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
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PLAWT OKJ A MORMWsUa J ^
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B^O MEVWS TO TELL VOU BUT I CXM'T \
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SP|( °AMO T<Sc THOSE CLOTHES OTE BEFOREJ
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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® \
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on this log— Owner /
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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
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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 /
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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
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