I, THE KING ) By WAY LAND WELLS WILLIAMS. (Copyright. 1924 ) (Continued from Yesterday.) Hi.* (inys became tilings of heavy schedule nnil little leisure. His morn ing- were spent at school, and in tin afternoon he either went back to Miss (.'iirmlchael's for play hour on the roof or had his dancing lesson or music lesson or what not. Only Wednesday ami Sunday afternoons re mained free. When he first want to Miss Carmi chael's he had no intimate friends there except Dickie HofTington, the blond, the bland, the unruffled. Dickie was nearly d year older than Kit and already an old boy, so he did not see much of hltn. The boys in his own class were at first a flock of harpies who ran up and swiped your hat as you were going out of the building, and you ran after them and tried to swipe theirs. This ritual of amuse ment, inexpressibly tiresome after a while even to the participants, was punctiliously gone through every day. Kit soon hated It, but he Joined in it as lustily as the othere. not know ing how to do otherwise. There was a red-haired little boy with freckles, hy name Jimmie Haynes, who was particularly aggros slve toward Kit In this respect, so naturally Kit was particularly aggres tive to him. At last one day Jimmie came up to him as they left the building saying: "Fins a minute! Fins! Look here. Newell. 1 won't swipe your dip any more If you won’t swipe mine. How about It? Shall we?” "For always?” asked Kit. "'Or only today?” "Always, If you llke.’, "All right." “All right! We'll swipe other kids , but not each other’s. Say, I’ve got a peachy mechanical train, with two tunnels. I'd like to have you see It.” From this alliance grew a friend ship. Jimmie was at the Newells’ at all odd hours, except when Kit was at Jimmie’s. Fraulein and Mama grew rather tired of the affair, espe cially Fraulein. but Mr. Newell, as Kit soon became aware, deliberately encouraged it. He was that sad thing, often mentioned among nurses, "an only child.” So Jimmie and he played and fought and giggled together and spent Sat urday nights at each other's houses without stint. Other Hiendshps copped up. but none ever equaled tills Intensity or endurance. Dickie Hofflngton, eyeing the affair from aloft, once spoke scathingly to Kit of his intimacy with "that fellow H "What's the matter with him?” Kit Inquired. ••Oh, he's sort of . . . ------\ New York -- Day by Day— By O. O. McINTl’RE New York, Oct. 13 —New York now exceeds London fn population by more than a 1,000,000. Yet It has never struck me that the stranger gets so much of an idea of bigness in either city as he does in Chicago or Boston. If the streets of New York were linked in a continuous highway they would reach to Los Angeles, with coo miles over. I believe the bigness of the metropolis Is emphasized in inconsequential tilings more than in the towering sky-scrapers. For instance it was necessary re cently for a man to Inspect every hotel room in town. It took him 1* days working eight hours a day. There are 150 hotels In the white light district alone and 275,000 visi tors are daily housed in the 1,500 hotels. New York gives one the idea of crowds but never of space. The aver age population per acre is 545. Lon dun is second with 208. The combined population of Delaware, Nevada, Wyoming and Arizona could be seat ed in New York theaters daily and there would be 100,000 va cant chairs. The food supply staggers imagina tion. The meat provisions daily amount to HSU,r> 19 pounds and 720,000 eggs are eaten. The city’s meals empty 1,800 freight cars every day. . The milk consumption daily totals 3,807,001 quarts. Eight hundred million gallons of water are used in 24 hours and there are 267,30.7,000,000 gallons of water contained in the storage reservoirs. Seventeen persons are born every hour. Eighteen persons are married and eight die every hour. Columbus circle Is the busiest cen ter of vehicle traffic the world. Fifty thousand, vehicles pass every day. In Plcadllly. London, the record Is 30,000. Broadway and Fulton street Is the busiest point of pedestrian traffic with 113,000 walking past in 10 hours of a business day. I do not believe we who have come to New York from smaller cities ever feel New York is our home. I have been here a great number of years and will no doubt spend the rest of my days here, hut the city always teems alien. Most of us, no matter how long we remain, feel as though we were visitors. This 1k not true of London or Paris. Americans in both cities who have lived there for a • number of years tell me they feel at home although they are foreigners. In the New York slums the other day I talked to a heart-broken mother who had written me a letter. She was a small town girl who, after being bertayed, came to New York and devoted her life to her son. He wound up in Jail and she Is now a irtidge in a, candy factory. Her story was full of the rough stuff of lie slums. She was almost savage 1n her love for her boy. She wanted to go buck to her little home town and prepare a home for him after his release three years hence. "But I cun t go." she said. "New York Ik tho only place where you can hide disgrace." That New York is the only city where one may hide disgrace seems to me specious reasoning. I have the memory of a released convict coming to a small town in Ohio where I once lived. Ills first job was washing bug gies In a livery stable. He came from a good family and was intelligent and people of the town fjuw lie wna su perior to Ins lowly job. He win taken tip by some of the best people in town and also became an executive In a little Industry there. Everybody knew liin past He was respected ami liked. That Is more. 1 believe, than New York would do. In fact no city is si cruel and embaiassirp; to re lensed convicts as Manhattaln. If ♦hey get work their employers are often told of their past. (Copyright. 4934 ) “Sort of what?" "Oh . . . Look here. Newell. My mother and father don't know his. Neither do yours." "Well, what of itV” "Gee, Newell, you're a kid. Why, when I said something about asking Haynes to our party lust month, my Dad said, ‘What, has the Tammany Haynes got a brat in your outfit?’ and my mother said—” Kit simply walked away, leaving Dickie talking to vacant air. There was no resentment, no quarrel; Dickie remained bland as ever. Hut their early intimacy cooled into u tolerance that lasted their lifetime. Kit on his side always felt that he had chosen well between the two, though he lost sight of Haynes when they left Carmichael's and he was thrown with Dickie, on and off, for many years. II. One day at recess a number of them were lounging about the schoolroom, talking. The conversation ran to fathers. “Mine’s a lawyer," said Jimmie Haynes. “Mine's a banker," said Dick Hof flngton. "He runs the Third National." “Mine’s an engineer,” contributed another, and at last some one inevi tably asked: "What’s yours, Newell?” "Why . . ." Kit actually did not know. It was most embarrassing. "That would be telling," he parried. “Ho!” said some one. "Don't you know?" “Sure I do." “Well, what?” "Is he a robber?” asked one of the smaller boys, with wide eyes. The episode ended in laughter, but that evening Kit asked his mother if his father did not have any profession. "Why, not at present, dear; he isn’t well enough." Her face, her beauti ful smooth face that he loved so much, grew thin and grave. "Is Papa sick?” “He doesn't have to stay In bed, but he's not able to work. When you were very little he had typhoid fever and nearly died, and his heart was affected. And now—now there's something new.” “What?” “Arthritis, I’m afraid.” “Pains In the Joints. I don’t want to talk much about it. You must just be as sweet to him as you can.'' “Well, didn’t he ever do any work?’’ “Yes, indeed; he was a lawyer, and a very fine one. He became a junior partner of Closson J Phillpotts when he was only twenty-eight.” A soft note of pride came Into her voice. “That was before I knew him, even. He'd have had a great career, poor Papa. Every one said there wasn't a more brilliant young corporation lawyer in New York." So Papa had a secret trial; he was not the Imperturbable Olympian he always seemed. Kit felt for him, but of course there was nothing to be said, nothing to be done about it. In school he let it be known that his father was a lawyer. . lit. Among other things, Kit Joined the Blues. Once a week he went to the Armory, put on a blue uniform and drilled with some two hundred other boys. He liked the drilling, and never had much difficulty with it. When he had been in the Blues about a year the Commander (who when not so engaged was a real live Lieutenant in the National Guard) read out a list <(f promotions, and among the corporals the name ot Newell rang out rich and clear. Kit trembled and perspired with pride. The honor was wholly unexpected. The new officers were ordered to take charge of their commands at once. In the drill all went smoothly for Kit, for every boy acted as cor poral once in a while and he had led his squad before. But \yhen the drill was over the corporals were supposed to see that their men put their rifles In the racks, ench in its assigned place, before they went to the dress ing room. And here danger lay. A sergeant pointed out to Kit that one of his squad's rifles was missing from its place, just as he thought his responsibility was ended and he was rushing off to change. His soul groaned, for he knew the rifle must belong to one Loman. a horrid little boy who shared with that unfortunite young man of Thermopylae the In ability to do anything properly. The sergeant strolled away, leav Ing Kit to act. Instantly he was seized with a sort of panicky tempta tion, a goading, terrifying thing such as he had never known. Why not say nothing about it, let Loman put his rifle away when It pleased him, or do It for him, if he left it in the dressing room? Sensible, easy . . . only it wouldn’t do. A corporal was a corporal. He was given the power to see that the right thing was done, and must use It. Swallowing hard, miserable but de termined, he hurried into the dress ing room and found Loman taking off his uniform. “Loman, did you put your rifle up?" ••No,” said Loman. glancing fur tively attheUilngbeside^hirn. "Well, put it up now." "All right, my boy, after I'm drpssed." » "No, now. Right now. Roman, do you hear? You're not supposed to go back on the floor after you've taken off your uniform." “Well, mine's off now. Want me to go out In my underclothes?” "Put it nn again.” "Well, of all the nerve! Say, who do you think—" "Go on. It's an order, Goman.” Here Goman became whiny. "Aw, say, Newell. I've gone on the floor a hundred times—” "Goman, I'll give you five, and then I'll report you to the captain. One, two, three . . Oh, the joy of seeing Daman take up the blue trousers, grumbling but conquered! Kit felt no resentment toward him, only a general contempt as for a person who never did things right. What thrilled him was the sense of power, the worthiness of a trust placed in him. Discipline was behind him. hilt he hnd acthally made discipline function. The thing gave hint Joy, a sweeter and sharper Joy than any thing or sensation had ever done; more than candy, or going to the theater, or Pollux, even, or a lovely little beadeyed brown bear he had worshiped when he was three. (To He Contlnnrd Tomorrow.) Concerts Planned at York. York, Neb., Oct. 13.—York Hym phonic orchestra is planning a series of concerts this winter. The direc tors of the orchestra and o^The Com mercial clul) are arranging to have the concerts free. Parent-Teacher National Organizer \ i^it« Atlantic Atlantic. Ia., Oct. 13.—Mr*. V. K. Howe, national organizer and lectur er for the Pa rent-Teacher association, delivered two addraasea here la.^t week. Somebody Is Always Taking the Joy Out of Life By Briggs fyeTmJr *^rw, just it' Jimmy ak'o il TViose. arc. AGNES ARE ThP VERY c0 happv* OM£S That \ JJU HA) i r ARE. .Y VO\l ftuT Think You .should KiUouj - You' 0 FE£-U 8eT"T6(5. ( ABOUT IT l h Ye£ You ha orncc akio " um.^ §£Jr*®0«m* 5u.owl ■_ B/^MELLO RUDOLPH! «MST “THE MAW l WAVJTEOX AkHTHIUG Moo WA*4T\ ApEV WMOME WCfcWp rro SEE ! VOU owe me A DEEP DEBT or GRPCTITUDE\ m0w 1 will BE GLADAaIMERC TOP a w mile 1 rot? WOT SELUWG NOuQ STOCK. VT IS Or SUCH . rT vou PsnO \ BoT I KWEW All THE USgr]ssa>&sr? Ws^tfes pSvrffiS 'v -foDfW P CMEW UP A UTTIE * ^ i*■" • • _^ | |« j 1 1 p lu p _ I , | r' I ' . | Barney Google and Spark Plug NO CLASS AT ALL. Drawn for The °”±B“,by Billy DeBeck TAKE M'f TP. barney it you RE Counting on going To Europe as a SToUJAUJAY . Vou-BE GOO GOO • 0,0 APE AO AND BOOK. PASSAGE ON SOME S6CONO CLASS SUIP . YOUU ©E ABLE To DIG up Tne Dough somedope(5k- - OF COURSE YOU WON'T havie au Tub luxury ANO QONUE NlgAS^ I OF T>HAr \ ' 7 CF M0Mey«8ur Vj I QOWM IS $190) V 1 MUST have rr: \ . . ,, . , : , . t _ ..