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About The Omaha morning bee. (Omaha [Neb.]) 1922-1927 | View Entire Issue (Oct. 17, 1924)
I, THE KING By WAYLAND WELLS WILLIAMS. (Copyright, 1»24.) ._ (Continued from Yesterday.) "N'o," said Jack, "I'm embarrassed. You tell me about you." "Well . . . I'm a perfectly normal and convention person. I've always lived In a brick and brownstone house on Park avenue, and my family were cultivated, conservative, conventional people such as foreigners don’t believe exist in this country. Not much edu cation, but plenty of cultivation . . . We're of New England stock. My grandfather moved to New York." "And you?" "As a kid I was spoiled, but I think 1 got over that. For the rest, I'm a llilltonlan; I believe that about says it. I'm absolutely conventional. There's nothing interesting about me." Jack said nothing. "Now you go on." Jack leaned back against Kit's shoulder, staring at the lire. "I'm a i'alifornian, and I don't like Caltfor nia. I'm in that unfortunate posi tion. Oh, I grant it a lot. You can't live there without admitting it's great. But I'm not in the least in terested in whether Log Angeles is a better place than San Francisco. I ni not interested in ranch life, or riding out in those dusty mountains. I don't care about movie queens or country clubs or automobiles or horses. . . . The one thing I’ve always loved about California Is the little quail that fly out of the road in front of you. They’re so small and neat and un-Californian. They're like Eng land. The Californians don't care for ihem, because they’re small . . "This Isn’t about yourself," Kit remarked. "But it is, it's the whole thing! I've lived mostly In Oakland, which as you know Is a dump across the buy from San Francisco. And I went to a bum little school up In the mountains. It was supposed to be a healthy out door life, and God! It was. Every Saturday we strapped our damned packs on our horses and went off on a trip. Oh, those camping trips! You know I never could tighten a cinch properly. I never could clean a sauce pan so that It didn’t taste of the last time the next time. Every min ute I could take off I wag reading H. G. Wells or meditating on the nature of beauty. That didn't go big on those trips—oh, It didn't!" "They laughed. “Go on," said Kit. "Well, there wasn't enough money to send me to-school in the east, but Father's a Yale man and he always Intended to send me here. And when T came It was like a release. 1 thought I was going to be in my cle ment for once in my life. But . . ." A long pause. “It didn't work out that way.” Kit got up. "I mean," said Jack, "I have eastern longings, but my a. ■ 1 ■ i * — ' " \ New York --Day by Day b.v o. o. McIntyre. New York, Oct. 16.—Thoughts while strolling around New York. Manhattan rushing home for the day —scurrying and colliding like ants. Krrand boys turning handsprings. Automobile flirts scanning the 'curbs for conquests. Police platoons march ing to posts. - There’s Howard Chandler Christy. Sign: "Dogs Electrically Clipped." Bobbed and half-clothed "jazz bab ies." (Say little basement cafes make i ready for night. Unmannerly cubs teqsing bewhiskered old garmept workers. AVhy. do delicatessen dealers wear linen dusters? And the sleeves are always too long. The thin patches of shrubbery in front of the Union league club. And the ghostly shutter ed house across the way. The whirr of the burglar alarm tests. Comic supplement idea: A wife carrying two babies and a husband a bird cage. That's 60-50 stuff. Race track followers returning from the roar of thundering hoofs and cheer ing crowds. And nearly all go to Beefstake Charlie's. Clerks bearing polo helmets. Club men in windows adjusting the pince nez for the evening paper. A famous . reformed criminal. Pale face. Dreamy eves. And the hint of spiritual pallor. Fifteen years ago he used to crack safes in country banks. Idle taxi drivers spinning long winded tales. The Broadway razzel dazzle begins. The alleyway of a burlesque theater. Dow clowns prac ticing kicking each other in the pants. Thunder of tomtoms and the wail of trumpets and trombones. Soon be time for breakfast sau sages. Hot dog' The melange of cheap perfumes. Drooping huckster wagon horses. Blondes, brunettes and red heads, O, to hear a mocking bird sing in the eucalyptus tree. Or the gr-r-rump of a bullfrog! There are about 20 women along Fashion Row—the dressmaking style center on Fifty-seventh street—-who make from *15,000 to *20,000 a year ‘ stealing styles. They are known a* Fashion Pirates. They omke four trips to Paris a year and beat the so called legitimate dressmakers back with the latest frocks. Their pirating is peddled to the cheaper manufac turers and designs intended for Fifth avenue exclusiveness are flooding Broadway and Grand street almost over night. They haunt the capitals of the world in search of the beauti ful. Some fashion pirates resort to bribery, but as a rule they depend on ftiendshlps with the mannikins. Fashion piracy is looked upon as dis honorable by exclusive inporters, but there Is nothing they can do about it It is one of the perils of the busi ness. In the beginning theatrical pro Upeers sneered at the movie. It was considered a catchpenny device for peep shows. Today they see a movie as the biggest competitor. But now the theater and the movie man see their greatest danger in the radio. Many secret conclaves have been held nlong the Rialto. The radio has made a deep inroad Into the earnings of the theatrical and movie moguls. Three of the smartest hotels in New York have discharged all house detectives. They have come to the , they are an affront to the ' Ilot.se detectives have made titelr bungles by their prying and lack of tact that have not only lost patronage but resulted in heavy law suits. "We ate taking the position," said one of (he hotel men, "that the guest is going to conduct himself orderly and that he realizes that he has as much to lose as we have by lack of proper conduct.” There has sewer been any reason for a hotel to assume that every arrival was a crook. (Copyright, 1*24.) v upbringing and manner* are western You see? I'm a misfit in both places. And people know it—oh. they know it.” “That isn't true," said Kit, impa tient and somewhat worried. “You know a nice lot of fellows. I met you with Freddy Drake and Crownin shleld and that bunch.” “Tagging on. We eat at the same joint, and I tagged on one night after dinner. They don't like me." "They would if they knew you." “They'd know me If they liked me. ' The tone was bitter. Kit hesitated; the talk had got into deeper water than he liked. He wondered if he hadn't better get back to the shal lows. Wiser perhaps—hut something in the sight of Ja<^c msde him go on. "See here. Sheltenham ... if you call me New Kittle 1, can call you Cheltenham, Can't I?” Jack grinned slightly. "I don't know what I'm blun dering into, but . - • See here, aren't you a happy man?” "I’m telling you," said Jack in a low harsh voice, ills hand over his eyes. "I expected a lot of this place. The very name of New Haven used to send thrills through me. Then I got here, and found I couldn't get on here any better than in the west. And it was hell, simple hell. Then you came.” "And hell became hotter?” Jack jerked one hand angrily. “How's one to say these things? It was like . . . rain in the desert, i don't believe I’ve ever been really liked before. And when you asked me to e-ome over here . . . Kit, if we don't get on together—I'll go back to California!” "We shall get on," said Kit, very light, bent on receding. The speech seemed to arouse Jack lie got up and stood facing Kit with one elbow on the mantel. “You don't understand. I hadn't thought of threshing this ■ out. I thought I'd at least have the time till you found out for youraelf, but . . . See here, I’m not the kind of man you want to room with. Your friends all think it's a shame you tried it. I'm not your kind. I’m cheap, bum. I'm go ing to be the kind that never gets on in the class, a sort of pariah." "Well?” said Kit. "Well, don't be disappointed when you find out.” "I won't,” said Kit. He liked the courage of Jack's speech so immense ly that he disregarded the Import of it. He held Jack's eyes avidly. "Now tell me. what's all this got to do with the price of putty?" Caslon dropped his eyes and walked quickly off. He aligned his knee caps under the window seat and stared out the window. "All right There isn't anything one can say . . . Yes, there is. though, one more thing, I may as well say it, now that we’ve gone so far. if I have a hope, it's you. If you begin this thing, for God's sake finish. Give me up now. if you're not sure you ran. I can stand it now. But not later. If you went on and then gave up, it would be simply . . ." His voice died, and then the panic really came. Kit knew-that this was true. He had seen certain things in Jack. Affection had palliated them, but had not made him blind. When afTection died, what then? Hadn’t he better accept honorable withdrawal, now that it was offered? But affection was not going to die. less than ever since Jack had spoken like this. "I’ll go on,” he heard him self saying, “and I’ll stay on. See?” Jack's voire came hoarsely: “I he lieve you will.” He Inhaled deeply and moved away, jingling the change in his pocket. “Well, that's that. To morrow we'll he gassing about as usual. You'll be calling me Chelten ham Bold, and I'll be pretending to order you round. We'll never come back to this. Only, don't forget. Kit. don't forget." "I won't forget,” said Kit. appar ently bored. "It's after twelve. let's get to bed.” II. All this was totally unexpected, un desired, even. Ho had anticipated an easy, more or less inarticulate inti macy of the usual kind. But the thing was done: Jack's need had forced on him a responsibility which he did not dream of shirking. He lost no sleep over It, but the next day he remembered and used his head. . He breakfasted and went to chapel with Jack and they parted at the hour of the first recitation. When they met in their room after lunch he had made up his mind, and spoke out of clear silence. "By the way, you could he a little less festive in speaking to people on th» Campus And have you any plain white shirts?” Jack had jerked round to him at the first word. Kit smiled calmly back at his angry stare. “You think I'm tactless, taking up at noon what we left off at midnight. But you see the point?” Jack gulped once or twice and in spected a hook. "Yes, I see. About this speaking business . . ." “Well, casual, but cheerful. Don't. ftn to the other extreme, and be rurf and snotty. Be clad to see people, but not too darned itlad.” "Yes. And the shirts? I'll have to buy some." "Soft ones. And he sure the col lars button down.—Then there's an other thinjr. more Important. You're not out for any extra-curriculum stunt, are you? Well, T think it's absolutely necessary. We must look over the Held carefully, and decide what's best for you. It doesn't mat ter much how bum you are at it." "I’ll heel the Lit,,"” said .lack, grin ning faintly. "I thought I wouldn't, because it’s a stuffy old thing, but if this is a command . . "And the Tteeord I think your sense of humor's your greatest asset. —And Jack!'' ■What?” "A little leas sense of humor to people you don't know well—eaneeial ly at breakfast." He saw Jark'a lip begin to curl and left off quickly, well pleased. And so that relationship expanded and bore fruit. Kit had expected many things of college, but not a tu torship, voluntarily assumed, over one of his own age. Not responsibility. And yet it was that responsibility that came to give him more pleasure than all else. That was chiefly because of his love for Jack, no doubt: and yet he had felt something a little like it once, ages ago. over a half-dressed little rat (ailed Loman. Gradually it became clear that he was helping Jack in the eyes of th world. Jack had a good mind, a sense of humor and artistic discrimination, hut he was gauche and shy and had the paralysing effusiveness of thop* who rl<» not know how to t*e shy’tssj eomingh. He also had radical o»e» , on certain undergraduate atlairt which, until Kit stopped him. i would express with a blasting disr ■ gard for the amenities. (T» Be (ontInuril Tomorrow.! Bee Want Ads Produce Results. Second Honeymoons O FINE. AIR UP HERE ARCM T TRU im ThC MOVNTAiiJS (SoiWG To SHAUe J£ARr Bv Briergs | 2nd Day I T L'.., 3ro Day That Dirty old ScueaTi5r ^ 13 PosiTiwetY filthy — ( vuotu'T comtr *o CAfV You • You/ UJER6 So CLFAfs| AmD> . me. at vjuheaj yJG. \ I iRiT ‘ ~ L W|- “ m ■ ABIE THE AGENT Drawn for The Omaha Bee by Hershfield An Old Schema (ioiif Wrong. » I- - -■ * . c THE NEBBS A\jELLTHiS~\c\ /^' vdu rwow.mrsnebbN A REAL TREAT \ / MX SOCIAL OBLIGATIONS KEEPS MW. ME IT —IT'S! me SO BUS* TV4KT 1 SCARCE \ A LONG TIME FlWOTlMETOXI&lTSOURBETiV \ SINCE WE UAO ANO MX CHARLES. 00X00 \040W THE PLEASURE / IT WILLBEAXCAR NOW-14™-THAT) * \ of a wist / ooR dear Children eloped V VFROtM VOU / \ ANO THEX ARE So HAPPX pi ^ XTHE^ DEAR THINGS^p-^"'^ y I THE TWO CRUSTS OF SOCIETY. /ANO ASVwAS SkvinG'-~Yvn /'wtLL &WCE MV HUSBAND /MV SOCIAL OBLIGATIONS-WOOX/ WAS BECOME RICH,wqN\E<N WHO W.HOW when OWE ACCEPTS ) NEVER DARKENED mV DOOR 3EF0RC invitations to Swell AFFmRSI are calling now ano vm getting one most reciprocate r invitations to all kinds or affairs _ a5o TMCV oust smother } But t haven't been able net to me with INVITATIONS! / DETERMINE OUST WHAT bOOETV IS THAT'S THE PEN ALTV O' ) -WHETHER. ITS RULED BN CASH BEING Rich ano popular J or CLASS - So VM GOING Torino | N-- \QJT BErQRE I OiP in I ; | _TgP_(Copyright, 1W4, by Tb. Bril 8ynJ„ ■<-. I,.c ) | ^ Directed for The Omaha Bee by Sol Hess (Copyright 1924) r'vT-MKf OLD DUZZARD c,uc CAM COME ME&C AMD TRV “VO R'TI TAMMV AMO GUT AvUAV WvTWOOT GLTTlMG - RtiftMED UP* GWE’S TOOUSM - MW VaJ\PE *» . I WAD CLA&S ALL UER L'TU AMD SmE i \ OOU0LED UP OM \T WWEM SUE MARRVUD ^_y_— ^ 1 i : \r? * ■ | Mil Co Ac CosW-LSoo - Barney Google and Spark Plug Sunshine Can’t See Anything Go to Waste. Drawn for The Omaha Bee by Billy DeBeqk. 1 I_;C'»! BrU«.lv r.^U iW__j RRINr.INr. I IP FATHFR . SEE J,CGS AND MAGGIE ,N FULL Drawn for The Omaha Bee by McManus DlMnVJillVj wr r I nc<l\ U. S. P«*«nt Ollic. PAGE OF COLORS IN THE SUNDAY BEE (Copyright 1P241 f ■ — ■ - ' .■■ . f - ■■■ ' — ■ ' .— . ■ , -- -- , . - ■ ■ -— -- CO ON an han/e HE ARRESTED - t'UL J PUNCH AN^ POOV IIS THE NOt>E THM TAUK^S to me ATbOOT CHOKIN' 0« SMOKfNEAR ! » 1_._—_I JERRY ON THE JOB never him to gamble. Drawn for The °maha Bee by Hoban • <Conyr srht ! ■. 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