JO ELLEN
By ALEXANDER BLACK. copyright, m«.
i - . ... J
t Continued From Yesterday.)
Sacrifice! Sacrifice of what? This
Mas never to he discovered. When
Cannerton said, "It'll knock their eyes
out," and Eberly said, "That’ll go
over,” she couldn't he sure that they
were thinking of the eame sort of
thing. Cannerton said to her one
day, “The sickest feeling, sister. Is
when you wait for tho laugh and it
doesn’t come." Evidently, then, the
things that were expertly expected
to go over sometimes didn’t. The dis
appointments of the artists and the
business people seemed, after all, to
be much alike and to have the same
cause. They all waited for the laugh.
It was the public that laughed last.
There was an Interest that tran
scended the theater, and, as the
months moved, this Interest touched
Jo Ellen with an Increasing empha
sis. The emotions of the war etirred
the theater as they stirred its audi
ences. Jo Ellen heard and saw a
great deal of the war work by theater
people. Eberly was on several com
mittees, In whose activities Jo Ellen
was now and again called upon to
represent him. She was a member
in her own name on other commit
tees. She was drawn Into the work
of a group of women who concerned
themselves In the relief of family
distresses brought on by the war.
She found that she was not alone in
discovering the Irrelevancy of theory
or conviction in the presence of indi
vidual disaster. Then she found that
hating war was very simple, but that
living with humanity while a war
was going on was full of complexi
ties that had a misery of their own.
II.
In those after days whew Jo Ellen
had so much time to look back upon
It, that period of the war seemed to
he marked, as by varicolored splashes
on a calendar, by meetings with Stan
Lamar and letters from Marty Simms
The letters were lover letters, frank
ly and fulsomely assuming all be
trothal privileges. Their censored
vagueness left Marty at a disadvan
tage In the matter of news. Tales
of experience must be confined chiefly
to amusements, or to excitements
that did not ‘ trace any Intelligible
passage of the huge real drama which
for so long had reddened the hori
zon of the world. When you would
have cared to know about some
mighty assault, it was a bit flat to
get some Joke about a canteen. He
liked to repeat “When I get hack."
And there were Instances of a quiver
ing fervency in speaking of the' high
place, or of some trivial Incident at
the Hill. Once he pleaded for a lock
of her hair. This she Ignored, after
contemplating for a long time an
Imaginary picture of the circum
stances In which he would unfold
such a gift. She fancied that a girl
with black hair, or even blonde hair,
might have found acquiescence easier
It astounded her that Stan should
give no sign of any suspicion as to
Marty's claims. He knew she re
ceived letters from him. She had
quoted one of them at a time when
she thought Stan had begun to have
a confident manner. Hut if he had
a suspicion he never betrayed it. He
acted as if nothing mattered but his
moment. Some turn of a play set
her to thinking about conscience, and
the difference between conscience and
mere shrewdness. It was a difference
she found it hard to figure out. Had
she a conscience? The play said that
women really had very little; that
what passed with them for conscience
s -—
was actually only a trickiness, some
times an amazingly Involved lngcnu
ity of self-interest. Was it a lack of
conscience that had induced her nev
er to mention Stan at home? Wasn't
not mentioning him an indication that
her conscience, or whatever took the
place of that, knew there would be
disapproval? Her argument with her
self was that her mother would catch
the name, as Jo Ellen had, and would
act In the light of the traditions. Her
mother wouldn't know how cautious
she was and how safely, at arm's
length, she kept the hazard. Her
mother wouldn’t know of any pos
sible Injustice in a tradition. She
wouldn’t know that the meetings
were securely formal. Jo Ellen had
told her mother about Marty, but
rather as If that had been an asking
only, as If the answer still fluttered
and had not yet alighted. Her way
of conveying this Impression to her
mother had the effect upon herself of
saying that the answer awaited veri
fication, as though the document of
devotion was still to be signed. If
the Implication of promise was actual
ly there, It was exacted under the
xduress of a crisis that was In so many
cases making the world a liar.
Finally, she mentioned to her moth
er a meeting with Stan at the office.
The mother was very brief.
"A bad egg,” she said.
After a pause, to which she gave
no color, Jo Ellen asked:
"What did he do?”
"Do? I don't know. But they were
always In trouble about him. He was
a wild one. Ran away once or twice,
I understand.”
"I guess he has settled down," said
Jo Ellen quietly.
Mrs. Rewer was obdurate. "I once
heard somebody say, about another,
man, that he might settle down with
out ever being able to settle up.’
So that it would be an uphill mat
ter to make Stan excusable. At that
particular time Jo Ellen could say
to herself that making him plausible
was not a thing she had any wish to
do; that she was even glad of the
barrier. But there were other times
when she felt accused and guilty; not
so guilty in what she might manage
not to tell, as in the loose way she
considered that conscience thing.
Again, after some cynical cyclone of
talk at the office, when a group that
belonged very much to raw Broad
way was shattering codes and giving
a comic dishevelment to honest
things, she felt as if she had for
gotten to be grown up. She was no
longer a child, even if she still slept
in the garden of innocence, or one
that might look like a garden of
innocence if you didn't talk too much
to i,o\ Mallin, or Emma Traub, or
didn't Inquire too deeply about Myrtle
Fleck, for example.
Postponing—that was what She was
doing; even after Armistice day and
the almost concurrent letter that told
her Marty was in a hospital, but
would be on his feet again In a lit
tle while. At the last, and quite with
out regard to Marty, she would break
off meetings with Stan. She knew
precisely how she should say the
thing that was to be said. Her for
mula was so fixed and unflinching
that she twice went to a matinee with
him, and danced with him at a war
relief festival in which the business
and art of the stage accomplished
an almost hysterical alliance.
A few days after the dance she
encountered him while on a mission to
a rehearsal. Suddenly he was stand
tng beside her In the shadow of a
stage drop in front of which, picked
nut sharply by the flare of a stand
light, a cast was working. It seemed
that at first she could see only the
glitter of his eyes and the effect shot
into her mind as symbolizing her
thrilling distrust. The distrust was
always as real as if It had a volume
of evidence to back it up. And the
thrill was real. I.ife evidently ar
ranged things in that fashion.
On her way out he was beside her
in a dark passage. He contrived to
halt her in talk. A thin shaft of light
struck across her face. She could
scarcely see him at all.
"It isn’t fair,” he said In a low
tone that quite missed his managed
level, "that you should hold me off
always. A tnan gets desperate.”
"If you're a desperate character
began Jo Ellen.
Then he seized her, by a strategy
he might have meditated in detail,
and kissed her on the lips.
"You stupid fool!" she cried angrily,
with a rather unfeminlne fling of her
arm that thrust him thudding against
the bricks of the passage. As suri
rien as either gesture was the change
he aaw and heard while his lips parted
to speak. Her anger was as If thrust
aside
"We ll call this the last of It," she
added coolly. "I ought to have been
able to say that long ago. I’m glad
the business ts done with."
"Ellen' I’m damned sorry—"
"I'm dapnned sorry, too," and Jo
Ellen plunged through the black door
way Into the lighter space that led
to the lobby,
III.
It was beginning to snow Absurd
Iy. the snow made her think of Marty
in the hospital. By now Hie would ho
tut of the hospital and perhaps on
his way home. Anyhow, he was not
being snowed on in a trench. She
wished she were eager for him, wholly
eager for anyone. Probably there was
such a thing as an unquestioning
eagerness, nn utterly hungering wish
that was quite through with think
ing. It would he wonderful always
to know just what you wanted. Of
course, there would remain, after you
knew, the petting of what you wanted.
But It would be like knowing where
you were going.
She didiyt really want Marty the
way she ought to want him If . . .
And then It was a crisp Sunday
morning in February, when shoes
screeched in the lnwood paths, and
Billy, who had been investigating alle
gations about what the ice was doing
In the Harlem, hurst in with the
news that a certatn soldier was com
ing.
It was Marty, tanned, grinning over
the collar of his army overcoat—and
limping.
Perhaps the limn was really slight,
but it had an effect for which you
could not be prepared.
The limp was not as of being crip
pled; it was simply as of l>e!ng
marked. It was, indeed, not unbecom
ing in the swing it gave to his eager
stride. Tet it became to Jo Kllen the
dominant note in the picture of his
coming, of his hurrying up the steps
as if a limp meant nothing at all.
Somethin* In the dissonance rave Je
Ellen a catch in the throat, and held
her where she could watch him
through the window without running
to the door as her mother did. It
curried a thrall.
She knew that she would marry
him. (To Be Continued Monday.)
Wonder What a Marathon Runner Thinks About. Briggs
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ABIE THE AGENT Drawn for The Omaha Bee by Hershfielc
Majority Rule*.
\ CAN (JVT TV*R£E S ANt> \ CAN
U'CTNfcS&SS WHO SAW / A TVtCUSANC)
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New York ■
-- Day by Day
'--—_
By O. O. M’INTYRE.
New York, July 26.—Dutch E<1
Horgan has gone the way of the
East Side gangster. He died as he
lived—by the gun. They found him
pistoled through ths head in an area
way in the rear of Blue. Nose Mur
phy's soft drink parlor on Avenue A.
Like all his Ilk, Dutch Ed had the
idea he had enough power to violate
the gangster's code. He "squawked"
on a pal. That always means violent
death. Big Jock Zeiig. Louis the
Lump, Twist McGuire and a score of
others have died in the same manner.
When word goes out through the
mysterious channels that a gangster
has squealed the gats are polished
end the alibis framed. Many times
•he killer is selected by drawing lota.
He takes with him his "passer” to
whom he passes the gun after the
fatal shot Is fired.
Dutch Ed wdth the odd moniker
was a little Italian—a “blood”—in
the East Side Jargon. He wore
dazzling clothes, much jewelry and
was fond of the ladle.s. He was
graduated from the Hudson Dusters
to a leadershop that meant power
on Avenue A.
He organized a system of tribute
from small tradesmen. When they
refused to buy tickets to some Sat
urday night ball or clambake they
were the victims of black-jacking or
store raida. The gangster t ides by
terror.
Moat gangsters begin careers on
street corners. They have an in
herent hatred for the corner cop
Ability to use their fists gives them
high standing but to lead In a foray
known as “ganging the cop" usually
results In leadership.
The bravest of all the gangsters
was Young Johnny Spanish. He
weighed about 100 pounds and was
a bundle of misdirected energy.
When he went out on shoot'r.gs he
primed himself with drugs He died
In the tame manner as Dutch Ed.
The contributors of Eranklin P.
Adams' column on the World have
completed the following insomlnlac
song to the tune of "Give My Re
gtirds to Broadway:"
Give Myra Hess to Broadway
Remember me to Harold Hoas;
Tallulah Bankhead at 42d street
Siegfried Sassoon be there.
Tell them of how Blanche Yurka
Tom Mingle with the old time
throng.
Give Myra Hampton old Bmndway,
And say that I’ll be there Ray
Long.
One of the Intereating sights of
New York la to stand at the Battery
seawall and watch sea gulls swoop
gracefully out to meet the Incoming
liners. They can spot the vessels
before they are aighted with hlnocu
lars. They know that, following
cuatom, they will he well fed by the
liner cooka.
The hundred nr so river croft too,
that may he viewed at the Battery
wall stir the Imagination. There are
vessels sailing all flags—coastwise
steamers, now and then a full rigged
clipper, sloop arnwn, tugs pushing
floats that bear whole trains of
freight cars ferryboats, bug* liners
and river steamers painted white,
Copyright, 1*24
f
THE NEBBS JUST A MOMENT, PLEASE. Directed for The Omaha Bee by Sol Heaa
. _ _____ ___^
TOLD fAC \r t DRANK THIS
WATER 1 COULD DANCE A
JtG — 1 DRAKfK NEAALV ALL
y or it and there ain't onlv>
\ A UTTLE JUMP IN N\E VET^
I
XYOU KNOVN TOU'RE GETTINg\
OLD AND HOUR BONES ARE 1
PRETTY STirr BUT TOU KEEP »
ON DRINKING this WATER
AND YOU’LL BE WRITING
SANTA CLAUS TOP POLLER
SKATES AND A COASTER
, \wagon tor Christmas/
Xv^ B ^
Barney Google and Spark Plug Barney’s Going to Organize a Tank Corps. Drawn for The Omaha Bee by Billy DeBeck
/yep - NEXT WEE* UlUk\TiN«* cv-cT' YessiR-• THev HAD a CABIN MOT
IM COOING UP To HWl,W FAR PROM Tut SPOT VOU RE GOING -To
CANADA ON A HUNTlN(i [^QOSE ? TuEV NO SOONER CoT TwElR GRIPS
Trip *- AINT YOV) SORRY UNPACKED uiwen seventeen moose
You CAN T COME N°T ^ 6ARMEY Au Tw6 Size OF ELEPHANT'S, POUNCED
AICNCJ • Joe--? I HEARD THE (n om . J>0C Too* CAREFUL
“They *Tta me the experiences That A(M at one of em vnwo ojas just
(Vioose Hunting Doc Inagnep and aisout r0 *ress zieggv inX» Tue
UP Thcrh is •ziegfeld MAD clouds • The Ouiaet hir Tue moose
LAST SEASON UP IN TUe EVES AND COUWGEO SACK
GREAT - • CANADA -IT
Makes mv
RRINflINfl IIP FATHFR „ «R'„rU,w*L. SEE J,CG* AND MAGG1E ,n fuu- Drawn for The Omaha Bee by McManus
1 U. S. Patent OHIea PACE OF COLORS IN THE SUNDAY BEE (Copyri«ht 19:4)
I© 192a »v Intl Fraruae Seav.ct. I*e
Craat Britain rulita rraarvad.
~ 1 " -
JERRY ON THE JOB THESE ARE NO TIME WASTERS * Drawn for Jhe k°rnaha Bee b? Hoban
. (Copyright 1924)
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