JO ELLEN By ALEXANDER BLACK. copjniht, jej*. I (Continued From Yesterday.) la the clamor of tha day thought ef Cora Vance and the party quickly faded. Jo Ellen called up her Indefi nite Images on the way home, and let them fade again. Such sugges tions of the Irresistible, of a life that came and went, that lifted or put away by free choice, that could take "a little Joy” with a light accept ance, appraising it altogether by the Immediate tang, came like the echoes of Broadway Itself, as sights and sounds through which you passed or that came to, you vaguely from the cross streets. These people had drudgery and emotions under the compulsion of their work. Beyond that they looked for the alleviating thing. Probably this was often to he found In something simple, with no glitter In It. The stage and all of Its worka had relentless Iterations, and at times a noisy rush that blend ed the likeness of a boiler factory and a mad house. No wonder the people who made and gave shows wanted, somewhere, sometime, to be altogether themselves. . . . Anybody might stumble on the same wish. You didn’t have to go behind footlights to be held by a part. It was a plain human wish, deep as your bones— the wish to get loose. When you couldn’t get loose, when you turned from one keeper to another, when you lost the feel of your very self, that thought of being quite loosened and unaccountable became fantastically fascinating. Very likely no one ever quite escaped. It was a dream. Yet to make believe that you were escap ing. . . . Perhaps this was the best most people were able to do. Even the delusion of being free must be worth the taste. When you were awakened, aa by a kind of Eberly buzzer, that said you were securely tied after all, you might be able to believe that the dream was not a failure This might mean, Indeed, that though you had always been hungry for real things, and thought you hated make-believes, a dream could win sorpe sort of standing. . . . Sunday had a dull sky. Beyond the hard rail of the roof all outlines wavered In a September haze. Mrs. Simms slept most of the afternoon. Marty huddled over a story. When he saw Jo Ellen with a magazine or a book he always asked what she was reading. It was difficult for him to concentrate on his own page if she seemed to be absorbed. He would end by shutting his book and remarking upon the tiresomeness of print, as If to suggest a pause for her. If she went on reading he found another y-----> New York ••Day by Day _ J > — By O. O. McINTYRE. New York, Aug. 19.—A® a patron of "the halls"—known to some as vaudeville—I can find no tingle of excitement In the flood of "wonder kiddles" who have lately come to grace the variety stage. There Is a feeling they should be home In bed. Most parents of ordinary children must have the urge, after witnessing the sophistry of the stage child, to rush home, slap their offspring and cry: “How dumb you are!" The “wonder kiddle" specializes In Imita tions of Elsie Janls and Ethel Barry more. . They are smooth, witty and sell assured despite their baby lisps and extreme youth. I saw one the other night at a benefit who was not more than 11 years old. She had the stage presence and suavity of a Geslle Car ter. It would be difficult to picture her world weariness at 15. There are at least a score of these acts in vaudeville—melody twins, solo dancers, singers and those who give imitations. Their parents are always awaiting in the wings, especially on pay night. All the simple pleasures of childhood are denied the young sters. They become petulant, petted dar lings almost before they cut their teeth. Some of them are even touch ed by that nebulous essence known ns temperament. It Is told'that one walked off In a huff because the spotlight was faulty. Gus Edwards hat no doubt produced more child acts than any other pro ducer. Many of his charges have be come big stars. They are as a gen eral thing children of theatrical par ents. Their training begins as they are weaned. A child performer draws—at least their parents do—a salary of from $100 to $150 a week There Is one who makes $225. On the screen their Income® are enormous. Jackie Coogran, for Instance. Ashton Stevens, the Chicago critic, saw a poor play In New York and wired his paper this succlnt slam: "The play ran late, the audience early." There la always a touch of the eomedie humaine among shoppers In I department stores. It was during a bargain counter rush at one of the big stores on Thirty-fourth street. A harried little man was on the fringe of the crowd waiting for hts Amazon ian wife who had charged Into the maelstrom. Finally ahe emerged s little disheveled but had the prized bargain package she sought, "Now that you have It, what are you going to do with It?" he In quired with a show of unaccustomed bravado. "I'm going to smack you over the head with it," ehe snapped. And that Is exactly what she did. The New York dance hall Is the rival of the old time saloon. The founder of "The Boor of Hope" de dares that about 70 per cent of the fallen girls of Manhattan were tripped up by Jazz. Other moral investigators say one of the greatest perils of the olty< 1# hoofing the light fantastic, cheek to cheek. The dance halls here are open oases of oscillation and osculation. These are the places young folk with small purses must go to spoon and find amusement. The "Instructors" »re oftlmss procurers. The Ides Is to ap peal to the deplorable Instincts that wers formerly satisfied by Baines law hotels and Venus pedestrls. In ths larger dance halls the pa tron may dance with the "hostesses" for 25 cents a dance. They get 50 per cent of the amount they make. Many of them carry on private hoot legging on the side. It Is all a species Of disguised prostitution. The "hostesses" are the strange tyyu Nww York breeds There Is an ennui about them all. Their bovine apathy Is only marked by ths Jaw* that chew gum Incessantly. tC»p»ri*ht, 1*24.J J question. Did the paper say It was going to rain? What was the idea for supper? How was It Arnold put It about the elevator boy? Wasn't there a game of solitaire with two packs? Her answers were not satisfactory. "You'd like to be out," he remarked finally. Jo Eflen put away her book and stooped to pick up the sheets of a newspaper. "I can see it,” he went on. "Too bad I can’t take you somewhere. You're used to excitement." "I'm glad to be quiet," said Jo Ellen. “Quiet. I see. No talk.” "No discussions." "I’m to mind my own business. My orders. To say nothing." Mrs. Simms had come into the liv ing room. She stood near the door, unobserved, watching the two figures beside the large southern window, listening, with her acrid intentness, as to scraps of speech that were un suspicious of her ears. Jo Ellen ha bitually thought of her as tracing a plan of judgment, a plan profound and merciless, with some ultimate punishment, obscurely terrible, per haps to be distilled Into a supremely excoriating word. Whatever might lay beyond, she was Intent, even when she handled a dust cloth or placed a dish. Her silences were like the si lences of a turnkey. "There are troubles enough in the world,” said Jo Ellen quietly. "It seems a pity to wrangle about little things.” Marty darted at words—as did his mother. "Wrangle. You, make wrangling out of a civil question. And who's got the trouble? Look at me." “I look at you, and I—" "Like that! You look at me. I'll say you do. Look, and pull away, as if I had a disease—a disease. Just my arms around you . . . last night . . .” Simms senior made a lettering en trance. It was sud lenly apparent that both the father and mother were ir. the room. . . . Supper. Daniel Simms enthusiastic aboutsthe cold chicken. Mrs. Simms reminding Jo Ellen that she had for gotten to put on the Jelly. Marty stuffing himself and eyeing the re sources of the table. “You're all mighty quiet," said Daniel Simms. "Sometimes that’s safest," Mrs. Simms observed. Marty halted his fork. "Talking’s dangerous in this family.” "What—?” The father peered at Jo Ellen, who was trying to master a nausea. "Better stop this non sense. You make me tired, for e fact. What’s wrong? Tell me that Jo Ellen.” “I guess I'm wrong," said Jo Ellen "I don't believe it,” and Daniel Simms emote the table with the hart die of his knife. "I don't believe it." "She's just restless," Marty mut tored. with greasy lips. "It's dull here." Mrs. Simms seemed to decide that this expressed the idea. Daniel Simms saw the crimson un des Jo Ellen's amber lashes. "Well I'll be damned!" He glared for a moment at hi« plate. “If—” "Save your strength,” admonished Mrs. Simms. “You can’t mend any thing by going back on your owe son.” "Hell!” Simms struck the tahli again. “My own son? Yes. All right But how about my own son's wlfct Hasn’t she a look In? What does shi get out of this? Picked on—" "Are you talking to me?” Mre Simms demanded. "It's Jo Ellen's fault!" Marty cried out with a frantic gesture. “I tell you she mixes with a swift crowd—" Jo Ellen pushed back her chair and strode out to the telephone, the other three arrested of every movement while they listened to the call. "I’ll meet you at eight,” Jo Eller said to Cora Vance. XVIII. Amy Lennlng’s place on the East Side marked one of those longitudinal divisions between the obviously re spectable and the possibly tempera mental that so often occur in the cross streets. She had a basement ind parlor floor. The fact that she had also a front cellar was likely to he remarked by way of Indicating that you ought to see it. Cora Vance had said the place was amusing. The sdjectlve was beginning to lose defl niteness. The intelligentsia could speak of an amusing murder. Jo be what they are.” Jo Ellen wasn't sure about this, and said so."It sounds so-so fixed before hand. And I don't like to believe that." "I mean—" A little movement in Cora Vance led Jo Ellen to follow her companion's glance. . . . Through the haze she saw Stan Umar. He was laughing »t something Cornell said. Perhaps it was natural enough that he should be there. But she was acutely star tled. "For instance,” came Cora Vance's voice—there wag a faint click aa of a swallowed laugh, an unpleasant sound—"take the case of my first husband over there. He was a cer tain kind of person. I was a certain I kind of person. It was no use. We | had to crash. A marriage like that la aura to be a flop. But I couldn't know that when I was twenty, could I? He looked good. You'd aay he was some looker, wouldn't you?” Jo Ellen could only nod. "Maybe he Isn’t so reckless as he used to be. Well, neither am I. . . . He’* a wonderful boy for slipping through. HI* father ha* a great drag with the producer*. Poljtlc*. too. A little while back there wa* a mix-up and they put the whole police depart ment on getting Stan—mostly, I guess, to squeeze hi* father. Quite a story. Aa usual he got by.” "Do you mean.” Jo Ellen asked, "that he’s—" Ellen concluded that "Interesting" was worn out. Tet she soon dis covered that Miss Denning's rooms were, at certain points, amusing enough, If you were open to amused Impressions. Jo Ellen reached Cora Vance's ho tel in a state of rather bewildered numbness. Her feeling of rebellion was clear, but what she was to do with It, how far this expression of it was likely to be comfortable, re mained uncertain. It was sufth ic.,c that this was not her Job, and that It was neither one of two home*. There was no imperative need to offend either home. The imperative thing was getting away from both. (To Be C'ontlnned Tomorrow, t THE NEBBS THAT’S WHY THEY MADE THE PIN._ Directed for The Omaha Bee by bol Hess - ■ . .. ...\ , r raoM the wan n\n clothes cook \ NOU'D TM\ NK BOTTOMS wiERC WORTH \ , i $10 a piece , thread a dollar a toot and LABOR 8>SA MINUTE . ALL I'D MA\/E TO DO ISTO CRAWL INTO A J 1 SHOW CASE AMD I'D EOOK UKE A J V CARD or CATETN PINS r I ® STZScr GUV TwOT W\LL 'x / IMVENT SOKETW'NG TO \ / UOLO A, 5M\RT TOGCTwErA ( -That fc rtw 'ROK1 Ont ) klMOOC orr WILL BE A / I GR.EKT BEMEE^sCTOP J 'v TO N/'P^v^'rvl^) T rS (Copyright, 1824,'by The Bdl Syndicate, Inc ) /THERE She IS V-CLPWO OLD SOUR \ MILK MAKE Ck LOT 07 TM\NKSS TOR \ ufo _ THEN'RE CERTA\mLN mOT > wORKIMGj ONi ANJVTHWG 70R ME — > aeter mv STurr \s washed amd/ \ROniED She SUPS Them \mTO i_ THE DRAWER WVTH UER EVES CLOSED AERA\D SHE MUaHAT' pHO SOME TROUBLE ^-kWOH THEM_ ; MRS NESS, I TWOUGUT PEQWfVPS \ / WU\LE VOU WWE TUKT R&W Of GUN- \ SUVNC GROUND WERE VOU MIGUT GET WERTOTMX CwPEW buttons. 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