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
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