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About The Omaha morning bee. (Omaha [Neb.]) 1922-1927 | View Entire Issue (Oct. 23, 1924)
I, THE KING ] By WAYLAID WELLS WILLIAMS. (Copyright, 1924.) L. I (Continued from Yesterday.) VI. And young Mr. Caslon, after the expected delays and persiflage, mens ured up to expectations. Late one night he sat on Ills bed in his under clothes. puffing a short black pipe, and heard Kit out. “What about this proposition ol your uncle’s?" he asked on beginning to be serious. "This factory thing, up state somewhere?” “That’s out of the running. Al ways. and more than ever now. I won't have anything to do with the conventional money-making occupa tion.” “I only wondered. A respectable family business like that is a bless ing to a lot of men. They spend their working hours in it, feel they’re earn ing a living and doing their share o( the world’s work, and work out their salvation on the side.—And It doesn't attract you as a mission? Family call, that sort of thing?” "Not a bit. Uncle Jeff could sell out and move to Kamchatka tomor row, for all me. Not but what I like them all well enough." "1 suppose he's hardly likely to do that," Bald Jack ruminatively. “The Yankee temperament—The Nutmeg State. New England feudalism. Why doesn’t somebody write it up prop erly? The analogies with medieval feudalism are beautiful—except that that was enlivened by an occasional Crusade. . . . Kit, do you see your uncle locking his wife up in tin and barging off to rescue somebody's tomb?" Kit shouted with laughter at the thought of Aunt Ella thus protected. “Seriously—damn you—oh, poor Uncle Jeff! Would he take Elise along disguised as a page, do you think? ... Be serious now, will you? "You“re so serious yourself," said Jack; but his smile faded In a yawn. “I do like my legs.” he said with sudden interest, stretching them out before him. “They’re that wonderful shape, both knock-kneed and bowed. Like a Tartar’s bow, kind of. They go they go, swift as an arrow from a Tartar's bow . . ." Kit let this fall, knowing that It prefaced a re turn to the main subject. “Why, then, seriously. New Kittle. I ni not much worried about you. There s nothing alarming in not having found one’s life work at twenty-one. Lots of men in our class haven't yet. And the ones that have chosen—if all consid eration of the main chance were eliminated, as it is in your case, how many do you think would be sure now? Not a quarter.” "That's so. Though It doesn t help '"“Well, you’ve got a year still. And vou can take another respectably. Oo round the world, or get Into the war. (So over next June and drive an am hulance. You might get Interested in reconstruction work or something. “Possiblv. I'd thought of that. “Or Simply go into newspaper work, not as a permanency, but as a sort of waiting club. That brings you up against so many things that ' _ "" ‘ t- I New York --Day by Day _____j By O. O. MTNTYRE. New York, Oct. 22.—The mask of the mime often hides tragedy. Blooch, the famous little Hippodrome clown, suffered from chronic melancholia. Slivers, whose ridiculous feet caused gales of laughter, ended his career in a lonely hall bedroom—a suicide. The most agile and hilariously funny eccentric dancer on the Ameri can stage is a performer without friends. He lives alone and is never seen in public except to dance. He came to Broadway from the Bowery burlesque halls. Only his intimates know his plight. At the age of 20 a malignant malady ate away his nose and the nose the public sees is putty. Most people per haps would have given up a profes sion where personal appearance means so much. But this man by his indomitable -vin and sheer artistry not only grad uated from burlesque but has been Starred in his own play on Broadway. .So frightful is his disfigurement that he does not even employ a dresser. Members of his company only know him through rehearsals. When he leaves the theater he goes to a cheap rooming house on the fringe of the theatrical district. He rarely leaves it save to go to the the ater and it is a strict rule about the establishment that no one shall talk to him or will visitors be admitted. Tiierc is a joyous comedienne whose ribald songs and jovial commoness have made her a public favorite in • vaudeville. She seems the quintes sence of superlative happiness. Yet she has been told she has only a short while to live. There is a movie actor of some standing whose comic antics have convulsed audience* everywhere. Ho is actually sad. There is the specter of an unavoidable accident before him at all times. When a boy he engaged in a friendly scuffle and killed his closest friend. Second avenue lias a burlesque house which has turned out many capable comedians. It is a smelly, stuffy place where toughs of the East Side gather. Peculiarly enough the popu lar edible to be hawked about by ushers Is the cream puff. Second avenue, by the way has a single tree near Thirty-eighth street that seems a grotesque touch in the bubbling tenement life. It sprouts between two old brick buildings and Jt Is one of tlie sights for the chil dren who live farther cast. Press agency has always been geared to a high pitch in New York but the ultimate word In the art Is offered by a famous little milk sta tion on Sixth avenue. It is only a hole In the wall but It pays a pro fessional puffer $100 a week and as a result It hae come to be one of the high spots of night life. It Is a stool and counter place but after midnight one sees many silk hats and evening gowns. In the same way. Reuben’s graduated from a sandwich place on upper Broadway to one of the biggest cafes In town. Recently an annex was opened. In front there still re mains the little delicatessen which marked Its beginning. Patrons mult pass through this to reach the two separate dining rooms. The little tugs that carry prisoners to the workhouse on Blackwell's Is land are gloomy splotches In the murky atmosphere of the East Blver. J-'roin the shore one may see hand cuffed prisoners drooping about on the tiny decks on their way to lonely exile. The tugs ecreech merrily as they stem the tide. . 1^ you'd be almost sure to discover some thing. The world is so full of a num ' her of things—” “I’m sure we should all he as happy as kings.—Are kings happy, I won der? Why don't they ever say?” "Are rich men happy?” asked Jack, eyeing him. "They are not!—I don’t know, though. I can’t call myself unhappy, come to think of it. There's some thing in It, the possibilities. ... 1 wouldn’t say rich men were neces sarily unhappy, not unless they were born fools.” "Perhaps the same may be said, of kings,” said Jack, yawning. " 'Oh. polished perturbation! golden care!’ See now—I'm sleepy, and you're not. That's because I’m the happy low lie down, and you're uneasy rests the head that wears a crown. Ha!—Go to l>ed, Nik Tewell, and don't let your gold chafe your spine. It's a good spine, at bottom.—Oh, I'm sorry. I didn’t mean that, really! . . VII. This was honest comfort, and enabled Kit to face senior year secure in the choice of war, journalism or travel at the end of it. But this was In the fall of 1916, so that senior year had no end, properly speaking. The first alternative, swelling into pre emptive duty, cut it short. Kit was as astonished as the ma jority of his countrymen. He had read books and heard lectures, but he had never contemplated war as an occupation. Thp days suddenly be came feverish: they ached as they passed: the thought of action became the one hope of wellbeing. There one evening In Wootsey Hail, a great ueaco meeting; a spectacled speake, carefully picking his wordy way over the susceptibilities of undergraduates who had come hut to find fault. Then from the street outside, coming near er and nearer, the sound of a hrass hand playing "The Stars and Stripes.” Feet shuffling, students seizing their hats and scurrying out; then Kit scur rying with them, in torment till he was marching behind the band, his mouth wide open, yelling. It was in one: there was no gainsaying It, The Campus became a medley of farewells. Kit himself chose easily; he enlisted In the Naval Reserve and waited only to he called out. Jack, less sure of himself, was equally hos pitable to the general idea. “I hate marching because I'm a Californian, and I hate the sea be cause I was sick once going to Santa Catalina Island, so I think I'll try the Air. Probably I can't |>ass the exams, but that’s my first choice. I'm told that any boob can fly if his re actions are normal; also that It doesn't necessarily kill you.” "The idea darned near kills me," said Kit. “Our Intrepid Birdman!” “It's a pretty picture, isn't It?” i Jack was indifferent to “kidding” , now. Bfit there was a note of hu miliation In his voice as he went on: “Though to be sure, even lowlier worms than I have sprouted wings. How doth the busy caterpillar . . . The Alembic of War. Gosh, how bored our grandchildren are going to be!" I ji/ur in njJi u i»i> " vin •• • • *>■ Yale boathouse, received a. ?uit of blues which he wore only when on liberty, a suit of dungarees which he wore all the time except when washing It, and a general understand ing that war was a game of pretend ing the boathouse was a ship. When out of It you were ashore, when on It you were aboard; floors became decks: objects were located topside or inboard. Kit swore cheerfully among his comrades, not really mind ing It. Every few days he saw Jack, and together they screamed with laughter over things in general. War wras simply another and sillier kind of peace, after all. And then one warm May evening, when Kit with a twelve hour liberty arrived to spend the night in Van derbilt, Jack greeted him with a chanced face. “It's all fixed up. Tew Nikell. I'm directed to report at a - School of Military Aeronautics—what ever that may be—at Cornell. I’m < leaving tomorrow, to become what Shakespeare so beautifully calls a courier of the. air.’’ “Gee, that great,” said Kit. and then It was hard to say anything. Their study faced northward, on the Campus. The quadrangle was nearly empty, but brightly lit as usual, and one might easily have looked at it without noticing anything uncustomary. The night breeze blew over It carelessly, unsentlmentally. And yet as the two lolled over the window seat, the inner lights turned off, the conviction became present that there were an immense number of beings not far off. who kt-nv and cared, intensely. Conscious and con tinuous life, such as this place had known for two centuries, could not vanish utterly from existence. Those of '61, those of ’12. those of ’76— they must be near, they must know. . . . "Well,” said Jack, blowing a puff of smoke at Polaris, “this is an end. and there’s something solemn about an end, even to people to whom life How to Start the Day Wrong By Briggs 'yueu. NAJB'RC SOI Mil To D'O A LOT OF COOO LOORK K Today PR«tty oM>e-e«? had a vuonjdcrfol \ 3ioe DOWO Tmi5 MoRMIaX' I IF YOO'RC* A MICE LtTTLC I CjlRC »‘LU^>TAKr« You To M J wtce iuwch" Voccue ws»j/ TURLIi*-'£> OOT Good ^——— i work cArei.v'/^ZCT'T",_. 4 _ YUH KlUOUJ 'He VARKIW I ROLtS ?• Go DOOWM A.OO RUO / Your car ou^/s Thsre ••You 3er /» TiCM'ei You .Do ^ ! 1> im ktiM»|.i !»■« -Ahjd £o- The day is utterly ROWS CAR To ' A' AkJD COMPLE'I'EI.y' AlvjO . „ , EMTIRGLY RUIIOEO-’ G ARA6C A^MIL£ ,_ —--.2-__—_ AYVAV '« ,p , canj1t g£T f,OOD SERVICE IV ) \ This OPFIfiE, I LL FIRS The. / / WHOLE - -- STAfT AKlK <J£T / / ^CvvieGoDY ELSE - UnjDrsKf-STAAJD I >L TrHAT ? Your work lately has I Bee-kTERR|BLE *! 11 m --y is mere biology. And we're not that kind. There's a great deal that might be said, but we won't say it. And after all, it's not necessary.” "No,” said Kit. "But there's one thing I guess I will say, just—well, so that you'll know X know. Whatever I’ve got out of this place—and It's been a lot —I’ve got from you. You've given me—oh. a hold on life, the strongest I’ve ever had, or am ever likely to have. That's that.” Kit’s heart swelled: here was a beautiful thing, simply and beauti fully done, without a trace of gush or sentimentality. "Thanks." he said, "but see here. Whatever I've done. I've done because I wanted to. And you've done more for me than I have for you, if the truth were known.” "Blah!" said Jack pleasantly “But it's true. I can't explain, or expect you to believe me, I suppose. But whatever I've put into this— friendship, I’ve got back, oh. so many times over—” "Oh, Matthew Arnold.'' Jack's voice was bored. “No! Infinitely more. It's us if— Do you ever have the sensation of | coming face to face with an enor mous abstract force-—knowing it as well as if it was concrete, ttiough it's still abstract? You spoke of a hold | on life—that's the idea. Knowing you has been an illustration of that—no. not an illustration. Oh, I can’t ex | plain.’’ •<1'«! afraid you can't,” Mid da, k dryly. The Carnpuo Bent a little sigh of wind through the op,n window I ^ I primal things, that it could never e» plain. (T.i He Continued Tomorrow.* THE NEBBS HOT DIGGOTY DOG! Directed for The Omaha Bee by Sol Hess /WELL WRAP VOURSELfX / UP IM AM APROvJ AkiD \ Slow me some food ( i -—i'M SO UUMGGX L ) ' COULD EAf A FR.IEO / \CQ\rJ — WORMS AMD ALl^y { /VMWATDO /DO — STAQT ,> \ VOURSLLF WOVI \ A BELL MOW ? /sofcPGiSE* SufcPfclSE^ ' MR.KJEQB ! MR<b. MEBB Said wwem Sue could / AFFORD to keep a mao &HE WAMTEO ME AMD l / ___ t>A\D IF l M'RED OUT t \ X X WANTED to work for / ( \ HER.SO HERE I AK\ / V^bAMA : J^-AMT VOU GLAD /cnDMT (TUATiS ALL RtGUT - } i ISUEPC-'SE V00?\ BUT MOW THAT TOO I KMEW “That \ WAVE A MA'D DOMT VOO WANTED ME START TO PUT OH TO GET A MAID v A\RS> — l W/AMT MOWTwATTOORE \i PEOPLE TO love rich SOt SEMT , MOT TO EK1VV TOO • TOR EMMA _ SHE'S _ WATCH ME SUCH A GOOD amD BE AS HEAR COOK AMD SuCU UVCE MC AS J A GOOD MATURED )\ poSSVBLE J o _ „ Cj A ■ •Copyujht. ^nt. by Th?^5fl^?i?S??n. I»C.) ^ )Cag,k&OH Barney Google and Spark Plug Drawn for The Omaha. Bee by Billy PeBeck OHr ONLY RAO SOME DOUGH1! IT looks like ©o» trip To Europe is as Colo as KEisev's ice 80* • x Wouldn't care So much Bur emery body <n the. Meigwborhooo KIMOUIS WOIW 1 HAD W HEART SET ON (VW FIRST TRip ABROAD’ I Gotta get MY Miwo OFEA MV Misery - ill moseyi out and Take a few' "Kmists around "ihe block1 Capyncki. 1924. Ly King Feature* Sytrrlicata. lac. ^ ^ —————~ ---— ■ no kidoinG. WHY SHOULD i LIE You, MAC YOU I BARNEY YOU AIN T AJoTmiNG Te AtN T BEEN ME ' I ME BEEN ALL OVER - To EUROPE ENGLAND. FRANCE.GERMANY * DiON T X SEE MAT 9URKAW OYER Tweoe .may Stuercr . louis Mann Paul slock, morris Ge$r ■ Yeh . in Carlsbad - and Dio* it rain IV WELL WEll BARnCV I UAVJEN T SEEM VOO POR AGES » HCUO Z T^im6S ? * Suppose vou were K\j Europe cast seasom - « y — - _ -*— rvE BEEN All CUE R • i ENGLAND EBANC-e.GERMANV- I SAW NAT BUKKA.N1 OMER "THERE • MAX STUERER » LOUIS MANN. I BRINGING UP FATHER u sRp*'t*e'nt'offi„ p*;E «gcs and magc,e in full Drawn for The Omaha Bee by McManus w» * ‘ ' u. a. ratent omce PAPF OF CO! ORS IN THE SUNDAY BEE JCopyrieht n.4i HELLO- JIGGt>-1 JUt>T SACW DUGAN - THAT GUT Ho “bO ABbENT MINOEO-HE DIDN'T" KNOW ME-TOO REMEMBER HIM - DOHT VTOO? H/WliE HE t-. 1 TELL TOO WHAT ^ ha*5 ferlotteh ^>°ME ACOOT THE IS C'CiAR^b AN4 6WE BET ! HE WUZ. fr^ W,H AsN Its CAt£Yb rV V/HILE HE"b BMOKIN-' PLA.CE! e=b ILL DROPlT AN CLMM -.1-IMT BET -HERE't> FIN/E That WUl ALL THE MOHET | had BUT 'Tt> WELL bPEUT TO Win THAT BET - HOW FOR catch qlk»ah t>noKits - j_ 0 <924 BY Int L Ftirunc StBvict. Inc Great Britain right* reserved. /O 2 3 * / JERRY ON THE JOB SOMETHING’S GOTTA BE DONE. Drawn for The Omaha Bee by Hobar i- ■ ■■ ■ —- - _ _ _ (Copyright 1924) ABIE Th:' AGENT Drawn for The Omaha £ee by Hershfield Ur's .111 Oforninc Kfllmt. r I _ —r-»” - -»■ .-- -—r _ ^ ^00 1 i •>»iT 5 V *v.fs€*t"* ■'no "■* tr". x v,m£nv \kiv» *0 .'-Ai'T - *) * SO SO«RV ABE REVTAuRAMT ;S n LET s jO IN AND -’HOOT ReaA«TVie | EAT AND l LL- SERVICE IS- TTRR\BL£ 1 \ Explain &jer>- vl/e been here rk* j VTHtNU" 1 ' •*