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About The Omaha morning bee. (Omaha [Neb.]) 1922-1927 | View Entire Issue (Aug. 22, 1924)
■>»- ■ ..■■■■ __ ■ - JO ELLEN 1 By ALEXANDER BLACK. coprrtrht. m«. (Continued From Yesterday.) He made a sudden movement. "Foi everybody but you," he exclaimed bringing his fist down. “Me?” She shrugged and laughed— a cocktail laugh that made him search her face again. "I don’t count—ex cept to make a bit of scandal talk I’m only the fool bride. It's none of her business what the man does before she marries him. She would be busy if she went into that, wouldn’t she? Of course, if the re sults are nasty—” "Don't talk that way. It Isn't like you.” "You think it’s the stuff I had in there. It isn't. It's Just the few words. And I had words enough downtown. Funny about words, isn’t it? You think this isn't like me. It is like me. Exactly. I'm not the same person. That’s it. When you keep on being hammered—” "I—” "No. You’re sitting there being sorry for the innocent fool. There’ll be a lot of sorry talk when every body knows." “Look here!”—he faced her with an appearance of great earnestness— "I don't say you shouldn’t rip it out. Damn it! You’ve had a raw deal. Who’s going to blame you for saying so?” She was looking at the outlines of the chauffeur. When she moved to look at Stan, in a moment of silence, she saw his silhouette, with his head lowered. "I’ve had a few raw deals of my own,” he was saying. The taxi was swinging through the park. "You'll think that's different,” he continued. "Things you bring on yourself. Suppose they are different. They hurt Just the same. People haven’t a right—’’ "He'd talk that way," said Jo Ellen quickly. "All the same—I’m not pounding him. You're the one he has to square himself with. Isn't that so? You— not all the knifers.” "I wish nobody would try to square nnvthing. I wish I could be let alone. I can’t have that. Uptown I have advice, tons of it. Downtown I have plain hell." The taxi lurched at a curve and she put out a balancing hand. He caught it and bent close. "Let me say it. This isn’t one place or the other. Somewhere in between. A friend can be a friend, can’t he? Without knock ing anybody." She drew her hand away. "You’ll be advising me in a minute." "But you can't chuck friends. You were a friend when I was up against it.” “A friend?” She peered at the swishing lines of the street. “I _- -- . ■ —- 1 \ New York --Day by Day \ e By o. o. McIntyre. New York, Aug. 22.—Thoughts while strolling around New York: Columbia students. Cap-a pie in flan nels and serge. Boarding houses with prism-hung chandeliers. Marquetry floors and old-fashioned foot scrapers. A drained cocktail glass In a window. Bun and milk shops. Grimy court ways filled with laughing children. And fire escapees with middle-aged women. Big hipped and sulten. A brisk, white-mustarhed man leading a goat. The former home of P. T. Barnum. Now a private hospital. And the home of a famous natural ist. Who Invadps deadly swamps and poisonous valleys for rare orchids. I'd rather walk a mile for a soandso. Wish I hadn't' worn new shoes. Street gamins rushing to the call of the hokey pokey peddlers. There's something cool and calm about upper Broadway. Another world from the lower section. People have time for neighborllness. Police men mingle with nursemaids just as they do In the comic weeklies. Benny Leonard in his roadster. The Ansonia—where the ball play ers stop. And stand out front In the evening. A tea room called The Whale's Jaw. Derelict drowsing in tiny Sherman Square. A patrol wagon liacks at a fine apartment house. The shimmer of submerged sensation on the sidewalk. Elusive gadflies of Times Square. There's Millicent, who married the count. Matinee girls. Penny horn sports. All in the kaleldioscoplc whirl. John V. A Weaver, the boy poet. The old Empire, where John Drew cast off the Daly shai kies and appeared as a Frohman star. What a night! Herald Square grows more remote Once the high spot of the town. The blind brothers who sell newspapers. Harried shoppers rushing to trains. Wonder what they'll have for din ner. A pigtailed Chinese slip slopping along. The stroll ends. They tell of a former Broadway bar tender who has decided to become a sheep herder In Arizona after pro hibition. One of his patrons offered him a Job on his ranch. Three weeks later the boss turned up at the ranch. ."Well I guess you've come to fire me.’’ said the ex-bartender. ' No. Don't you like your job?” ' “Yes, I like it, but are you sure you want me to stay?” •Certainly.” "Well, if you want me to stay on you'll have to get some new sheep. Ail the old ones flaa lit out on you .” The most tragic thing In the world to me Is to attend the first night of a play written by a close friend and see it fizzle. This happened the other night. The play opened fairly well and then began to slide until it became a hopeless thing. Many In the audience waited for dark moments to slip away. Those who remained did so out of sheer loyalty to the playwright. And going out I saw him in the box office with his head In his linnds— a continual round of rehearsals and a "flop’’ had completely untrussed htm. There are qitlle a. few hardened playwrights who never attend a "first, night.” Avery Hnpwood Is one of them. Gens Waller always stands out In front of the theater and paces up and down. Channlng Pollock stands In the hark of the balcony. The lstn Rennold Wolf used to sit and tal to the stage doorkeeper. I am planning to sail to Europe Just three days before my piny Is given lie premiere. If It "flops ' I can blame the director arid the producer and even write to the London Times about them. Put If It Is a surcesa I am going to say I was so worn out tusking It ■ success that I needed a era voyage to tone trie no 4C"t’yrl*ht, l*:t ) thought I was marrying a friend. Don’t talk about friends. When 1 think—Lord!” Lamar had an inspiration for a few moments. Then he swung the question: “Are you sorry you took those drinks?" "No!” She threw this loudy, as if it were a missile. "I’m glad." "Just what I would say. That's the answer. Isn’t it? I don't mean booze. I mean shaking out of the strait-jacket. I don't know what they’ve done down there. No, I don't. But I do l.nnw what they're doing to you. Even anybody who didn't—who didn't care you could see that. Squeezing the life out of you. God! When I think of the way I saw you run! You weren't built to be kept In a cage.” “Go on,” she said. “In a cage. How do you get out?" He found her hands, clenched in her lap. and, because he gave the effect of being about to go, he was able to hold them. “Well,” he proceeded, more aggres sively, "what do they do for you? Where do you come in? Why should you be locked up on a roof?—let out no go and earn a salary, and hurried back to the other Job of kitchen me ohanic? Where's your life? You've got to refuse to be locked up, wheth er they like it or not, whether that sweet aunt of mine pulls that stiff face or not. You've got to he free. If you have to smash things to do it —well, smash them. What can they say?" His voice went lower. "How much love are they bringing into your life? Love." He plipped an arm across her shoulders. “They can say that you’ve got to live without love, but that won’t make It so.” She shook her head. “You say It all," she thought, and spoke ss she thought. “And I wish I didn’t know why you say It.” Yes, she knew--she had known from the moment ha stood at the door, that he was being cautious— that he was saying "they” that he was not openly attacking Marty, that he was remembering everything. It was amazing that you could know this with the hot feeling in your ihroat and your ears humming, that you could know and let him go on because you didn't care, and because he was helping you not to care. The hand on her shoulder tight ened. She felt his breath very close to her face. “No matter what you say, I love you.” The passionate reach of his fingers, the swift coming of his Ups, a fear ful warm thrill—and she was not fighting. She was letting her head fall back and a kind of crimson thun der was booming above the world. It was as If she sat in a quivering boat that sank steadily Into a great black pool that was the night, and as if she were so tired that she didn't care whether the pool might pres ently close over her head. . . . Her cheek was against his shoul der. She was frightfully alone . . . and hla lips were moving In her hair. He was muttering about love, telling her all the things she knew. His words droned like the motor. They raced across her brain as the twisted images of the streets rushed through the narrowed slit of her lashes. She was alone. Not caring was being alone. It was being alone to forget that Journeys came to an end. There was always an end. You couldn't float forever, or sink forever. You couldn't forever not care. There was always the place where you had to begin thinking again. . . . She knew when they ram* to Dyck man street, and sat Aip sharply. It was incredible that she should he so piercingly aware of the street. But it was true. Suddenly she was awake to everything, to the dark rocka at Broadway, to the misty heaping of the trees and the solemn midnight silence. Lamar put his hand on the door as the cab halted “No,” she said firmly. "You're not to get out.” In a moment she was leaping from the other side and had closed the door again with the sound that seemed to say “No!" once more. “Good night!" she cried to him. He saw her running. PART SIX. The Other High Place. I. From a turn in the dark road she glanced backward. She had an in stant's fear that he might have risked defiance of that peremptory refusal But she was alone Until she reached the door it was as if the enveloping dimness snatched her up —and had her dangling. The inner tumult went on. A kiss in a cab. The world would survive that. There was a way of taking such things. They could be a Joke. And they could be like a fearful drink, like pouring fire Into you. They could change the color of darkness. They could make you afraid, ns when you looked beck and wondered. . . . _ The bouse was Innocently quiet What a pity to wake it up! It would not recognize you with a grunt, and turn over to go to sleep again. It woifld be astonished. It wouldn’t know about Stan Lamar, but there was no way of avoiding confession of a crisis, and this w'ould mean a scene. It would make you feel that you must have scenes for the rest of your life. In some ways this appeared more trying than to have faced the situation on the roof. . . . But she couldn’t have gone down [town! she couldn’t think there. She must have time to think. There was a kind of romantic! silliness about going home to your mother. Brides were reputed to have done tills very often. There was a quarrel about eggs, or bath soap, or the color of wall paper, and the new wife went sobbing to mamma. Peo ple giggled over the agony of the young thing. She would be advised tremendously. She would return to her husband drenched with precepts; or perhaps he would come contritely and bear her off. Then again, he might masterfully wait until she saw fit to stop sulking. If there were cases where the bride's disillusion ment had eome really deaperate ori gin, ahe wai not leaa belittled by the proceee of quitting. A confeealcn of failure couldn't be made comfortable. Surely not many brldea reached their pang of failure more cruelly. Surely few of them ever felt cheaper or more aoddenly mlaerable before the family door bell—the door bell that waa to clang the failure. . . . F * was acting like a failure, standi • there In the dark at the top of t > steps. As she put out her hand to t,. bell, the door opened (To Be Continued Tnmorrow.) THE NEBBS_- _ DOG DAYS. Directed for The Omaha Bee by Sol He» _ —y —-1-> ■ ■ ■ - ■ ■ -j--1 j . , /GOSw ITS VaOT TODfcV • "Tva\S ) If 'Vi/'/ WEATHER "TP^ES *U. -TwC \ W , " STfcRCW OUT or ME -1 VsMSV^ / % j •/ . SOME GUV WITH &KI \CE y :// ! ( V cR-EP^M v-jp>GomvajoulO y ^ R.UKJ QUE.R ME lVJ«-^ ■ WSwKT-Mewrr-rNi mc\ WOftW OUT_Tw\S WOT l wlgthlr \s w:\ll\nG V ML*- I'MGOtNiG I TO TWCE VOU M^O . tlUKHOR TO MCm-MLiy \ LOR & VMCKTlOtsI yS t . i / TOR NOUS VACATION ! Uow\ ( ABOUT MINE ? IT you NEED \ A VACATION SITTING AROUND | AU. DAV Vsi'TM NOuR EEET On l “TmE DESK with an ELECTRIC /I l Tan Blowing on nou t / \ SHOULD BE PENSIONED ) TOR LITE * ■ I \ i, , /T ir you lm gchmg to \ ( NOPTw\MLLC AmD $TAnO sni A \ .summer k\tcwlm,wwlq.e t^c ' Sum SAVS ’ GOOO MQQ.KHMG' AT \ b OCLOC.K AMD G^LS VT A GOOD- i M»GWT KISS AT <a:SO, AmO COOK . vOO RC all mv*E.O up - GCT I voup o\gt'Oma«.w«amo look up C TUL y\LAM\MG or TUL WOPO \ l VACATION AMO NOD WOmT | \£*mO AkiWTuimG A3)OOT UOOSLwORy./ f & ; i1 Barney Google and Spark Plug If Sparky Doesn’t Go Ahead, He’s Going Up. Drawn for The Omaha Bee by Billy DeBeck (Copyright 1924) SPECiAt e>UUETfN CM GREAT (NTtCNOTiOMAl RACE *7oN)CW?cui TRCT^kt MS. SPAR* PUJ6 ^ 30.000 Purse. — »—»■■■ — ^ O —.a Russians from <ail Parts of "Bif country are POURING (MTo MHUlAVJkFS; T. toiTNESS Turf CLASSIC OF Tuc Season -• -- ■■ ■ » , Pouce om tookooT FOR SUSPICIOUS Look!MO RUSSIAN? UlFO MAT BE CARRT/Ntf eoMGEO^o Bombs. — -— o -—— rx *>W0UU3 WOfcRV ABOOT TWCSS RUSSIANS CAIRRMtAlC 0OMQS 'AROVjNO • • tu. A FCUJ OF FNSetF ; - : | ■ \ * 1 aV>ORK.V.U)Me<M 10 -Tc Th« POST \ ROW OON'T 6sr > . . IF You PCAR AM I M DOM Y Pff< AMY \ 14 Ti «r- AU You GoT»> UT « S 7i 6Cftr“YboY5lo", DC NVOM VTRAYe CMS se ec^BS J jlist^ jp =- see *■ oa ■ > Copyright 1924, l>v King Feature* Syndicate Inc .Great Britain right* reserved *■ ■ — ‘ -----1 ■Iff! H; ■V ■ . BRINGING UP FATHER Fef Is Wad U. 8. Patent Offlca SEE JIGGS AND MAGGIE IN FULL PAGE OF COLORS IN THE SUNDAY BEE Drawn for The Omaha Bee by McManus (Copyright 1324) __ __*—--!-1 WELL-IE THET WON'T LET ME TELECRM3H “ OR TELEPHONE WHACT ^ I THINK. OP THltl (SUM —U town "I'll write- rr IS r45 iVE COT TO LET/THE COUNT OE - LERlOOtj KNOW WHAT \ THink OP i HIM PER TELLIJ^ me TO iPENO MY VACATION ^ HERE - i NS 'V' v :t “ © 1924 ov Intx FfATtmi Scwvier. Inc “ (jrrat Britain rithta r*»*rv«d. Wlt)H 50MEL STA.MPJ) fetR ' Ak^inr'fl WUY po ONEMWKT FORM A THEIR. OPlMtOtS OF A A‘* TOWM TOO QUICKLY | „ ^ '—v~a*zrzm JERRY ON THE JOB THE LONG AND SHORT OF IT. - — - ■ --7 Drawn for The Omaha Bee by Hoban (Copyright 1924J WTrRTh'TRU, |>3. 1 _ I I Somebody Is Always Taking the Joy Out of Life By Briggs / O*-'-BOY but i m ^Fereui^ \ \^ToP hole This mqbkjinj<^/ li'5 kjoT \SUCH A ] Toc/CTH OLD WORLD ) ^ AT THAT-' / / , hovaJ about a Tne Princs is B'Te. •. coming ... TT~ . Tmb PR,See is com,m6; Dictation J —. PUAStW \ V i \<Pwt ^Trw.iuM» _ 5oMF0OI>V%_. ^ is. Always s _ " " T ' Takimg TmT Joy oor f, or life ABIE THE AGENT Drawn for The Omaha Bee by Hershfield Notlilnc I.IKp PuMMty. * 'jTT"'- . .■/ . 5 ?' w‘ - ’• , i * / LOCK AT THl^ PHOOV\ f L'TTLE MIQlsiON« U)HY \ IX NESYERbAY, i \ ORDERED TXE SAME I i 'WMKli HERE A Kb IY \ Three Times \a& BlQ AS THIS!! %