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About The Omaha morning bee. (Omaha [Neb.]) 1922-1927 | View Entire Issue (Oct. 28, 1924)
12 L THE KING By WAYLAND WELLS WILLIAMS. (Copyright. 1114.) _■ - -_ J I (Continued from T*»t«rd«y ) When he nest waked Masson it waa light. Masson did not aeem to notice the empty bow. Neither mentioned it. Dawn deepened Into day. gray and merciless. The se% was still high, but the gale was tailing. Occasionally a ray of sunlight would pierce the • ■louds and Inflame a speck of roving w?ter with gold. Every few hours i ante a spurt of rain. No sail, no steam, no land, however often they stood up and looked; nothing but sky and sea. By noon it became unneces sary to head the boat any longer, and they let her drift, half hoping she would capsize In each trough. She never did. The two sat at opponite cuds of the boat. Kit generally lean ing against the bow seat staring at Masson; Masson sitting in the stern with his hand on the tiller, staring from under his heavy brows at the horizon. Kit gave some sporadic attention to Masson. He was a coarse, sullen, stupid type, neither attractive nor distinguished in any way. Kit had noticed him on the cruiser, and dis liked hi* manner. And yet now he was behaving well. Probably he was one of that race whom prosperity makes idle and predatory, but the pinch of need or the prick of danger renders respectable, even strong. On the Nashtia, doubtless, there was no dirt he would he unwilling to do an officer. If he could safely; but here Kit trusted him. It never occurred to him las it did afterward) that he had perhaps assisted Jor.cs overboard. The' said very little. The empty .sea said it all. They presently stepped an oar in the engine and tied Kit's undershirt to It. as a signal. There was no one. there would be no one. to notice a fleck of permanent white arnld the awarnt of changing ones, but it was a thing to be dpne. One thing. Just one. waa in their favor: they had water. It waa the rainy' season, and they could catch all the water they needed to drink daily—all they absolutely needed. But what did that mean? Only delay. Was a month or six weeks of this better than a few days? Yes—thirst was the worst torture. They were spared that. The day died In a sunset of need less and cruel splendor. The first cycle of twenty-four hours waa com pleted: how many more? Oh. Cod. how many? Night, vast and somber. bleep, merciful, relieving, though broken by dreams, showers and sudden wakings. Dawn, blatantly and brutally cheer t ul. . The sea was quite calm now. only ruffled by a steady southeast trade. Kit who never In his life had gone without hi? three square meals a day, began to grow light-headed; by after noon he was afraid of what he might ------\ New York ••Day by Day— By O. O. MTNTYRK. Sew York, Oct. 27.—Most all so ciety reporters in New York are men. Some write under feminine pseudo nyms and a few write fo* more than one paper. Thus Cholly Knicker bocker of a morning paper was the Dolly Madison of an afternoon sheet until it was scrapped. In Manhattan they are the highest paid of all special writers and they must be on easy footing with the thousand or more who make up the Four Hundred. Consequently most society reporters come from aristo cratic families. One is the son of a woman who was high In the councils of Mrs. Alva Willing Astor before she left Ameri can society to crash into the big set in London. Since then she has cap tured a lord and Is to marry a daugh ter off to a prince. This reporter is a guest at all big functions here and at Newport. Due to his position he Is not expected to entertain. He tells me no young man can hold up his part in society on an income less than $50,000 a 5ear. His salary is $16,000. Also he told me he did not know » young man in society who was not at heart a super snob. All feel su perior to ordinary folk. He does not blame them. He blames their early training, which is inflexible among old Knickerbocker families in cleav ing to class distinction. Tlie reporters for those weekly papers that purvey the. salacious gossip and rattle the skeletons are skillful In disguising ttielr identity. There is little question that several of them are actually members of so i clety. t They reveal incidents that could not he relayed by servants or back stairs whisperings. Peculiarly, these weeklies have nearly all of the circu lation among society folk. They are bought by serv ants and carried to the boudoirs. The good fellowship of Broadway pays n<> dividends. The best the good fellow gels In adversity is a pat on the back and a "he was a good fel low when he had it." The former manager of John L. Sullivan was one of the Broadway spenders In the old days. His nickname was "Free and I Cosy." He died with a collection of TOTJ'S representing $200,000. He loaned It when he had it, but when lie needed It the IOU’S proved Just so much trash. Most of the talk of the good sportsmanship of "sports’’ is unvarnished bunk. I think Broadway’s greatest en conlum Is to call one a "tightwad.” That means he doesn't fall for the gentle guile of the biggest bunch of cadgers ever collected on one street. There is a prominent Broad waylte who admits he has been din ing out every night for eight years and not * once in that time has he ever paid a check. He believes this to he about the cleverest thing In the world. Joel, whose cafe bearing his name hack of the Metropolitan, is to rr tire soon. Joel at night serves fri jole colorados and hot tamales to his patrons and by day he writes ponder o’us tomes on the polygeneric theory. For many years he has been the hanker for theatrical troupers. They send their earnings to him and he puts It away in the safe so that when summer comes they will not have to worry. Carlo Fornaro. they carica turist, is a nightly viiltor and there Is a sprinkling of artist* and writer* who go there for that indefinable thing known as "atmosphere.” Joel has amassed a fair staed fortune and is now anxious to retire to a coun try place and take up the business *r wilting more seriously. d'opjrlsht. Its*) say if he spoke, so shut up complete ly. He would half forget and think about other tilings—direct fire con trol, Jack, or where the petrels nest ed; but the fear and fever were al ways near, always ready to burst into the full sting of conscoiusness. j Slow torture, acute In nothing, un bearable in everything. He ,was not suffering in body. He was 'not con sumed by anger, or by remorse, or even the fear of death, though he shuddered as he thought of what Jones had done. The bad part of it was the constant wondering what it would be like a week, two, three weeks hence. . . . The third night was rainy, and whenever he woke up Kit drank voluptuously from the cask. The next day saw the end of the chocolate; Masson ate his last hit without com ment. Only four ship's biscuits and a few scraps remained now. Kit won dered if Masson would kill him to get his share. As he lay down under the rowers' thwarts on the fourth evening he felt feverish as in the early stages of grippe. He was unable to go to sleep, and could not forget his aching head, his yawning stomach, the floor slats eating into his flesh. Scraps of con versation, scenes out of the past, phrases from books vibrated in his brain. Captain Roth's dull red face and dead blue eyes: "As good—that's good; as good, that's good”—intoler able. A sudden scream of laughter he had once heard in a theater; he had at first thought it was a scream of terror, and hart visions of a panic. Jack, sprawling on the window seat, swinging one leg and twirling a cur tain cord; "New Kittle, Nit Kewell, Kew Tinnel, Tin Wekell, Tew Nikell . . .” Oh. Jack! All at once he burned and ached to do what he had never done or wanted (o do; hug Jack in his arms,'- and kiss him. If only Jack were here it would he so easy; they would Joke till the last minute and then drink death hand in hand. What was that thing Jack had said once?— Oh, yes, Matthew Arnold: Creep Into the narrow bed, Creep, and let no more be said— Ah. that was it. sweet and sensible, like Jack. And then Charge once more, then, and be dumb! Let the victors, when they come, When the forts of folly fall— Oh, his body would be by tlie wall. He would never do what Jones did— (God. never lot him do what Jones did)—he would dry up on tile bottom of the boat and the sou birds would peck out his eyes. Those are pearls that were ’"s eyes . . . He listened to the water slapping gently on the dory’s sides as she swung up and down the swells. The motion was rhythmical, like a song, a sort of cradle song. Poor lit11« Kit Newell, asleep on the waves, go ing to die, going to die so soon. Poor little Kit Newell, wanted to live, go ing to die, going to die so— He woke with a start, feeling rain on his face. He got up and fumbled round in the dark; drank a little from the bailing tin ami arranged his coat over the hole in the water cask. The rain rang on the swells; the wind was light, but steady; where from? Southeast, most likely. What Jlnie? Couldn’t see Masson's watch: no mat* ter. Masson was asleep. Was Mas son going through all this, too? God, how much longer? How many nights, how many days? He lay down again in the rain, stripped to the waist. The mill stopped, ami one star came out and blinked at him. It wasn't so bad now; he didn't know why. bur it wasn't so had. ije closed his eyes. When the forts of folly fail. Oh. merciful Jesus, make it short. Christ, who loved ail men. in the nnmn of that love look down and Intervene! Death, yes; life, yes: not only this, not this. Not—madness. The An cient Mariner—The Nightmare Life In-Death was she—God. not that! He had killed no living thing, hated no living thing—not that! Christ woftld be merciful. Christ loved him, as He loved all men, and would not forget. Tears sprang from his eyes and ran. ran and ran down his cheeks, warm. He didn't care. The narrow bed. The forts of folly. Oh, Jack, we never thought of this . . . CHAPTER VI. I. When he woke the dawn was yfT low in front of him, and to the left of the dawn, low and black and un mistakable. was land. There was no question of its being a cloud; not for a moment did he think it was a cloud. He stood m . rubbed his eyes and felt his heart sing in him. “Masson!" lie cried, stooping over and pulling the sal lei .-■ leg. "Wake up! Land in slglil! Land'' He put on his blouse, buttoning it with fumbling fingers, and sank down. "The forts of folly have fallen!" he said with a gasp of laughter. "Huh?" said Masson, cranking. After many attempts the engine Whirred off, and its voice was the voice of sweetness and safety. And now they were glad they had saved their gasoline, for they w»ere two or tflree miles off shore and in their weakened condition it would have been hard to row that distance. Kit turned about on the front rower’s thwart, feasting his eyes on the tin apeakablc sight. The sun came up, flooding tho world with pale clean gold, revealing the green of the ragged line of palms, the white of the beaches below them, the tumbling white of the reef below thnt. What It meant! “My God, I’m happy!’' his mirul ( Abe Martin A feller kin scheme around an’ git out o’ goin’ t’ war, but he can’t sidestep th’ terrible seven or eight years follerin’ one. llaint it awful t’ excitedly rip open a special de livery letter only t’ find that our insurance lapses in a few days? (Copyright, H24.) proclaimed. ‘ Whatever happens later. I’ve known It. I've been happy once. He saw a break in the land, with a break in the surf nearly In front of It, and told Masson to make for that. "IBooks like an island,” said Masson—his tlrst purely conversation al venture since he had entered the dory. ••Yes," said Kit. “Well, it means we shan't starve, anyway. We may be eaten, of course.” It whs delightful to say something at once disagreeable and untrue. The break In the surf was broad and safe; they passed through it and the strait and entered what Kit knew must be a lagoon. The land on the right was longer and higher than that on the left, and he directed Mas son toward it. By straining his eyes he presently made out some brown roofs gathered into a village. Nearer they ^ped. the put putting of the motor ringing harshly over the quiet water. He could see figures on the beach, knee-deep in the water; also a short white line jutting out, evi dently a small pier. The last two hundred yards were the longest of all. He scanned the faces and figures; every one of them were l.rown. Few were more than half clothed. “'Shut her off." he said, end the dory glided U|> to ‘>'0 m,le pier. He Jumped out. A brown tiguie took the painter from his hand and bent to make it fast. With Masson close behind him he walked slowly up l the pier end stood on the beach far. ine the crowd, all lauphinp, all ey. cited, .ill Jabbering In Jerks "Welt, tnv pood people.” hr- OIid, doffing * hat with a wave. ••»'• re here ” (T« Be ronfinued Tomorrow.! Ree Want Ada produce results THE NEBBS FLAMING YOUTH. Directed for The Omaha Bee by Sol Hew (Copyright 1924) P/wELL, TANnW. I WfVO ToX /VsJHKT hr GET SOME KiEvsJ CLOTHES -\fF^£7JpcS??5 *** ’ - 4MAW iMMV POS\TVONJ )i — LOLLVPOPS . I MOST LOOK PROSPEROUS / AVERY VOUTM^OU ^ _ lm OUST A B'6 ) OUTrIT- NOURTkCE ____^vv,THPa'& ALL J \ LOOKS UKE IT WAS — \ PEEP'KJO O0T of/ /A.98 _ _ •-----' .RAH RAW RAW-HP BOOMBAH) IJCHILOlSH — AW- W-H - -TURW MOOR PACE AROUWD 5 _>t l.OOV<& LIRE. SOMEBODY) GRAFTED A CEWToRV | PLAWT OKJ A MORMWsUa J ^ GLORV V/IN4E > /TOU VE GOT TO STOP COMVNIG HOME -/ me lwgm — SOME B^O MEVWS TO TELL VOU BUT I CXM'T \ WI ^Xi-r \X/U!>J VM L^OSUIKIG - GO SP|( °AMO T<Sc THOSE CLOTHES OTE BEFOREJ ^lll >--T^r-7 dUHvOtR COMES 1NJ AMO / t ) 1 ( tminJVCS WES GOT (X LVTTLC J Barney Google and Spark Plug THIS WILL RAISE BARNEY’S SPIRITS. Dr.wn for The OmfH« by Billy P«B«ck / ON IX TWBLNB Ml UBS ;Al- iM 1VI® \ / ouT M. what a Bunch of s schooner =Dive down J » <v I SAPS WE ARE - WEU. NEVER EE ,p You CA>J CAtcH A J -v*A \ get to Europe Rolling duple of fish for, / on this log— Owner / AA V nnw/NiMri w tn w a >pt im R«gi.t.r«i see jiggs and maggie in full Drawn for The Omaha Bee by McManus Ur JT A 1 rlLl\ U. S. P.Unt OHIc* PAGE OF COLORS IN THE SUNDAY BEE (Copyright 1*24) JERRY ON THE JOB A DESERVED SMACK. ' Drawn for Th« Onrnh. B«« by Hob.n OUC: HE ASK. warren 'R'jSB'Y ^to' A ^A\SE / AND HE GET VMS51J- j ( SLACKED A34\N *J gjl — -' "/zo^S / . / , A \ «. . r Si-... Ik «*•■! »» ■ ..K_Pj-.^.. W..t»y.o 1 When a Feller Need* a Friend By'Briggs -------V / H6B6- - Take Those- long Pamts i / RIGHT OFF- - YoU'LC HAMC Tb voEAR ' I These old short okjes ©m uicek ! days ua>t(l they arc worm oot - They're: PlentyT Goot> eroouGH To / ^ pi. ay »n* ABIE THE AGENT Drawn for The Omaha Bee by Hershfield Ilf Mas Iliimrlf to Itlainr. J'ue <jC[r TO REAR >ou rear »t T THE REPORT ABOUT HEAR IY QUIET AnC ABE KABl BBV.ES HOw So YOU CAN NEQUU^HT HANDLING HARRLY HEAR IT « OR THE APPAIR, J ITS NO USE IN ^iast^spr ft
