■>»- ■ ..■■■■ __ ■ -
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
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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
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(NTtCNOTiOMAl RACE
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Copyright 1924, l>v King Feature* Syndicate Inc .Great Britain right* reserved
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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 ^
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HIM PER TELLIJ^ me TO iPENO MY
VACATION
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JERRY ON THE JOB
THE LONG AND SHORT OF IT.
- — - ■ --7
Drawn for The Omaha Bee by Hoban
(Copyright 1924J
WTrRTh'TRU,
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Somebody Is Always Taking the Joy Out of Life
By Briggs
/ O*-'-BOY but i m ^Fereui^ \
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ABIE THE AGENT Drawn for The Omaha Bee by Hershfield
Notlilnc I.IKp PuMMty.
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