J JOE]
A By ALEXANl
___
< Conti* n«4 ntm TxtoHir.)
Suppet. He began to eat without
noticing her. She wandered how he
, oould be ravenoue.
"What'a the matter! Aren’t you
hungry?” Ha had bacoma awara of
tha pretense#.
”1 don’t feel vary wall.”
"Shaking her. That’a what did for
you." Hia mouth opened and a look
of reminiscence fixed him. Suddenly
, he crouched forward. "She doee hate
*’ Aunt Abble.”
Ha allot this aut with a kind of
Insane Intensity.
"We’d better not go Into hating,"
;■ Jo Ellen a&ld slowly.
"Shs doee. She's begun to hats me.
J] It wasn’ that way before. It's
since—’’ ,
j', He stopped stupidly.
• "Since you were hurt."
I! "Hurt?" His facs contorted. "No.
We can say It plain. Since I was
married. What's the use of dodging
i it? Since I was married. Since ehe
I began hating you and you began hat
; ing her. Hating. Everything'# hat
ing. if you two could've got along
II together. . .
Thia would have to go on . . . and
she would have to listen. . . . She
i couldn’t let It go on. There was no
way of stopping the grind of the
words. But she could go away. If
she stayed—stayed within the reach
of it—anywhere but beyoaA the hori
zon—her head would go ¥ rang, her
eyes would get to look like his. . . .
His eyes followed her when she
went Into the kitchen. She felt rath
er than saw his excitement when
he came for a moment to the .door.
Afterward, while she rather blindly
fumbled with the dishes, she fancied,
with nothing to aid tha surmise, that
^,-W lie had gone to hts liquor, wherever
r It was. Perhaps the sickening feeling
would lift If she could write the line
to Stan Lamar.
She found paper and an envelope.
There was a stamp In her purse. Mat'- ]
iy was not In the living room when
ahe sought the handbag.
She would go out to drop the let
l.ler In the mall chute at the very last.
Delaying It seemed Ike an assurance
, Ithat she had not hurried the step.
*Jt hat the thinking out had demanded
I Irhe utmost of time. She slipped the
j (letter under her blouse.
, There was a numb silence through
which a drip in the kitchen sounded
I piercingly. She went to the sink and
lightened the offending tap. Only the
i Isound -of the blood Jn her temples re
Jnalned.
If shs could And Mrs. Simms’ pel
lets. . . . Here they ware. But how
many should he taken? She sat be
side the table looking at the bottle
with tha red marks. People had dif
ferent sorts of headache. Perhaps
there were no pellets for her kind.
f
New York
--Day by Day
By o. o. McIntyre.
«* Pails. Bept. I.—We sought eut on*
ef th* cloistered nook* erf Montmartre
today for breakfaet. And drew up in
£h* rear yard of an old house which
hears th# name Oaf* Coucou. It pro
vided an excellent view of Paris.
* Hens wer* pecking In th* yard and
{here was the constant yipping of the
facks of dog# that rov* the district.
| m Afterward there was a stroll through
' * {he quarter—viewing th# tiny shop
windows abloom with their varying
jumble.
’« Pails lives to eat and drink. Snails
are the piece de resistance and to see
windows of the slimy, crawling
things doesn’t whet a ham and egg
appetite. Sidewalk vendor# peer*
hawking a new fangled needle that
pleases the ladies. Manipulating it
they may close "runners’ in ailk hoae.
Back near my hotel I sought th*
ministration* of a barber. It waa a
* real solon and the Ion* barber took
* pride In hto art. When I asked for
l a manicure It wa# quit# a surprise to
* b* attended to by a black whiskered
' fellow ef middle age. Bo this Is Parts!
” On th* Rue d* la PaJx—that short
* strip of fashl n paradise—one notices
that th* skirts ar* shorter than ever
’ before. Th* smartest frock* are only
* % {gw inch** below th* knee*. Th*
* {|fWu woman ar* th* beat dressed
, ft Ri* world and the men the worst.
Vh* hangout* for America ns at the
■ BMcboon cocktail hour ar* the Ritz
* Aggrteea bar, Harry's New Tork
* Rag and Th* Arltona. Th* latter
j sieee to run by a Frenchman, and
J th* Arisona atmosphere Is provided
"to t ton* ehalk drawing of a eow
* hoy.
I i» th* New Tork bar there Is a
{ sneer at prohibition in th* state* In
; two signs reading: “Try Our Soofflaw
- Cocktail" and "A Drink with a kick—
* Try th* Thre* Mil* Limit." Th* us
ual crowd of bar file* that graced
th* old *orn*r saloon is thsr*.
I bought a Psrts Tim** In front of
W? N Maxim’* today from a n*w«l« who
used to b* stationed at Brooklyn
Bridge. H* cam* over on a tramp
steamer Just for th* trip and went
broke her* thre* months sgo. Now h*
is going to stay. He say# h* la aver
aging <260 a month sailing newspa
per* to Americans*
At luncheon In th# Cafe d# Parle
wer* two rosy cheeked and plump
Frenchmen — evidently twins—and
alik* even to th*ir shiny bald heed*.
Eaoh bore a legion of honor ribbon in
the lapel. They at* exactly th* same
dishes in almost perfect unison and
not one* did they exchange a word.
"Two of th* richest bachelors in
Pari*,’’ th* headwaltwr told me. And
slyly: "A pair of gay dog*.’’
On* laarnes In Paris tlist “English
Spoken Hera” signs often do not
mean a thing. In many casts* It Is
a mere lur* for th# tourist. I have
been trying out my menu French on
various unsuspecting Innocents with
the usual result—they shrug their
shoulders and walk away.
»
Th* saddest not# In th# world's
gayest city la Its army of nympha du
pav*. Most of them ar# In their teens.
When th# lights com* on they swarm
on th* principal avenues toealng en
sagtng smirks and suggestive winks
to passersby. Their direct approach
1* to ask for a eigaret. Pails mail**
no effort to suppress them. Indeed
groups of them Indulge in bantering
conversations with gendarmes. It Is
not unusual for a don# man to be
hailed by six or seven In a block.
The guides who show yokels the hid
den wickedness are also Just aa plan
* tiful. They ar# sleek and sell dr«sae,|
and with regret one sees thHt half of
them ar* young American boys.
(Copyright,
_LEN
JER BLACK., Copyright, 1914.
J
With arm* upon th* table h*r head
drooped.
Sho heard him coming. She re
fused to move. No. she would not
go on. Not a syllable. The wheel#
stopped at the threshold. Then the
crash through.
"O my God!"
Shs lifted her head and saw hi#
lips working.
"Have you taken It?’’ h# screamed.
"No, no!” She made a weary ges
ture.
"I thought—” He was gaxlng at
the bottle, ae If reading the largest
red word.
"My head aches—" shs began.
He snatched up the bottle and
emptied th* while heap of pellets Into
his palm.
She could reach the hand that held
th# bottle. Th# other hand eluded
her.
"I got a headache!” Hie vole# broke
In a shrelk.
Her leap and a sharp blow spilled
ths white heap. The little pills pat
tered on the floor.
"Go on!”—he was sobbing with a
strangled hoarseness—"go on! Spy it!
Call ms a drunken sot! O my God!
Why didn’t you let me take It? A
mouthful. Then you’d—”
He spun the chair and rolled out
through the doorway. She could hear
hla throat noises trailing as he moved.
Her own sob vented an exhausted
compassion. . . .
A sound that comes back to the
brain some moments after it has hap
pened, or perhaps a curiosity kindled
by her compassion, set her to listen
ing Intently. What was he doing?
The living room, th# bedrooms, the
passage to th# roof door . . . The roof
door was open. She knew this first
by the chill of the wind. . . . Wide
open.
A blade of light showed the wheel
chair at the coping.
"Marty!”
She called as she ran. She knew
while she called that the wheel chair
was empty. And out of the dark
arose something that was not a sound
. . . an appalling emanation, as if
those space# below were making
clamor of a thing for which they had
no sound, yet which was rising, rls
lng to th# stars.
She clutched th* coping for a mo
ment . . . No, she could not do that.
She could not look down, even Into
a dimness that would show her noth
ing. She could run with a frantic
straightness, through the rooms, over
turning a chair, then frees# at the
sound of the apartment bell. It was
incredibly soon. There hsd been but
a few seconds . . .
Arnold Pearson. She shrank agalnet
th* wall opposite th# door when she
had flung It open.
He didn't know. You could see by
his face that he didn't know.
"Marty . . .” She pointed. "From
the roof."
He uttered a cry. an unintelligible
question, as he leaped past her. She
stood, her back to the wall, until he
returned from th# roof.
"Stay here,” he commended.
She would stay, stay end listen,
walking back and forth for frightful
minutes, listening as if voices In the
street could rise so high. Soundless
voices came, whispering that she was
free. Free. That was one of the
meanings of thla thing, which In a
flash . . . She might have prevented'
It. She was the only one there to
prevent It, and she hadn't. If ahe
had guessed . . . But who could have
guessed? Marty! The boy who had
sat beside her on ths high place . . .
And she was free.
A deep boom came from th# river.
.Ships. Her hand went to her breast.
Th# letter. She took it out. Kaeh
minutest Incident of Stan Lamar
lushed through her brain with an
extraordinary swiftness and clear
ness: the tingle of hi* hand In the
empty house, th# warm preseure of
him under th# dock, the dance, his
kisses, the cautious voice, th# shrewd
powerfulness thst belonged to a kind
of man not at all like Marty. He
had taught her about herself . . .
fearfully. He had shown her a way
to be free. And now she was free
without him. He was to have opened
for her a dreadful Imprisoning door.
Now, suddenly, terrifically, the door
stood ajar, without hla hand. Sud
denly she saw him as he was . . . She
saw herself as she was, with the
world widened again, th# world that
had b*»en tight, that had seemed to
have no one to loosen It but Btan . . .
Stan, with whom she had shut her
eyes. Now her eyes could be open.
Bh# could look straight ... at every
thing. She could see that he would
have meant escape rather than lib
erty. Perhaps It had often been this
way with women, when people talked
about the lure of th# flash . . . There
had been the lure of the flesh. No
ue# lying about that. But paarion
wanted Its liberty with the right one.
with one to whom you could give In
finite trust. Looking out from a pris
on the utterly right one didn't eeem
to matter so much. Now, In the
crashing reality of this change, ahe
knew that Stan rt-ceded. The shad
owe that had alwaye hovered behind
him seemed to be swallowing his
image. A lightning flash was help
ing to ahow what happened. He was
no longer the other one. He stood
alone . . . And alone he was only
Stan I^amar, the truth about whom
aha had never wanted herself to know.
Not knowing had been part of the
thrill, that thrill a* of a man, name
less, mysterious, who ahould come out
of the dark. Wondering how much of
a crook he was belonged with the
rebel feeling. Now, when she wss
free . . .
Real voices, She stole close to fhe
outer door once more.
“He knew which elde would mean
a finish . . . Until the old folks come
home."
It was the night man. She walked
unsteadily away.
Arnold Pe-areon saw her standing
In the middle of the place, with a
stony straightness She was tearing
Into amall fragments some white pa
per that dropped at her feet like the
flakes of a first snow. He did not
know why she peered at the litter on
the floor. He did not know xvhat the
white fragments were spelling for her
—through a crimson haste.
“Poor Marty!" Fhe nw him gulp,
and there were met etreaka on hi*
fare. He had been to the street. Tt
would be what he had *een that made
him look at her that way—at her. the
other one who was freed.
He rame to her. She would not
take the rhalr. He might he thinking
that aha would crumple She c ,11
speak to him. She could let the tor
rent of the story gush out. If ►he
could tell him everything her hard
might atop cracking. Everything
He would he there when Mi
Slmma came back.
THE END.
THE NEBBS THE FROFITEER. Directed for The Omaha Bee by Sol He«*
---------. . . __*_
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Drawn for The Omaha Bee by McManus
(Copyright 1924)
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42
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