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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