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About The Omaha morning bee. (Omaha [Neb.]) 1922-1927 | View Entire Issue (Oct. 27, 1924)
3 I, THE KING By WAYLAND WELLS WILLIAMS. j (Copyright, 1924.) (Continued From Saturday.} The engineers, always aggressively blithe when the engines of the Nashua were under discussion, nosed to the top of the conversation. One of them said it was a fine thing to know where you were, especially If you weren’t likely to leave there very soon. Another observed that It was the habit of the south sea islanders to plant a bit of scrap iron with their cocoanuts, for fertilizing purposes, and the supply was likely to be in censed before long. The Captain flushed a dull red, turned his fishy eve on the junior and asked if he would like to run this show. The junior spluttered something Into a glass of water, adding that he was sorry, sir. There was a pause while the chintz curtains in the portholes gave one flop in the ship's roll; then the Captain muttered: "Too soon. Wait till you’re fifty or so.” "What for?” inquired the executive, voicing general bepuzzlement. "Being sorry?” "Yes. Or laughing at the Pacific Ocean.” No one had. All remained vaguely uncomfortable. Kit, trying to light en the situation, ventured cheerfully: “I’m not laughing at it. I'm keen on it. It’s as good as a war.” He was given the fishy blue eye and the words: “As good—huh! That’s good!” The meal ended In a nervous silence. No one knew what he meant. Kit never knew. V. * Two sounding parties were sent out In motor dories. Their orders were to start close in to the surf on the teet and work north and south, re spectively, sounding every two hun dred feet or so for a 'mile to two miles and at the same time try to ascertain the width of the reef. Kit was placed in command of the dory ordered northward. Two seamen in dungarees got in with him, and off them chugged. _ There was a smooth swell running under a colorless but brilliant sheet of clouds. One of the seamen, Jones by name, a blond, gawky, pimp y youth, became sick and stayed sick, the color of the sky, but less lumi nous. Kit ventured a word of humor ous condolence, which fell flat. Jones was too sick for humor, and Masson, the other, a swart, heavy-browed crea ture. Ignored everything except the engine. They reached the appointed place, shut off the engine and began cast ing the lead. Masson took the oars and rowed between casting places; Kit handled the lead and made nota tions as well, Jones being useless for the day. Kit was quickly absorbed fn his work, casting and noting: two fathoms, threo and a half fathoms, five seven, five and a half, eight, ten, nine. The reef was slowly sinking -- \ New York • •Day by Day j * By O. O. M’INTYRE. New York, Oct. T6.—A page from the diary of a modern Samuel Pepys: Early up and as fair a day as ever I saw. So to breakfast at a neighbor ing inn and Willie Dewts^he pugilist, there and told me of his hard fight ■with Carpentier years ago. Back home to do my stint, but the day too glorious with sunshine, and so away again, but could find no one in the mood for pleasure, which Is a pity. And further convinced the u arid is in need of more play boys. In the evening to a dinner and Karl Hoblitzelle there and his wife, Esther Walker, whose crooning songs have so delighted me on the phono graph. Home and to bed, wheie I read Mark Twain's autobiography untll near dawn. One of the amusing skits in a recent musical revue was one railed "Justi fiable Homicides.” Each incident was just a flash and ended in death by pistol. Among those slain were the woman who crowds ahead at the theater box office, the clerk who tries to sell you a cap when you want a straw hat, the man who slaps your sunburned back antf the fellow who inquire* if it is hot enough for you. The idea has great possibilities. I suggest the man who has never been any place hut New York and Jersey City who goes to eee one of the im ported Parisian singers. She is rare ly beautiful, nor can she sing or dance. Yet he applauds until he blisters his hands. He no doubt wants to give the Idea he knows her. Isn't that cunning? The other night I sat behind one of those. He ran to the molar type of beauty and had a profile like a young humming bird. He couldn't be stop ped after the obscure French music hall chantress did one of those oo-Ia la eye rolling ditties. Even the head usher came down to give him a withering look. A day or so later I saw him again. He was not the boulevardier he would have liked us ail to think. He was demonstrating a new fangled chafing dish in a drug store window. And that reminds me that most Nvlndow demonstrators have stage ambitions. There is an employment agency on West Thirty-third street that furnishes them to proprietors of stores giving si>eclal window displays. The manager tells me all he knows are listed at theatrical agencies for Jobs. He says they get a special kick out of appearing before crowds even though they appear in a window demonstrating a patented pie knife or what not. A window demonstrator is paid 124 a week. The language of-the Hong Island Ujovle lots Is rather gory, yet when explained is quite simple. A player may turn up to be tdld: "You'll be killed today." That means his part In the picture is finished. When the director cries: "Smack your spots!” that means the spotlights must be thrown on the players. "Hit queenle in the head" means the spot on the female star. Every female star Is a “queenle.” The yell of “chockcr" is to reduce the size of the spot. “Clinch” Is for the hero and heroine to embrace. And “Take 11” Is for you to blink your eyes nnd fall on your face. Of course, each/ director has his own few choice bits of Jargon, tout as a general thing the movie patois Is about the same in Now York •s It is in California. The legitimate singe also has some Odd phrases. Such as "Dim the glims," “Upstage,” "Downstage” and s thousand more that are meaning less only to the initiated. (Copyright, 1124.) In a direction north by west. He could fairly feel it under his feet, the restless polyps swarming at their task. The line showed nineteen fathoms. "It’s one bell,” said Masson. Kit looked up. The sky was dull gray all over; a dark gloomy after noon. An hour and a half before sunset; he said as much, adding that they were hardly more than a mile from their starting point. Jones looked at the smokeless stacks of the Nashua, more than two miles distant, and sighed. A gob of rain fell on Kit’s cheek. He glanced up quickly. “Sort of dark in the southwest. What’s the time, Masson? My watch is on the blink." "Five-eighteen." “IT like to finish this up properly. Three more, and we'll call it a day." He felt the lead strike for the third time. "All right, Masson, put her about and start up. What's the time?" “Five thirty-seven,” He noticed that Masson did not say "sir.” A sullen, untractable type. "Sort of late. Don't want to take chances with thife tropical twilight. We>e all right, though.” The engine was slow in starting, and Kit began rowing to gain head way. He glanced at the southwest; it was pot-black. There was a dead calm; a few drops of rain fell tink ling on the water, and made gray splotches on his white blouse. A faint awful moan became audible In the southern quadivTht, slowly rising. After a few minutes the engine start ed. with loud irritated snorts. The southwest had swelled incred ibly, blotting out half the horizon as if with black smoke. "Gosh," said Kit, “we're in for something. Give her the gas, Masson,” and he started rowing again. A minute later it was on them. Kit took off his blouse and stowed it in the took box, to keep some things in the pockets dry, hut almost be fore he could get it in it was drencehd. Then came the wind, screaming, scraping the swells into wrinkles like those on an old man's face, then blotting them out in n cross chop. White crescents of foam flared up. "We must be getting near," said Kit, raising his voice over the din. “What was our course?” "About one-ten.” “I’ll steer. Give me the compass.” He took his seat in the stern, tiller in right hand, compass in left. The wind had risen to a continuous roar; the waves from the southwest had piled up so that it was impossible to keep the dory from yawing. He wondered how much she had yawed while Masson had the tiller, after the horizon was lost. Six o'clock; it was almost totally black. The storm—it was not a squall but a steady rising gale—tilled the world. A horrible sickness, not seasickness, but something a thou sand times worse, gnawed at Kit's stomach. His temples throbbed be neath his dripping hair. His cap was drenched; he threw it off. "We must be about there. See any thing. Masson?" "Not a thing.” "She'd have all her lights burning by now.” “Sure." He steered left. There was no use in going further In the original direc tion; they would pass the cruiser hopelessly. Ten minutes he bore twenty degrees, the wind helping. Then he dared go no further and steered dead astern. Twenty minutes, in the teeth of the gale, up and down the hissing waves; half an hour; forty minutes. He could not bear to» stop. No light anywhere; only the green phosphorus on Masson’s wrist watch, and on the hideous waves. "We’ve lost her,” he said, and shut off the gas. “It’ll lift,” said Masson. "We’ll be able to see.” It did not lift. Adrift—he was afraid to use more gasoline, with some vague idea of needing it more later—they ran with the gale. By turns he and Masson took the oars, to keep the dory’s head in the wind. The waves rose slowly under them; the dory would poise on their heads for an appreciable time and then sink slowlv into the trough. Jones, the silent member of the crew, was sick no longer, but became articulate. Above the rqar of the gale they could hear him moaning as he sat huddled in the bow. “Oh, tied . . . my God, we’re lost. . . . Oh, Jesus Christ . . .” “Shut up!” said Masson with a snarl. Kit felt for him, and for Jones as well. "Jones.” he said, "It’s all right. They’ll send out for us. They'll know we've got to go with the wind, and follow us. All we’ve got to do Is to sit tight. Cheer up, now.” He was glad he said It. He cer tainly felt better for it, and he thought the two others did. Jones uttered no more words, but continued sniveling and moaning, uncontrolla bly. Darkness, emptiness; wet wind roaring and reading; stinging rain; huge seas sending the dory up and down, slapping jets of cool spray into , it. And somewhere amid these furies of mind and water were electric I lights, dry bunks, chintz curtains and safety. VI. At ten-thirty or so the rain let up, though the gale continued. Every time they reached the crest of a wave Masson and Kit would stand up, peer ing In opposite directions. Nothing. Every time, nothing. He reasoned. The gale must have taken them far to the northeast of the cruiser, and she, with one boiler or more still empty, might be in capable of moving. He told Masson to start the engine again and try to work up wind. But that proved im possible, in the sea that was running now. They must lay to, or be swamped. He made researches Into the equip ment of the dory; found a water cask nearly full and a few ship's biscuit, wet and probably wormy. When the rain started in again, which it did about midnight, he drank from the i water cask and made the others do the same; then he arranged his blouse over the hole in such a way that the rain drained into it. He had with him a cake of Swiss chocolate, warm and semi fluid, which he had taken to munch for pleasure. He issued a ration of this of about a square inch. Jopes remained prostrated, ineapa ble of holding his head up. Kit nnrl Masson took turns through the nlkl't. hour on, hour off, keeping the dory headed and sleeping. Kit did sleep, in jerks, feverishly, crouched on the floor slats. Once, after many hours, when he rose to take his place at the oars, it occurred to him that the W'hlte splotch In the bow that hail been Jones was (Tone. He slati cd wildly around: there was oi ,• >.04 other white area, Masson, crouched In the stern. J „ So Jones had come to It, Wien jM would they?” (To He fonSInued Tomorrow.) ' Bee Want Ads Produce heaults. How to Start the Evening Wrong. tf | i OY i vwhat a mcal! Charlie » Doh’t khow when l VS enjoved a DINNER. AS MUCH- ** By Briggs I'll LIGHT L>P ONE MVS6l_F ’’ .. . .. . m THE NEBBS THAT’S WHO I AM. 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Patent Office PAGE OF COLORS IN THE SUNDAY BEE (Copyright 1924) --, OM' IF i COOLO uuyr 1 FOROT ABOUT t)MO<IN i0 FEEL BETTER - i WONDER. vjhaT i C^«s DO to G»T ME MIMO OFF IT - OW VJHT \lW/ DiO i EVER that (BET j V—r—, wmm r--- - ANQ IF TOO VvAinT ^ TO KEEP A DiPE. f-—rZZZ bVJEET -O^E A MIUO TOBACCO / AND KEEP - l ™cj 1 j-J Cl A i 1/ \ /o-S7 Ci«« » _ JERRY ON THE JOB always complaining Drawn for Th',°”aba,B“ by Hoban f GlfWMc. A N / UAlfc * * L I QU/M?TE1*. -A j [OlKAH / V -a Ki'CKeu y l VW'tl. UEV9 / ■ I ^ >.' v\ ABIE THE AGENT Drawn for The Omaha Bee by Hershfielt* A Good Tinu‘ Was Had h> All. —