Image provided by: University of Nebraska-Lincoln Libraries, Lincoln, NE
About The Omaha morning bee. (Omaha [Neb.]) 1922-1927 | View Entire Issue (Aug. 23, 1924)
* r f I (Continued From Yesterdsg.) "Ellen!" It was her mother, whispering the , Jiame. , So the whole house wouldn’t be ■ Routed. 1 ’’I heard something," Mrs. Rewer , Aided, "lying there awake—thinking » bout you. Wasn’t that strange? ! rjvhnt’s happened? Are you alone?" They walked softly, and when the light flnred, the mother's eyes were ’Alert. Jo Ellen wondered If she still ’. bore signs of being, or having been, drunk, "I was at a party," she said, "and ’It seemed a little easier to disturb this house—easier than the other ene.” If she could get to bed before hav ing to expound anything she would be better off. The theory might have worked itself out if Mrs. Rewer hadn't put those strong arms of hers about the lithe young figure. . . . Crying, with her head in her moth er's lap, Just like the other brides she had thought of as so silly. She Couldn’t see her mother's face when ghe came to the top of the story. Phe could only fell the tightening of the hands and a faint taut tremor In the knees. "And I stood it all,” she said—all pf it—not very beautifully, hut I ptood it—because it came along with everything, and I wanted to he a Sport. If the war broke him, well, I had to Btand that. I had to take fciy share. It was the thing that got hie to where I married him—that jimp. You know that. Yes, I know P X said before he went away that I Would, but if he hadn’t come with |he hurt—I guess it made him seem pathetic or something, so that it was hard to admit changing. I don't be Jievs I did change. I never really Cared enough for him to marrv him. | ought never to have said I would. But when I thought the war—and it Wasn’t the war! The war never put A mark on him!" "It was the war.” Jo Ellen’s head come up with a ting. •''No!’’ she cried so loudly that her BK/tner raised a hand in warning, "it Wasn’t the war. Just a beastly mat tar of a woman. Can’t you see why be never wanted to talk about army surgeons? He knew he couldn't get *hy government help here on an in Jury like that. If the thing came to being looked up . . . And we were pooled—" ; New York j --Day by Day’ ll ___j ; By o. o. McIntyre. 2 New York, Aug. 23.—Broadway calls * them “fadeouts." They refer to the « former beauties of the stage who are 2 being shunted to the background 2 —eclipsed by age or fading! beauty. * Every cafe has their sprinkling of 1. them nightly. 2’ For the Broadway lights are the pk • lights that never grow dim. They arc J always alluring. There is one who 2 used to twinkle In the front row. One * night there was a Westchester Joy ride ? and a smashup and she left the hos 2, pltal with a deep scar on her cheek. mt There Is another, still In her 20s, 2 whose beauty wilted under the fast 2 pace. She was once the featured beau J ty of a noted revue. And her last ■ ■ engagement was in a Seventh avenue 2' cabaret. She affects a lorgnette and 2' gazes haughtily about the world that * once acclaimed her. 2; Nothing is so tragic to them as J to lose the glare of the spotlight. * They fight strenuously to retain their 2 beauty ^nd as a result their faces are 2 hideous examples of the cosmetic arti « fice. They are like prize fighters 2 who never believe they are through. * Thetr chief assets are beauty and ! youth. Each Is usually ravaged in 2 n. mire of dissipation. When they lose * beauty they find themselves hope * lessly out of the race. Producers 2 are out when they call. Men who * once paid nightly court st their feet 2 have “other engagements.” * So their only companions are those « pomniaded young fops who will dine 2 with anyone who pays the check. A * strange crew—these Broadway dan 2 dies who live by their wits. As Will 2 Rogers says you look at them and * just know they ride horseback side 1 saddle and ait on the floor to put J on their sox. * Two of the "fadeouts" are former * professional dancers. Once they J floated out like puff balls to riotous * applause. Now wherever they go 2 Broadway gives them Its pitying 2 glance and shrug. • Since two dramatic critics in New Z York decided on stage careers and » J appeared In monologues there has “been much good-natured kidding by other producers. One musical revue for instance advertises: "Positively not a dramatic critic in the cast.’ A breath of the old clipper days in New York is to be found sround the Seaman's Institute. Here one finds many of the old salts of the days that are gone. They still re tain their rambling sea gait. They smoke short, stubby pipes and their wrinkled faces have not yet lost the tang and tan of the sea. James Swinnerton, the comic ar tist, Is In town for his annual vaca tion from Arizona. Ten years Hgo Swinnerton was told by the for most specialists to get his house in order, that he had only a few weeks to live—both lungs were af fected. In fact when he left Denver he was told he had but two weeks more. Always the fatalist he ac cepted the verdict. In one of the bars in a small Arizona town he met an old gambler who was mourning over a lost love. He was In his cups and wept copiously. Swinnerton was amused and Im pressed and said: "Pardner, how would you like to mourn for me? I've got only a few’ days more and have no friends in this part of the country." ' If you llcker me well. I'll mourn you like a lost brother," was the reply and Swinnerton and the old gambler went’up In the hills to live In a tent. I saw Swinnerton the other day In a magazine editor's office. He is a picture of perfect health. The old gnmbler, hy the ■way, is still with Swinnerton and works on ills ranch near Sliver . King, N. M On New Bowery near Oliver street Is a little Jewlah cemetery anld to he the oldeat Jewish burial ground In North America. It once occupied what Is now Chathsm Square. The grant for the graveyard was Issued by Got ernor Peter Stuyvesant In 1856. (Copyright, 1*24.) j "He's stricken all tha same—for life." "You're as furious as I am,” Jo El len muttered bitterly. "You want to smooth me out.” In the white nightgown her mother looked like a matronly angel who wept for the miseries of the world. "I'm not liking him for It,” said Mrs. Rewer steadily, "or saying that It wasn't rotten—a man who had a wife pledged! It was horrible. But it smashed him. The punishment's been laid on pretty heavy, without us." . "I know. But why should I be smashed, too? I was willing to take niy share of what the war did. Why should I have to share this? It Isn't fair. The whole game of war Isn’t fair to women. Everybody knows that. And one of the reasons It Isn’t fair—hut what's the use of going Into that—going Into all that a man may bring home besides fighting marks? It's all war." "I see." Jo Ellen emitted the begin nings of a hysterical laugh. "Bullets and women. And the hero comes home—to another woman. Wonderful arrangement! If there's any of him left, the leavings are for her. And she must be grateful that there Is anything left. Even If he looked the same as ever, she couldn't tell what had happened to him, could she? She's allowed to go on hating war—patient ly. Whatever he does she mustn't hate him.” Her mother was silent. When Jo Ellen looked at her she saw, not theory or argument, but suffering. A whiteness had come over her face. There was a desperateness In the fixity of her eyes, as if she were trac ing the outlines of an issue that couldn’t be met. She was the mother. She must explain life, she must make Providence plausible, she must talk bravely in the dark to prove that It hag no ghosts, she must kiss bruises and He about them. What Jo Ellen saw stung her afresh. “And after all that, there’s Mrs Simms. She Isn't the war.” "No, damn her!” This was not like a matronly angel hut It rvas out. Contrition seemet to bring the blood back into Mrs ReAver'a face. Peroaps It was a relief to get this said at last, eA-en If she felt belittled. A damn was a bad example. But she had often thought of Mrs. Simms with a damn, and a stricken Jo Ellen pried the thing out of her. "I know!” exclaimed Mr* Rewer. ''She treats you as if you did it." There could be no conflict over this. Suddenly Mrs. Rewer asked, "Do you suppose she—she knows?" The eyes met. "Knows—what?” "Knows how Marty was hurt." "I don't know. I haven’t had time to think. They stick close. Prob able- she does knoAV." "I Avonder.” Mrs. Rewer's hands became quiet again. Presently they ek'nched. "It would serve her right if avc had the marriage annulled.” At sight of the quick flush in Jo Ellen's face, the mother groped her way back from the brink. "I guess I don’t quite mean that. We mustn’t let that woman make us—" Jo Ellen stood up. “I'm going to bed." Mrs. Rewer got to her feet respon sively. "We'll sleep on it. I'm not sure that your room Is quite as It ought to be." "I won't care," said Jo Ellen. The parting for the night Ava* stealthy. At the end, the two clung dumbly together for several moments. III. For a time It seemed to Jo Ellen that the awful word "annulled" would keep her awake for the rest of the night. But a heaviness, Immense and peremptory, blotted out all Implba tlons. Even thought of the morning was left unfinished. The great fact of the morning was that Jo Ellen slept until nearly nine o’clock, when Uncle Ben and her grandmother had gone. "I took a chance," said Mrs Rbav. er quietly. "Looked to me as if you needed It." Jo Ellen was firm about the necessi ties. "I must he at. the office by ten." This meant hustling. She put on n dress she had not taken downtown, and hurried her breakfast Mrs. Rewer withheld the questions she had ready. At going away time the principal one A\as answered." "I’m coming back here," said Jo Ellen. "Until 1 get straightened out.” "If they telephone—" her mother began. The meaning of "they” was not obscure. "Won't It do that I'm not feeling well?" "1 think It will. It'll have to do. Hut you're feeling a little better? "A little.” The telephone call came to the office, soon after her arrival. The voice was Marty's. "Uncle Ben's been here," Marty stammered. "Uncle Hen?" There was a muttered sound as ot v struggle to be silent, of words swal lowed desperately. With this con tact, tenuous ns a wire, the two flick ered for a moment. Marty was first to hang up the receiver. It could be this way—If you chose, anything might be blotted out—or seem to be, for a little while—until thoughts be gun wedging their way in. until you began wondering . . . about yourself; until pictures Of yourself, pulled away, standing quite apart from everything, began to form themselves In the clutter, and you found yourself taking apprehensive breaths, perhaps with a kind of guilty awe. The Interval gave time for apei illa tion upon the attitude of Uncle Ben. No hint of what thia might he ap peared In hlB later telephone call. He wanted to aee her. at lunch time or at the end of the Jay. Jle would wait for her at either time. Helav would not matter. "X have all the time there Is,” he Raid to her. She told him she was returning to Inwood and preferred the *oln»?home hour. Under the eircumstanres It made her miserable that Eberly should keep her until nearly seven i lin k. It would have been better 1 to have had Uncle Ben come Into the office, Instead of letting him hover In the foyer of the building, though he hud no complaint, but only a com ment on the extraordinary Interest ingness of the Jewish boy who pre ilded over the tobacco stand. (T» Be fonttnned Monday.! Of course. It was like Uncle Ben. Plunging through to the trouble point. “He's been here. He'll—I’ve told him everything. Everything. I want—but over the, phone—” “Don’t,” admonished Jo Ell#n. ■'You'll be homo to dinner?” “I can't tell when I'll be Me and Mine By Briggs F MY D*UCmTbb, is VEPYVeRt'l POPwlmi vamth The 8dY5^ 1 \ She\s oyjT ,Some Places ) \ EvcrY WKlHT - IT' * I i Te-RPiiBLa TVmh vajay_I n' f~MY OA'JSHTen ia 7^at WAY loo-’ VAJ« AiBvHA. Set net**. AWY MOWS - 3He IS A L0v*tv OAKJCEft. MvjO Y<5U KkJOUJ MOW WOVi HKe That — weu. * • v — —__ — J Pau4hti»r C£\kj MarDLV TflAVPt Any where alone \ WITHoUT '^Or«e 'STFLA0J6fi j MAM TrYMJG T0 PXlRT U/lTW I H8R, BUT «SM* »3 Too / \ ^MAOT l*bR Th PM - ft iMHr / V Just "Tm* dTnPn^ Z^jmSk ' J i ^thTkTk iTj Oust auwfou \ ABooT^THCsSe GIRLS WOUuDAYi! aaV Daughter neuer Got HOWE ,Tl LL* roUR^THIS v MORNING P’ROI'A A PAFJT'r'' " ] I ISfJ T IT Just TeRniBLt* S?] r~~ “ ' ~ / OU .MV GOODNifS S . U/MAT) / A root-'-i am4t0 Liareisi To Hes. CHftTT«H! / That t>AUGHT»RV. lumy/ owp MtuDJ a'Good >30UfVD % fiPAMKINg r' tlTV ..V L,A ABIE THE AGENT Drawn for The Omaha Bee by Hershfield Thru llr Thought It 0\rr. ' I.*■' - - # 4 - ft * THE NEBBS WELL, THAT’S DIFFERENT. Directed for The Omaha Bee by So! He*. i * < 7 ARRANGED TAvtfl A VACATION^ WITH NOG AND WE'LL GO DOWN \ TO NORTMV/U.LL - t'll WRITE 1 N\B>UCK *TO ARRANGE TOR A J \ NAA\D AND NAVE EV/ERVTv-UnG . ALL READV TOR GS 7you WOHT WAVE to LON TOUR HAMOS \ TO A TMIKlG AMO I'LL GET AM AUTO ^ \ TO DRIVE VOO AMD UUMiOR AROUND A - VOO'LL S>E A QuEEM DOvajkJ THERE \ _ r Vaj AMT My <SvajEET W\EE TO HAVE A COMPLETE REST \si BEAUTIFUL / V MORTHVILLE - THE S\RTH PLACE ) \^OF My TORE PATHERS [EM OUST A SMART fc\RO -VESTEROA'A 6UE COULDN'T SEC NORTUV1LLE WITH A TELESCOPE - TODAV SHt CAN’T WAIT UNTIL SUC GETS THERE . »F l WASN'T 60 LATT ED WRrrt A BOOK ON WOW TO PLEASE A Wire - <T WOULD) RE GRE AT REAONG TOR SOME MARRlEO \ GUTS I RUOWJ WHO SPEND HALF TUE\Q LIV/ES DODGING FLATMROnS AND WiOnCj * % Barney Google and Spark Plug JA.IL MEANS NOTHING TO BA-R^JEY^ NOW. (copyright 1924) ^Todav 3.30 PIT. iMTCRNATiodftt RA€t "(me famous Russian ' “fftcTskl' ms. SPARK PIVt' (WOE of The U S-A Purse ♦30.000 *» Special trains from Acl PARTS of The CooivJTrm ArrwimG hourly - (vAIIUJAUKCE HOTELS T»ked "To CAPACITY • Thou SAMOS OF people VAJAHt To FlWD ACCOMODATIONS are sctcpiMrt m tu«. parks . 1 1 m ■ —-* RACE TRACK PAViLUON JAMMED with humanity- 50.000 feoPtc Turned amjay from eon (*'« A FiM« PI<!KL«rM IM - Iv/E LOST Mi TOKST ANP Thot»e Cops won t ter AAS Through TV* GATE •• lit Hl/Vrt.e DOWN T. »<Ci<-i S Fo<1l ROOM ANO «Sr *«■ PlAi CMC a TUs "TICKER. - IF Mi SMBKY BRINGING UP FATHER Rifiitircd U. 3. Patent Office SEE JIGCS AND MACGIE IN FULL PAGE OF COLORS IN THE SUNDAY BEE Drawn for The Omaha Bee by McManus (Copyright 1924) 50 TH\5 >?> the TOWN that THE COUNT OE LERlOU^ TOLO ME TO 5PENO MY VACATION IN EH' WELL I'M v—| COMMA CALLTAIN OP AH' TELL HIM WHAT ^\/J- -' I THINK, ra yfcA M OE »T ~ . - WHERE l^> THERE y TONOER \N the a telephone r oroc* vroRe w TH,^ aOM TOWM?Jyj — V/HAT't) THAT? AVv - I KIM «bAV ANTTHIN^ 1 WANT OVER THE PHONE - AM I’M MOT AFRAID OF TOUR BOMI SHERIFF EITHER y 1_ ___J .. *.% **• I . »u -*oa _ I JERRY ON THE JOB - n , , , THERE IS A DIFFERENCE. Drawn {or The Omaha Bee by Hoban « 1 (Copmsbi l*-*i 3u 3U*Y SmonJ V >400UM0 /4N0 PBTTP40 A UkE 1 OOVT Six M**. I Tu> %G GOOOtWaOSWA Oaomto «s tu. Uoc.)