I, THE KING
•, By WAY LAND WELLS W'lLLIAMS.
K| | (Copyright. 3924.)
►4
(Continued from TMtcrday.)
And that gave flint another Jolt. In
two short years had life degenerated
Into a grasping after enough money
to give him a good time? The re
actions of college kicked faintly' In
Ills mind: he recognized them.'hated
them—and then hated them for not
being stronger.
III.
One morning, after vainly trying
to write about Nalrava for an hour,
he seized a piece of paper and
scrawled the following:
"When the hiatory of this post
bellum mess is written, probably the
easiest time and the finest perform
ance will be attributed to those
young people who came out of the
war without money and had to find
something to do, quick. Those fel
lows who strolled into town a year
ago, fit and cheery in their uniforms,
drank themselves into a stupor, woke
up. took the first job they could find
nnd are now seen sitting in clnh yvin
dows, pasty-faced and lined, talking
fcliout -the price of coal—they're the
ones to admire. Those girls who for
got to jazz, settled down into three
room apartments without a maid,
swore over burnt food and now meet
to exchange criticisms of maternity
hospitals—they are the heroines of
this age. Damn them all. But
, they're the happiest of us, and de
ll serve to be.
1 * "Those who mifl* money in the
war, or had it anyway, and could
pick and choose and amuse them
selves, they won't get much credit
But, God! they ^suffered, some of
them. The Idle ran suffer, first for
being Idle, second for having time
to suffer in.
' "But those that suffer most are the
ones who used to cherish the visions
of better things that we call ideals.
It's a strong man who can keep an
ideal now—and who lives that can
make one valid to the word'.’ Book
at Wilson. The front page of every
newspaper nowadays is proof that
we have none, and poison to any we
might retain. And the ideal-fed
minds are dying of starvation, or
learning to live on poison, and grow
ing fat.
"Oh, but it isn't all dead. I know
that those visions will lead men again,
and some of them, at last, will be
come facts and triumph. And no
thanks to me. The hour of need and
trial, and I idle and impotent—oh,
God! what hope is there? What re
ward?”
»--\
New York
--Day by Day—
_— -—'
By O. O. M’INTYRE.
Xew York, Dec, 3.—The other day
I visited Sing Sing prison to see a
man who once went swimming with
our gang in the old swimmin' hole.
He is In the seventh year of a life
term. Prison had already bleached
him gray.
lie seemed as devoid of red cor*
puaeles as one of those wriggly
tilings one finds under a mouldy
hoard in the"cellar. He was stoop
shouldered, hollow chested and his
I'mp liaryl had the chill of death. His
is the old story—whiskey, loose com
pinions and murder. (
Mfrw* lie was in middle years a lonely old
man—playing a desperate game
gainst loneliness and despair. He
poked with monotony at the cuff of
one sleeve and asked me of thoso
we hod known when We were boys.
1 bad been his only visitor since he
went up the river.
The conversation zigzagged from
tile creek bank*, to the hills beyond.
He was living over again the fleeting
days of youth. Not once was there
cynicism at the deadly commonplace
ness of his existence. There was only
regret that he had muffed happiness.
When I left I asked if there might
be something he wanted outside. He
shook his head but there was a long
ing in his eye. So I persisted. And he
said: "You may think it a strange
A request. But there is something I
’ would like to have—something of
w hich you would never dream.
"Back home, you remember, my
mother, sister and I lived in a little
cottage near the creek. It was the
only place of which I have happy
rrtemorics. It may not be there now
but if it Is and you ever go back
, take a picture of It and send it to
mp."
The photograph has been taken
and no doubt by now has reached
him. I ipft him with a sinister some
thing gripping me like ice. Here was
a murderer pining for only one thing
in life—an emblpm of purity.
Not once In the prison or prison
yard did I see a smile. Keepers, it
seems to me, are touched by this
drab melancholy. Souls appear to
have turned to rlinkers—dry and
ashy. Nothing stirs listlessness into
Interest. Life goes on—grim days and
grim nights.
There sre very few places left In
the White Light Zone for profession
al dancers. Those who cannot find
engagements in vaudeville are turn
ing to other work. Or going to Paris
and London where the demand is
heavy. An Sgency reports thpre are
only six dancing couples now work
ing in first class places. Three years
| ago there were more than L’OO coup
les.
There is a man in the 4f>s who is
making a living removing gin stains
from furniture. In his little shop win
riow is a placard reading: "No mat
ter how rough the party, I can re
pair the damage in a Jiffy."
Just one more little observation
about prisons—and "yam may all go
home but don't loiter in the aisles—
I believe the greatest need of men in
prison today Is a friendly faith In
their reformation. Many of them
don't go straight when released aim
ply because nobody cares.
It was revealel in a bankruptcy
petitloh of a. young high flyer that
he had left unpaid a hill for $500 to
the .press agent. He had employed
the preas agent to bruit It about he
was a "first nlghler."
A recent book Of mine was foi
some time listed among the six be't
sellers. But whatever conceit this
may have engendered was knocked
Into a cocked hat by s review in a
paper in Hcotland which said: "It Is
the sorj of hook that schieves Hie es
timable norm of being neither sub
lime or ridiculous. It might hsvc been
written hy a cab driver or a green
aiocer's clerk.”
(Copyrlsht. 1*24 I
a
IV.
The outside life went on, faster snd
more steadily than ever as he felt
the Increasing need to forget. ]n It
he followed Mary; the visit to Dim*
church marked the point where she
passed him, definitely, in ability to
use money and realize social values.
She made the plans, answered and
sent out the invitations, mapped out
the budget, chose the people and tie
elded when to go home. With It all
she kept an apparently untouched re
serve. both mental and physical: she
never seemed tired or bored or in
doubt, nnd she kept time for at least
an hour's practice every day.
She enjoyed herself, he discovered,
and ahe did so well nnd was so Intel
ligent and sane about it all that he
could not grudge her her enjoyment.
He thought she probably had an ideal
of wealth, and was enabled to realize
It better now for her youth of eno
omy and discipline. The ideal com
prised gayety, freedom, a certain
crispness of mind and urbanity;
above all urbanity. It wasn't a whol
ly bad notion: come, good friends, let
us enjoy the best there is In the world
and each other, and forget the rest.
But there was something nu»re to it.
he thought. Why Schumann every
morning, especially preceded by finger
exercises? He could not see what
they contributed to social uses; she
almost never played to people in Neyt
York and her talent seemed out of
key in their life. When he asked
her, she merely said that she loved
music, now that art could never be
the one all-important thing In any
body’s life, except for a very few, and
they were geniuses, or at least artists.
But in its plaee It was delightful.
Kit thought of the number of peo
ple they went round with in whose
lives art played no part whatever,
primary or secondary, and decided
that he had married a rather remark
able woman. She was likely to be
very unhappy, some time, when she
discovered the sort of man she had
married. Meanwhile it was just as
well that she shouldn't think about it.
V.
He would wake up somewhere be
tween nine and twelve In the mom
ing and almost always flnd himself
alone in the room. Frequently he
could hear Mary's laborious Czerny,
or phrases out of Brahms or Chopin,
filtering up from the drawing room.
She was generally out before he came
down, and he would not see her till
late in the day; in that case he would
usually find a note on the breakfast
table:
"I lunch out today, and so do you.
"Xothlng this afternoon you have
to bother about.
"Dinner here, 7:30. Dyers, Marie
Chavaux and some others. Get some
bridge cards, there's a dear. All ours
are filthy.
"Hoffingtons', music. Drummonds'
dance. Plaza. I told Elizabeth and
George Carey we'd meet them aj the
Rendezvous around two. Got a clean
shirt?—M."
He would ascend to his old bed
room, which he now used as a study,
light a pipe and sit down before bis
typewriter. In fifteen minutes he
would be at the telephone, arranging
for a, squash game in the afternoon
or making an appointment with a
lawyer or a tailor or answering a
call for Mary. One piece of tele
phonic business suggested another,
and he soon came to the conclusion
that it was so near lunch time that
he wouldn't bother about his book.
Hunch was at one of the clubs, al
most always with somebody. And
there was generally some one to talk
with afterwards till at least three.
Then h« would wander Into the
library and pick up a book or a
magazine; no burry, nothing this aft
ernoon tiut squash. And Mary's
bridge cards. And call up Cooper to
sge about his shirts.
By the time he came to, it was too
late for anything but his squash a|>
pointment. When it wasn't squash
he had to have hi« hair cut. or look
in on some damnable boring tea
party he hadn’t had the sense to get
out of. If he waited in the club till
five o'clock he was always sure to
get caught In a bridge game, and
would rush oiit of the building with
his coat tails flying, at 7:33.
Dinner was a time of relaxation:
Mary on deck; everything perfect.
Bridge, mixed bridge for small stakes,
soporific stuff. At eleven or so they
would make a general exodus to some
private party.
Whirling about with jiggling light
flappers, silent, distraites, awkward,
apparently not enjoying themselves,
lie did not enjoy them particularly,
either, but always danced with them,
for no reason that he could make
out, except that he was only twenty
five.
Often in the ballroom and Invari
ably in the coat room some of the
younger men could he observed under
the Influence. Spasm of revulsion;
wasn't good form in my day. Oh.
well, your day Is past, my hoy. Youth
will be serred. All due tn prnhihl
! tIon.
Frequent little nips, from th- host's
supply. If possible; as he wanted to
save hit flask for later. By mldniKht
a feeling of ease: by ore o'clock, one
of elation. The smell of lilies of the
i valley, jrardenlas, rosea; white arms.
inoft nur*. loud Kthioplan rhythms.
After all, this was life, of a sort—
and not surh a bad sort, either Welt,
where do we f?o next.’
Always, Invariably, a friendly nod
from the romtnlsslonnalre at the door
and another from the head waiter.
On this point he prided himself, at
leant till next morning. A nine tnble,
not too near the tnueir or the nerving
door; gin and ginger ale, poaalbl.v
champagne. If gome one wan nuftl
rtently familiar tilth the powers of
the plare.
There would be from four to eight
In their own group, and cithern would
wander o\er from other tables, after
the flrM spasm of dancing was over
There would he various familiar llg
urea representing Wall street. Klfth
avenue, Broadway and the Villag>
the moat numerous and Interesting
were the Broadway ones I,uke sil
veratetn: was he wearing his emei
aid* The Wentworth Slaters weren't
th*\ sight*? Talk, drink, dancing,
wandering off to other table*- In
trodurtlona, Kxtroardlnailly attrac
tive French woman, with hair nil o\er
ifM didn * eat< it bar mums ootut
♦ eg*, or aetreM**. or something. Amu*
ing fellow with the big lower lip
pretty raw atory ho told about the
church warden. Mary didn’t laugh.
Strange ><»uth ^Ith yellow hair; aw*
fullv Knowing look about iho no,
Onh twenty t«o, they wild and whet
didn't ho kn«»u ?
(In It** < nwttoued Townrrtm.)
THE NEBBS
THE NIGHT OF THE NIGHT.
Directed for The Omaha Bee by Sol Hess
< Copyright 1924)
/-'were: that little GutV^
! SENT ME A MARKED COPV \
/ or the Paper wan his photo \
AND "THE ACCOUNT OF UlS
SUCCESSFUL STOCK DEALS- ^E j
WAS AFRAID I WAS GOING TO/
MUFF IT _ WELL AS FAR /~To_
AS HE'S CONCERNED i r ra
DIDN’T SEE IT AT ALL fcl
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tue papers the \ i Steal .something op V
' trw OAV4 A 'S TOUR vjiCe getting A
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?°N,rr vr AN U HOO VaJOPKED VOUR
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VMOTOGRAPW _ , WAPPEN1EO 'E NOyR/->
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vrVJ-~—1—y' ^tThe paper.
/NO - Oust ASUCCESSFUL (listen. Smelt . A fi£m Might
SPECULATION —THAT'S ALL SJCCESSTUL TAKING BAIT
WELL MOO SAID THEM WERE H OFF THE HOOK A COUPLE. OF
GOING TO "TRIM" ME , WlD -/HiMES BUT FinALLM WE GETS
WELL THEM RE 'TRIMMING \-MEWOOtf- MOOD SETTER
f ME LIKE A CHRISTMAS TREE j nuC^ WHILE MOOVE GOT
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Got on me ? Hou OOn't \ OR OKJ€_ or these OamS
l NEED MOULL SE LOOKING THR<W&y
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Barney Google and Spark Plug
(Copyright. 1924. by The Bell Synd.cate. Inc )
Drawn for The Omaha Bee by Billy DeBeclc
(Copyright 1921)
■ ... ■ ■■ mtmmm ■ ■ . . — — ....I -■ . .. mm i ——■ — f li ■ i ■■ ■ ■ ■ ■
LISSEM DUKE - IKA « \ '<0_U
FACT-1 AlM'T GOT A DIME1, j A WAGER
to You WAMT TOGO / Mis is APPALLING
TaSoUSR WiT4 TAiS
race jostas a /
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Tell You what
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yours \
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'EM 0oTt4 ■= ( YouR )
Vtoui'S TdAT^J)v Worse
1924. by King Fwlum Syndtc*te Inc
BRINGING UP FATHER
Registered
U. S. Patent Office
SEE JICCS AND MAGGIE IN FULL
PAGE OF COLORS IN THE SUNDAY BEE
Drawn for The Omaha Bee by McManus
(Copyright 1924)
——---—
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Drawn for The Omaha Bee by Hoban
(Copyright 1924)
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ABIE THE AGENT Drawn for The Omaha Bee by Hershfielc
5omt "Muff" Th**f Pajs.
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