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About The Omaha morning bee. (Omaha [Neb.]) 1922-1927 | View Entire Issue (Nov. 21, 1924)
I, THE KING By WAY LAND WELLS WILLIAMS. (Copyright. 1»24.) (Continued from Yesterday.) He was out of the house, walking through the steely streets. And then, as If the thing had not been cruel and bitter enough already, his tears began to flow again. He wiped them away; they recurred; he walked down Fifth Avenue with his face stream ing. Near Forty-second street there were people, and he felt he had to try to appear nonchalant about it, pretend it was the wind. Below that there were fewer people to notice, and he let the senseless things stream on. 111. He slept ten hours, but awoke tired and purposeless, unable to tlx his mind on anything, even the ordering of clothes. He stayed In the house till lunch time, then went out and inet Jen at a restaurant. He wanted to talk about Jack, but it was diffi cult. at noonday, in cold blood, and Jen was interested in a job in an ex porting firm that he hoped to get. He was in civilian clothes today, and had the air of having put the war behind him. Kit, finding little com fort in him, returned listlessly to Kighth street. He found his aunt about to get Into the antiquated but somehow vaguely smart victoria that she still kept. She asked him to drive with her and he went, diverting himself with the vacuity of it, sitting with hands crossed on the laprobe, observ ing the Victory Arch, the green grass in the park, passing acquaintances. He told his aunt that he was more upset than he had been in his life, and she must be merciful. He talked about getting into his own house, which he supposed he must do. But it was such an effort: cleaning to ar range for, servants to engage; old Nevins was dead and the place was entirely empty. They dined alone, and sat after ward in the rich miscellaneous draw ing room. Miss Fairborn apprehen sively solicitous, Kit merely inert. His eyes wandered over the incongruous mixture of good things that he re membered from of old: the American high-boy, an old family piece; a pair of James I chairs, stiff and stately; the Adam fireplace and grate, with the "authentic” Giovanni di Pietro above; the case of carved ivories; the Flemish tapestry against which he had leaned that day when Mary Vane played. "I wish that Vane girl was here," he mused idly. "I’d sort of like to bear her play again.” "Nk- doubt she would. If you went and asked her," said his aunt. "She lives just round the corner, in Wash ington Mews. Why don’t you?” 1 New York --Day by Day --■> By o. o. McIntyre. Sew York, Nov. 20.—Thoughts while strolling around New York: An actor who formerly preached in the Kentucky mountains. A law office "Open at Night.” Rooming houses with signs reading, “Saturday night rackets barred.” A little girl trying to imitate a billboard high kicker. A revolt among poets. There’s one with a hair cut. Subway track clean ers. Spotted, warped and twiBted with toll. Human cobwebs of a city strung along the benches in chilly Bryant park. Slumped down, smoking and staring for hours. At nothing. Sixth avenue now has coffee stalls. Hike I.pndon. Samuel Hoffenstein, the highbrow press agent. Sandwich men matching pennies on a fire plug. The president of a dime savings bank eating in a quick lunch. Three fire sales in a row'. A moth eaten stuffed bear surround ed by a pack of barking dogs. Won der what a Yiddish luncheon is like. Three on charmed men walking to gether. There's a sign: "Wanted— Nontalkatlve typist." Bon Voyage voops—with bright jacketed books baskets of fruit. A sale uf soiled white linen rid ing breeches. Greek barber shops where patrons play games. Trudg ing kindling women. A dog clipping shop. A pigeon files out of a sewer. A butcher's market—bare arms and fat necks. Portable penny carousel run by a blind man. Gray-haired lunch cashiers. A lin gerie shoiv called Pretty Polly. The Harold Square street sweeper who speaks five languages. Curbstone sock salesmen. And all of them wear ing ailk shirts. The crew of men who fill the subway slot' machines with gum and candy. The noonday lull in Thirty-fourth street. A sidewalk snap demonstra tor shampooing a boy. Bridge schools. Hotel runners. An offer for lunch eon. And here I go. Protesting weakly. It Is the custom of banquet waiters to place a dollar bill on a tip plate and pass it around at the table they serve. In most instances it brings dollar tips. But a group the other night fooled the wily waiter. Each solemnly vlew'ed the dollar and placed a penny each on top. The waiter be rated them so viciously that one diner gave him a biff on the Jaw that knocked him flat. One of the picturesque boarding bouses of New York is located on Central Park West. It is known as Miss Mary's. It was opened in 1896 by three sisters who came here from Georgia. It is a gray house with wide white stone steps and all hoarders are southerners. The halls ring with Carolinian, Virginian and Tennessean accents. It is a transplanted bit of Dixie with food that comes nearest to being home cooked that New York offers. It was the first New York home of Jacques Futrelle, the south ern writer. Speaking of tips, there used to bo a. little cafe back of the Metropoli tan frequented by the literati. The main beverage was beer. Nobody tipped. The waiters took their pay in listening. All were young men going to various New York colleges. One is now the prealdent of a west ern railroad. Nearly all others have gone high. Southampton was considered the smartest watering place around Net* York last Bummer. It has been grow Ing in exclusiveness for several sea sons. Real estate values doubled and trebled. A poor gardener who owned a small plot of ground on the fringe of the town sold It for enough money to take himself and wife to his home in Ireland and liva the rest of his days In plenty. (Copyright, l»2*.f ♦ Living the Idea, he went; found the place, a reclaimed stable; knocked at a door on the second story. A voice said, "Come in;’’ he opened the door and found a large dark room with Mary Vane writing under one harsh metal-shaded light. "Hello,” she said, looking up. Kit made his request and she as sented with scarcely a word; slammed a hat on her head and went out with him. Aunt Emmy composed herself for slumber in her wing chair; Mary Vane sat down at the piano and fum bled at a pile of dusty music. “I remember hearing you play here before, year ago," said Kit. "Some thing of Schumann, wasn’t it?’’ "Oh, yes, the Fantaisle! I played the last two movements." “I don’t know. I liked it,” "You like Schumann? Do you know the Davids-bundiertanze?” "Heavens no—I’m not musical. You mustn’t get that idea into your head.” "Well, I’l play them anyway, if you don’t mind. I’ve just discovered them, and I'm crazy about them. Ap parently the Davidsbundler were a sort of imaginary club against the Philistines, and these were their dances. They have lots of pep and variety.” Kit drew up a chair and watched her. He liked the things; some of them had a fine idea of tune, quite within his comprehension. "That’s nice," he said when she finished. ”1 like that last one. What's that print ing at the top?” He bent over the page and read: "Ganz zum Feberfluss meinte Euse bius noch folgendes; dabei aber sprach veil Seligkeit aus seinen Augen.” "What does that mean?" asked the girl. "I’ve always wondered. Do you know German?” "At the very last, Eusebius thought also the following; at the same time great blessedness spoke from his eyes,” Kit translated slowly. They looked at each other, baffled. “What on each does that mean?” "Search me.” "Oh, well, Schumann probably wasn’t too sure himself. He was mad half the time.” “Possibly,” said Kit. "But you played it as if you knew.” At half past ten or so he walked back with her. He paused as they reached her door, and she turned on the step. "I want to thank you," said Kit, "for what you did last nlglit. It was Just the thing. I went up and saw a fellow, and got the worst of it over.’ "I'm glad," said Mary Vane grave ly. "I lost a friend myself once, when I was sixteen. I know what it can be.” . , “It was—well. It isn t over yet. of course. Our friendship was rather an unusual one. It—this—takes the meaning out of so much in life. Out there, on the island, things were con tinually coming up that I was going to talk over withr him. and laugh about. It seems—as though they couldn't properly have happerfed. now. It’s—it 3 just flattening.” There was a brief iron railing on the steps; Mary Vane leaned on tills and looked at him through the dim lamplight, motionless. "Exactly,” she said. "And this was to have been—ought to have been—such a wonderful time. Coming back, taking up the old life, starting out on the new. And re memtiering Nlarava, the adventure, the picturesqueness of it. it s all gone. I can't lj^ok ahead. I can t even remember.' “I know," said the girl. "And there's no one. simply no one, that can grow into the same place. I suppose I was wrong, putting so much into one friendship. But how could I help it? It just came." "Maud Hofflngton told me sonic thing of it," said Mary Vane. "We thought, when we heard of his death, how nice it would be for you both. And this—it does seem a sour tasting thing, a sort of mean trick." “Yes. It shakes one’s faith. But I suppose that passes, too. I said all sorts of wild things last night that I wouldn't repeat now. already. But the cruel thing is this: when I ve learneil to hear it. and begin to forget, where does that take me? Just far ther away from something good. . . His voice Uied in bitterness on the night air; the two stood, helpless and hopeless, for perhaps ten seconds. Then Mary Vane, running her hand round the brass knob at the foot of the railing, said: "There's one thing I wanted to speak about, my calling your aunt ‘Aunt Emmy.” She asked me to, some time a go; we've been very intimate, and it seemed the thing. But it occurred to me that you very easily mightn't like, she being your nearest relative now." "Heavens, no," said Kit. "Of course, you must rail her that. I’m delight ed you're so thick with her.” The girl flung her h“ad to the stars. "Well. land knows what I'd have done without her. Only the need of Independence, and not wanting to sponge . . . However, that's dull. Good night!'1 "Good night, Mary., You’ll play again, some time?" "Yes, indeed. Glad you liked It,” IV. The days frittered themselves away. Gradually he bestirred himself, or dered clothes, went about and saw people, had his house opened und cleaned. He determined to put It in order throughout and live there, with a full staff of servants, "for the present." For the future, who could ever say? He could not even think. At the end of a fortnight he in stalled himself. He was never alone. I for there was a constant stream of friends in town, either looking for jobs or taking a lllng of pleasure after their months of durance, who were more than glad to spend a few days or even weeks with him. He laid in a large supply of liquor against prohibition and "entertained." He bought a car. a low gray runabout, and took trips Into the quickening country. These sometimes had deli tilte goals in the shape of friends' houses, or road houses, and led to much drinking and dancing. He had never known anything like the state of mind people were in, the feverish search for ga.vety, the gen eral sense of abandon. People who had never stumbled before the war. even people whose virtue had sur vived months in ttie A. E. K.. sue sumbed without a scruple. Jennings Cobb, formerly as straight laced a young person as one could find, had yleldiA und took little pains to con ceal the fact; at the same time he re tained an essence of mental chastity, Of at least of orthodoxy, thoroughly characteristic though hard to justify Others, unsupported by religious training, fell more indiscriminately, deviously, incredibly. The wreckage of virtue cluttered the air. (To B« Continual Tomorrow.) Bee Want Ads are the i>est busi ness boosters. _____ THE NEBBS MAKE YOURSELF AT HOME. » Directed for The Omaha Bee by ool riess (Copyright 1824) WELLO,MR. 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