! %>S •' r , » ... ft V _ I ABIE THE AGENT Drawn for the Omaha Bee by Hershfield A Gmt Rrttrl. y_ * < ' '' 1 SMI). I s HOLLIS 3794 I \? Vbu cam them T'^ajIT VH A BEARD, '*r iU CAN HOLD THEM , ’"t- -~. TH A S-HAME IfctU.YOU COOK UKT A tnFFE^Etfr MANi» C€RYA\UVY ICAYTXlW*