JO ELLEN I By ALEXANDER BLACK. copyright, i«2« v._i_/ (Continued From Yesterday.) V. She would not have aald, in the morning, that she had made up her mind. It was impossible to believe that any auch process had proceeded. • She knew only that at the and of the day she would turn downtown. A decision of any sort, sven a desperate decision, would have had a lift la It. .This was not like a decision. It was i like a yielding, a kind of blind accept jf ance, that carried no glory of resolu \ tlon. ■ Perhaps it waa more like look (, ing beyond, as at a road, and seeing - yourself moving therb without having said to yourself or to any other that you would go that way. You found the act beginning to happen. It had begun to happen when you saw your self on the road. That was all. j In ths same way the day’s work had an inevitable cast. It seemed Inevitable that Cannerton should come in, and that he should bs not only sober but solemn. He had a i piece of typewriting which he asked her to put with the other papers she was to place finder Eberly’s eye. Cannerton, despite his cynical wis dom, appeared to have a theory that Eberly's eye had receptive, or at least weak, movements when a proper strategy might seize an advantage. The innocent expectation was that Jo Ellen would use this strategy. When it was too late Jo Ellen knew that Eberly's mood had swerved quite out of hsiman reach, and that this •was not one of the days on which table tactics could be applied with any hope. Since It was one ofr her own bad days she was drawn up harshly when he lifted the Cannerton papers, with the bluish slip on top, and glared at her. . "Did anybody speak to you about this?” "Yes,” she said. “That's was a mistake on your part I can't be worked. You ought to know that by this time. Your job isn't to practice tricks in the interest of anybody who wants to put ovpr something.'' "I didn't think it was a trick, Jo Ellen retorted. "I don’t care what you call it. He knew it was a trick and you let him make vou a partner in it. You re not supposed to he his partner here. • •gut_i hope you don’t believe 1 knew what it was.” "Then it should have had your no tstion—that something was added— anything to show that there was no pussyfooting and that you were my rsorry," said Jo Ellen with a furious brevity. “I hope you tr*.H Eberly snapped the papers into the wire basket. "J huge I sha'n't have to feel that traps f—-* ’ ' New York -Day by Day ___-J By O. O. McINTYMS. N«w York. Aug. 2S.—Count*, duke*, princes and others of noble lineage are becoming a* numeroua In Man hattan aa strap hangers In th# sub way. At a charity taasar the other day «0 of the guest# were of the no bility. Manhattan thrills to th* super lative. Its people like to sing that the buildings are the highest, the shops the most magnificent, the la dles the loveliest, and th# cafe# the grandest. And society gets a corre sponding kick In having guest* of the peerage. Th* moment a. hand killing prince arrives he Is rushed off his feet with Invitations for this and that. Man sion doors are thrown open and he is fawned upon by everybody from a movie star to the plump and haughty dowager. This obeisance has resulted in many spurious noblemen living in soft life. All that is required Is a Ploadllly accent and a monocle. In one of the smart hotels off Madison avenue three dukes were found to be merely duklng at night and work ing in Wall street by day. They admitted they were accept ing certain pourbolre from social 1 climbers merely to attend function*. One made |BQ0 In on* week in this fashion. He had Just given up his clerkship when It was discovered he was the son of a grocer in a small Pennsylvania town. It la quite astonishing the awank a monocle furnishes. In a certain hotel there was a young fellow who moved from a Harlem rooming house. He had no baggage, but when he reg istered he had a monocle. He was able to live there six weeks without being asked for a settlement. The pallid monotony of the eoclal life of New York aid* thla itch for nobility. In attempting exclusiveness they must see the same people doing th* aam* things year In and year out. And as a result they welcome a new faee. f New York Is on* of th* easiest places in ths world for one to cover up his Identity. There was the famous "Wolf of Wall Street,” who Is known as David I-amnr. Nobody knows his real name hut himself. In Omaha 30 years ago he conducted a stationery store under the name of David H. Lewis. In Mexico City he Was known as David Lehman, and in certain East Sid* haunts he Is David Levy. There is also a famous hotel heat who reg istered at one hotel S3 time* under th* same number of different names. Scandal effects th* box office value of an actor, but not In th* way It might be Imagined. The trend Is up ward. Three stage players who were Involved In notoriously disgraceful fa fulrs were found to he more popular than ever ^ind.as a result received increases in salaries. One of the actors Involved com plained to a comedian he couldn't sleep sine# scandal touched him. "Why don't you get a papier mache gutter and sloop in it. Then you would fool at home," said tho com edian. This Is ens of those days when thought* refuse to Jell. Fbr some time I've sat looking out the win dow. A Mind accordion player on sn opposite corner Is rendering ap propriately “What will I do?" A stenographer Is at a window primping and a wisecracking nnd slightly hic coughing friend Interrupts meditation with the telephonic Inquiry: "If three sevens Is 21, how much are a bunch of nines?” This Is th* sort of a day when I'd Ilk# to reed Fred Kelly’s hook, _ "The Wisdom of Laxlness,” but I'm Just a littl# bit too overrents by ennui to turn th# pages (Copyright, lose.) are being laid. I hope you’ll get It Into your head that they’ll try to] work you. Naturally. Why shouldn’t they?—if they found you could be worketk—and I let you work me?” "If you find me unsatisfactory—” Jo Ellen began. * Eberly waved his hand. “I find you young. When you are young you have to let age snarl at you. Calling you young la not a criticism, or even a comment. It Is a statement of fact. I want you young. But I must rstaln th# privilege of Informing your youth, at appropriate times and In appropriate ways." "I don’t think—“ "You don’t think the appropriate ness is beyond question. Perhaps It Isn’t. The point Is, that the question Is on# I must decide. And the sub ject of our little discussion Is not my Inappropriateness but yours. If you understand that, we're through.” Jo Ellep stiffened. "Through—7” "Through discussing.” "I thought you were firing me." Jo Ellen remarked coolly. But her face reddened. "No," said Eberly. “You may not have all wisdom, but you’ll be quite clever enough to know you’re being llred If that should ever ever happen here. Don’t let us talk about any thing so disagreeable—assuming that It would be as unpleasant to you as It would be' to me. I hope it would. I like to think you're interested— and that your Interest will never be divided. That’s what I was getting at. If you want to be good to me you won't tell me how this happened. I don’t want to know.” “Even If I wasn't working youT” Eberly paused long enough to look at her for the first time. His eyes seemed to be occupied chiefly, In that Instant, with her hair, as if he had never sufficiently observed its color. “You have certain qualities"—after the glance he might have meant dec orative qualities—“that I admire too much to test in argument." He got up and took his hat from the rack. "Don't let them work you.” The Incident was disagreeable chiefly for the speculation it kindled, and these became formidable at the hour of leaving the office. Going downtown was a crisis In Itself. Car rying the echoes of the talk filled the departure with a special confu sion. A few words one way or the other, and she might have lJeen leav ing the office for the last time . . . No. She would, probably, have been there until Friday. If he had taken her up when she said “unsatisfac tory.” this part of the great adven ture would have been over. If some thing In Eberly's manner hadn't turned on a tire extinguisher on her flames, this particular Job would have burned up. Eberly was wrong. She was sure of that. Seemingly a boss could be wrong and get away with it; because he was boss. Uncle Ben would have quoted the old one: that he did it for the reason the black smith licked the parson—because he wanted to and because he could. There were other bosses. No trouble about another job. But the thing was a kntflsh reminder of how it would feel to be going downtown, with no office to return to ... to have bqt one Job, In a cage . . . like so many other women. One Job, fenced In, day after day. People got used to such things, the way they got used to crowds like this one on the way to the elevated. Most of these people seemed to be driven by something. To get home. A good many of them wouldn't care much for home after they got there. But they were driven. Perhaps they made one another hurry ... or there might be something behind them that they didn’t like. In the tangle at Sixth avenue an elbow Jostled her. Almost at the same moment a voice said, "Sorry!" He was a good-looking young man —but he eould not look. Sh^knew at once that he was blind, xet he had a peaceful, unworrled face. It was odd to discover how tranquil he was in the midst of the scuffle. "Are you -going to take a Sixth avenue car?” He appeared to know that she hadn’t moved away, perhaps that she was still peering at him. "No,” she faltered. "I wonder," he said—“I wonder If you'd put me on a Sixth avenue, go ing uptown." "Certainly I will," Jo Ellen re turned, and took hold of his arm. He was quits assured. The uproar of the traffic left no sign upon him. He and Jo Ellen might have been mov Ing In a garden path. Waiting at the curb, Jo Ellen ven lured to ask, “Wat It the war?” He shook hla head, without solem nlty. “No, a cross jlrcuit—live wire ” They moved when the traffic po Uceman’s hand went high. As the car drew up, a huge woman pushed her way In front of them, lunging violently. Two men who undertook a similar maneuver encountered Jo Ellen’s arm. The blind man, finding the step, smiled cheerfuly. "Thank you very much," he said. It was like throwing him to the lions. . . . On the elevated Jo Ellen sew that a vaet tent of purple was drawing over the eastern sky while a geor geous crimson held the wrest. The splendor flashed through the trans verse clefts of the city. Forty-flrst, Fortieth, Thirty-ninth, Thirty-eighth —elch street had Its own sunset. At her downtown station she knew that the crimson line had shrunk to a golden silt and that a darkness, quick and threatening, was Ailing the cav erns. The storm broke with a crash while she was descending the station steps, an amazing deluge, as of re sources that should have been show ered but that were being spilled in bulk. Lurid sheets of rain slithered across the steeple of Trinity end spun among the gravestones. The towers were blotted out at the top. The wet roar punctuated by the drumming of thunder, and the sudden torrent be tween the curb*, racing down the slope from Broadway In fantastic vol ume, had the effect of a disaster that must somehow destroy. “Sort of a cloudburst," remarked the boy who was hesitating on an upper step as Jo Ellen climbed to the shelter of the station. If the clouds had hurst, they burst again. Only the ghost of a city seemed to be shivering behind the gray swirls. Figures that had lieen flattened In doorways scudded for bet ter shelter. A single taxicab. In wa ter to the hubs, moved In a drunken line. Its horn gurgled Uk* a «ro-> fl ing throat. (To Be Cnn tinned Tomorrow.) Ho Murh tor That. "Can you swim?" "Oh, well enough to be rescued:”— Judge. 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