THE FORBIDDEN YEARS by! WADSWORTH CAMP _ i “What do you want to tell ae’ What Is it so dreadful yo»i’ve had to keep locked away from me all my life?” The hot eyes shut. Barbara Jell a drag on her hand. "Lean closer. It’s hard to talk.* Bat for some time after she had obeyed, Mrs. Gardner was Inanimate, and Barbara studied her fearfully, but at Mat measured the faint re action of the covers to her i shallow breathing; so she tried gently to draw her back to her Intention. “You're really my aunt, aren't you?” The burning eyes opened. "Yes, Bobble. Your mother died, and your Uncle Walter sume and brought me East to JHknford Just before your hither went to New York, and was caught and ruined and killed by that dreadful wo man.” ■■ - a moment Barbara thought that a miracle of hatred was about to take place; that, in spite of her disability, Mrs. Gardner was about to draw herself up in the bed. “Don’t you Imagine that she didn't kill your father, Bob bie. I tell you she did kill him, and she’s killed me, and I hate her; I’ve always despised her.” Barbara put her hand on the hot forehead. “Don't, Aunt Barbara. Please don’t. L won’t let you talk If you work yourself up like this” “I’ve got to talk, Bobble, liay be my last chance.” But she relaxed a little, and After a time Barbara said very quietly: "It’s only fair to tell you that I don’t believe my step mother killed my father.” Mrs. Gardner had control of herself now; even her hand rested placidly in Barbara’s, and her voice jvas softer and more contained, as if in a recitation interminably set to memory. “When you come down to It she did, Bobbie. That’s what rve got to make you under stand.” All the moral misapprehen sions of Elmford, gathered in this woman, and sharpened abnormally by her, made Bar bara shrink -from the agony the long-postponed but in evitable meeting of the truth brought to her aunt. Through her very quietness, out of her mechanical manner of speak ing, it found its way, and made Barbara suffer too. “If it hadn’t been for her you'd have been better off, and so would I. Your father took what little money we had, and It went with the rest to give her what she wanted. I saw for a long time how things were going, and I warned your father, but he wouldn't listen. She had him under her thumb. But I didn’t know how bad things were antil I got a telegram one day to go to his office In New York without letting anybody know.” Her hand tightened feebly sn Barbara's. “We talked about you that Aight, Barbara.” Barbara forced herself to ask quietly: “It was the night my father was killed?” Barbara thought the head moved slightly in affirmation. “He was pretty nearly a vary man, crying out that he hadn't a chance left; begging me to forgive him for letting my little money and yours go with the rest. He said he was getting out, and I thought he Mysterious Ailment Was Open Safety Pin Albans. Cal. — (UP) — Baby Chariutte Ivers' mysterious ailment —one that paralyzed the left side af her body—has been solved. Doctors, who operated on the two year-old youngster’s throat in an ef fort to enable her to talk, found a iTiwn fch safety pin embedded in tfi&roat. The pin, which was open was lodged in the pharynx, with the point caught In a tonsil. Brass, poisoning, resulting from p ntUox awav of th* ntn u h» 5 meant he was going to kill himself; but he said he was going to run off and try to get started again somewhere else; but first he wanted to make sure of one thing.” Her father’s jealousy slip ped back to Barbara, and Mrs. Gardner went on with her bitter recital. “He asked me to take you, Bobbie; said I was the only one left, because his brother had ruined him, and his wife wasn’t fit to touch you.” “Yes, he was jealous," Bar bara whispered. Again, she caught the {Phan tom of a nod from her aunt. “He told his wife he was going to Washington that night, to put her off the track, so that he could make sure, and he wanted me to sneak up to the house with him as a witness in case there should be a man there.” The memory of Essie Hel der, of the glass, and the chemist’s bottle made Bar bara bend closer to the suf fering woman. “He was wrong, Aunt Bar bara.” “No, he was right, Bobbie. He let himself in the house quietly, and we crept upstairs to his dressing room, and no one saw us. The door of Esise’s sitting room was closed, and he told me to hide behind the curtain of the door. Then he threw open her sitting room door, and he was right; there was a man there, tall, but I couldn’t see his face very well; and your father got out his revolver, and I was afraid to look, but when I looked again the man and Essie had got the revolver away from him, and it dropped to the floor, and she gave it a kick, and it came close to the curtains, right at my feet. Bobbie, you’re hurt ing my hand. ; Barbara relaxed her grip. She didn’t want to hear, but she knew she had to. “You were there. You saw it all. And you’ve never said a word.” A complaining note cut the bitterness of the recital. ‘How could I? I was afraid, and I wanted Essie Helder to suffer for all the harm she’s done.” Barbara spoke under her breath. "No wonder you were afraid. No wonder you couldn’t bear my asking about my father and mother.” Mrs. Gardner’s breathing was harsher. “I’ve been in mortal terror ever since, for after your father had hurt the man and got him out of the house he came back and Essie and he quarreled dreadfully. He told her the truth, that she hadn’t only wrecked him financially, but had made a mockery of him with other men. He called her names I don’t like to re member, Bobbie, although she deserved them, and she an swered back, and he must have seen the revolver by the cur tain, for he started for it, and she, I expect, knew what he was up to. Because she snatched a little bronze statue, and lifted it high with both hands, and I knew she was go ing to strike him, and maybe kill him, before he could get near the revolver, and I had to do something to save him,; and there was just one thing I couid do.” Barbara covered her eyes with her free hand. “You picked up the revolver, and she didn’t see you, be cause she was looking at him." (TO BE CONTINUED) lleved to have caused partial par alysis. Oh! That’s* Different. From The Humorist. Jones (hot and tired, to neigh bor’s son): Hullo! Father wants to borrow something as usual, I sup pose? Boy: Yes, please, Mr Jones. Me says could you ’bilge him with the loan of a corkscrew? Jones A corkscrew? Certainly! You run along. Bobby—I’ll bring it round myself! Pilots outnumber aircraft two to one In 1932. Now that the thing was put in that way, neither could Creighton. It is remarkable how these sudden flashes will come. It is equally remark able how light can suddenly be thrown upon a subject so that an entirely different view-point is inevitable. Be fore that moment Martin had been rather inclined to con gratulate himself upon being a very shrewd fellow over this rubber deal; now— “Yes, I am inclined to agree with you that I’m a damned fool,” he said. “Come into my private room,” remarked the other, a different tone in his voice. But although the manner of the head of Ronald War beck’s firm changed, that brought Martin Creighton no monetary consolation. It was made quite plain to him, in other words, that the loss of his £ 5,000 was a personal matter between Warbeck and himself, for which the firm could take no responsibility. “I cannot understand you being such a fool,” the senior partner kept repeating. It was to shut out the words that Creighton took his leave. Not another word was heard of Ronald Warbeck; it was as though the earth had opened to swallow the swindler. Brought face to face with ruin, Martin hunted a job. But al though he hunted desperately —wearing his shoe-leather out tramping the streets, writing letters until he was sick of seeing a pen and his own scrawled signature—a job for a healthy, adaptable, ex Public School boy of twenty seven seemed the rarest thing in the world. He would have gone abroad, but all the posts were already filled by the time he arrived on the scene —and he was up at six every morning scan ning the newspapers! By the time he had reached his last pound-note he was not only desperate, but sardonic. The only thing he had left was his life. Well—with a grim laugh—he would try to sell that! But with his luck as it was, he did not think for a moment that he would get any buyers. CHAPTER II At 6:30 p. m. on the day the advertisement appeared in the Meteor, the telephone bell rang. That was the last day of his tenancy of the small fur nished flat in Guilford Street. Creighton had played the game, going to the estate agents from whom he had rented the place and telling them that, his financial re sources being now nil, they would be well advised to take the flat off his hands from the following Saturday morping. “I’m sorry to hear this, Mr. Creighton.” said the agent. “I’m sorry to have to tell you, but that doesn’t alter it, unfortunately." He had waited in all that day. It was just possible, he considered, that there might might be a sudden boom in the Human Lives tor Sale market. In any case, this was his last throw of the dice, so he was entitled to a little unreasonable optimism. Every now and then he would pick up the Meteor and look at the advertisement, which had been set with a craftsman’s skill. Suppose he were a wealthy man and wanted a human life for any particular purpose; would that advertisement appeal to him? He thought it would. But, then, the next moment he realized with a sudden sick feeling that nobody would take such an outrageous an TATE IS KIND Scranton, Pa-^ate measures in minutes. The Jessup high school caught fire and burned more t>an an hour before firemen from six villages conquered it. Fourteen hundred cliildren attended the school, but fate timed the fir* for ‘>}e noon hour—and all the children •vsre home for lunch. What Enjoyment! From Tit-Bits. Hie teacher was trying to boost the sale of photographs to her class. "Now. children," she said, ‘ just lQUhkino how you'll enjoy looking at 2 nouncement seriously. They would think it a hoax or 1 something too cryptic to bother about. Of course! What an ass he had been! He lunched off biscuits and i the last of the cheese, and smoked all the tobacco left in his pouch. At five o’clock he decided to chuck it—every one had finished with the morning newspapers by this j time. No one would bother now. Besides, it was not likely that anyone would phone on such a subject; they would write, of course, and in very guarded terms. He put on his hat and over coat, when he suddenly flung both off again. He would stick it out for another hour or so —say until half-past six. Then—well, he’d go and be run over or something excit ing like that, since he had but a shilling left in the world. The weariness of that wait ing! Creighton was essentially an open-air man, and he was almost crazy for a smell of the wind-swept streets, so, the the clock on the mantelpiece showing the half-hour after six, he put on hat and coat again. Then, shattering the silence, the telephone rang. For a moment he stood hesi tant. He was the last person to entertain any foolish fancies, yet the air seemed heavy. Tempted to ignore the thing, he still hesitated. Should he go out into the clean and more wholesome atmosphere of the street? Then, sudednly feeling a fool, he turned, walked across the room, picked up the re ceiver. “ . . . Help! Oh-h . . The words rang in his ears like the despairing cry of one utterly lost. It was a girl’s voice, and it had vibrated with unmistakable terror. The last word had been cut off as though a hand had been placed suddenly over the speaker’s mouth. Creighton found his own voice. j, y' “Hello . . . hello . . . who are you? Where are you speaking from?” Then a sauve, cultured voice—a man’s vcftce this time —inquired: “Are you museum 10,000?” “I am,” replied Creighton curtly. Before he could say any more, the other had gone on: “Am I correct in assuming that I am .sqeaking to the gentleman who advertised in the Meteor newspaper this morning?” “You are correct,” said Creighton; “but look here—” He was interrupted, cour teously but decisively. “If you wish to do business with me, you will attend care fully to what I am about to say.” The voice of the Un known had taken on a harder note. “Are you willing to listen or shall I ring off?” Quickly Martin replied: “I will listen.” The horror-cry of the girl still rang in his ears. The whole mysterious oecur ance intrigued him. He for got his own miserable affairs. “Very well,” the voice con tineud. “Now I want you to dine with me to-night. Is it convenient for you to be at Rimini’s Restaurant in Picca dilly at seven-thirty? I will make it eight if you like.” “Half-past sevenl^will suit me. But who are you? How shall I know you?” He heard a short laugh. (TO BE CONTINUED) this photograph when you grow up. As you loose ai it you 11 say to your self. There's Jeannle, she’s a nurse: there’s Tom, he’s a judge: and-" " And there’s teacher: she’s dead.” came a voice from the back of the class. MAY’S NOSEGAY Breath of old time yellow rose. Fragrance where the fruit bloom blows; Valley lilies dainty aceat. Lingering lilaos’ perfume lent; Wild grapes blossoms' rich boquet AU of these belong to May. -Sam Page. | Broadway ] EY BUSBNELL DIMOND New York — Not all of Broad way drama Is played out on floodlit stages, against sumptuous settings to the moan of the saxophone and the wall of the flute. Drama in the rough, drama in the raw, beat like a hectic pulse In the most unsuspected quarters There Is, for instance, that cease less. reiterative drama called Prison Sing Sing today for our purposes. Recently the grey old bidd ing that frowns down upon the Hudson was the scene of a double drama. One was enacted on the prison stage by a company of New York actors—Elmer Rice’s power ful and authentic "Counsellor-at Law." The other was Inherent in the audience itself. Fascinating as Mr. Rice’s play Is. on this occasion the reviewer’s fascination was chiefly focused upon audience rather than upon "Counsellor -at-Law.” It was a taut house, and no wonder; for a dozen incidents cf Rice’s devising hit home to convicts, who spotted them for the genuine thing in something less than a flash. "Counsellor-at-Law,” if you’ve missed it during its prosperous run at the Plymouth, in Manhattan, is the story of an attorney risen to greatness from the stem of the slums. In his early days of prac tise he had framed an alibi for a young offender whose fourth con viction would have spelled his life’s ruin. With considerable craft and an adroit juggling of the probabili ties, the dramatist shows one how the shadow of this injudicious gen erosity later rises to threaten the lawyer. The piece is crammed with types that an inmate of a prison would respond to instantly through his familiarity with them before he was sent to "stir.” That fact was written on the faces of the 1.800 who sat it out. From a box Warden E. Lawes, one of our most bril liant penologists. Joined with hi3 family in sincere applause. In the wings hovered the author, intent on dialogue, light cues, exits. He had personally directed the produc tion. But in spite or its thoroughly professional air and the polished technique the show seemed, oddly enough, a Sing Sing venture, some of this feeling was due to the part played by the men in gray themselves. In the first place the notion of transporting the cast to Ossining had been a convict's in spiration. Remember Harold Rus sell Ryder? He was the fantastic Brooklyn boy whose financial rise was almost as spectacular as that of the ficticious “Coujisellor-at Law.” Ryder a product of the tough Williamsburg section got into the important money a few years back and immediately acquired a name as a night-life spender. Happily married, he made it a practice to escort various pretty girls around the expensive hot spots, his tips for service were fabulous — $100 for the head waiter; $50 per waiter; bus boy, $20; checkroom girl, $50; favorite torch singers, $100 a piece. For a while he cut a specious swath. But he was arrested after a sensational Stock Exchange to boggan and sentenced to from three to ten years for the $2,000,000 failure of the firm in which he was a partner. During his stay up the river, Ryder has been most keen on arranging entertainments for fellow prisoners. And the “Cousellor-at-Law'” suggestion was his. Stagehands were promptly re cruited from the penitentiary in mates — a crew of 14 men all skilled to the fingertips in the mov ing and placing of sets. The latter were built by prisoners too. This offered no difficulties, since there are a number of accomplished art ists doing stretches. In seating the eager audience preference was given the blind. They were put in the front row so that no line of the dialogue should be missed. Loud speakers in hos pital wards and solitary cells stepped up all speeches satisfac torily. The audience was at first sub dued to the point of utter silence. But as effective situations were developed and poignant characters appeared, voiferous applause rang through the hall. The occasional reference to the possibility of a criminal going straight caused ob vious excitement. Certainly, the love scenes went for almost noth ing. But perhaps not so curiously after all. The drama of prison is a grim and unmitigated business. Life there grinds remorselessly on and the grist of death emerges from the blue haze of the execu tion chamber. There isn’t much room for love. Not from Choice. From Answers. “Will you he'p a poor fellow?" “What is It?” “My wife is starving!" “So’s mine, old fellow, and its rather hard lines on the poor la dies. but it is the only way to get that fashionable figure.” PROPELLER BIKE London — The propeller-driven bicycle has made its appearance at Kensington. Instead of being con nected to the rear wheel, the pedals are linked to a huge propeller on the rear of the vehicle. As the rid er’s feet move the propeller, that attachment revolves and pushes the bicycle along. A speed of about 13 miles an hour has been maintained. Fenton Gentry, Virginia's boxing captain, won first place in an elec tion for the general athletic associ ation executive bearf M@rc@lti©dWax Keeps Skin Young Q«f: an ounce and us* as directed. Fine p*rtirl«» o/ ag»J •kin peel off until ell defect* such as pimples, liver ■J*01*- 1*0 *nd freckles disappear. Skin is then soft and velvety. Your face looks years younger. \I*r.