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
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DlxlPfVjlilVJ Ul frtinLIV U. S. P.t.nt OHIe. fAGE OF COLORS IN THE SUNDAY BEE (Copyright 1924)
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JERRY ON THE JOB WHAT ELSE BUT? Drawn for The Omaha Bee by Hoban
((.onTr’rnt 1?.4)
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ABIE THE AGENT Drawn for The Omaha Bee by Hershfielc
And a Good Time Was Had By AU.
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