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w B' chi'“° ILLUSTRATED FEATURE SECTION— December 17, 1932. CLUE bib7on K
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WHAT HAS HAPPENED: This is the
story of Ellen Young, pretty 18-year
-old girl with a great deal of ambition.
Born in the poverty-stricken envi
ronment of Cream Ridge, she decides
upon a career for herself rather than
marriage*1 or the ordinary life of
drudgery. She finds a job in a small
tea-room to pay the cost of a course
in stenography. In the tea-room she
meets and comes to like Jerry Wilson,
the only waiter, who plans some day
to open a similar shop of his own.
Jerry asks Ellen to join him in the
projected venture, first as his cook
and later as his wife. But Ellen,
grown tired of working In the kitch
en all her life, accepts instead a job
with Harold Stern, a young nublicity
man and politician who has come in
to her home town for a short time
on a publicity mission.
Now go on with the story:
CHAPTER II.
Harold Stern proved genia.
enough as an employer, and al
though Ellen at first resented the
little familiarities in which he
chose at times to indulge, she fi-j
nally came to take them quite as
a matter of course. And in spite
of the aversion which he had at
first inspired in her. she found
herself now, as she continued to
work for and with him, strangely
fascinated, swept off her feet.
He was intelligent, quiet, suave,
successful. For many years he
had been a theatrical press agent;
that was still his principal occupa
tion. But now that the theatrical
business was at such a low ebb,
he had accepted this political job
'until things picked up. It would
last, probably, only until after the
.election in November, but it paid
him well in the meantime. That
was what Ellen liked about him:
he could get the soft-snap jobs,
jobs which paid big profits on
small investments of time and
energy. She compared him to
other men she had known—hard
working, poorly dressed chaps like
Jerry Wilson—and the comparison
was inevitably in his favor. Oh,
he had it all over them!
Their work progressed beautiful
ly . There was not much to it
after all—only a 'few dozen letters
to be sent out each day, a couple
of speeches to be given during the
weeks that immediately preceded
the election. Ellen was particularly
impressed by the speeches which
she typed; she admired Harold
Stern for his intelligence, his use
of words, his splendid command of
the English language. She was sor
ry when election day drew near,
for she felt that it would mean the
end of her association with the
man who had given her her first
real break. And although she was
happy when their candidate did
win the election, she could not sup
press her afixiety over what the
future held In store.
The morning after the election
returns had all come in, she went
to the office as usual, though with
some misgivings. Stern came in
late; he looked tired and had evi
dently been drinking the night be
fore.
'Well,' she asked him, cheerily
enough, “what are we supposed to
do now?”
He grinned at her. “Baby,” he
said, “we’re moving. We’re going
back to little old New York. Earl
Tracey’s decided to put on a new
show up there, and I’m gonna
press-agent it.”
“We?” Hope sprang to Ellen's
heart.
“Sure, we. You're my secretary,
aren’t you?”
“Oh. of course.” Ellen experienc
ed the joy of elation. “Gee, won't
that be great.”
He looked at her in wonderment.
“Never been to New York?” he
asked.
“No.” she told him. “Never. But
I’d like to go. I've heard so much
about it and all . . . ”
“Then run along home and get
packed up. We’re leaving this
afternoon—the 2:26, so we’ll be
there by night. I've got to drop
in and see Earl around nine.”
“Go right now?”
“Yep, and make it snappy. I’ll
get.your ticket. Here’s your check;
for last week. Now heat it.
“I’ll bet she could do the part better than you are doing it now.”
There'll be a lot of men in here
soon to cart this stuff away.”
“Yes, Mr. Stern."
She drew on her coat and hur
ried through the door, then half
ran to her little home.
Having joyously informed her
mother and father of the good
news, she proceeded briskly to
throw the few good clothes which
she possessed into a thin paste
board suitcase. Her face was lit
with bright anticipation. “Gee,
mom,” she said to the sick woman
who lay on a couch fh the front
bedroom, “won’t it be simply
grand!”
Her mother smiled faintly. “Just
be careful, Ellen. Watch your
step. There’s lots of pitfalls in a
big city like New York for a young
girl like you. Especially when she’s
as pretty as you are.”
“Oh, mother,” she cried. “Don’t
worry about me. I’ll be all right.
I'll write you long letters and tell
you everything that's happened.
And I’ll be making lots of money—
enough to pay all your doctor’s
bills, and more besides.”
“You’re going right away, Ellen?”
“Yep. Gotta hurry. I want to
run over and tell Jerry about my
good luck, tell him goodbye.”
She kissed her mother and flung
herself downstairs and out the
front door. Suitcase in hand, she
made her way quickly to the little
tea-shop in which she had worked
so long, side by side, with Jerry
Wilson.
She found him there, seated be
hind the counter reading a maga
zine. Breathlessly, she told him:
“I'm going to New York. Jerry!”
He started. He said, “Who're
you going with?”
"With Harold Stern. I’m his
stenographer.”
“Oh, Ellen—” His voice seemed
to hold vast disappointment in her.
“You aren't sorry?”
“I AM sorry,” he reversed her.
“Gee whiz, to think of your run
ning off with a no-good guy like
that—”
But there s nothing wrong with
Harold. Jerry.” she insisted. Then
realization came to her. “I know,”
she went on, “you're just jealous,
that's all. Jealous of Harold.”
"Maybe I am.” he admitted. “But
after all. haven’t I a right to be?
Stern isn’t anything but a cheap
publicity man; he doesn't deserve
to have a decent girl like you
around him.”
“But you've got to remember,
Jerry, I'm just his stenographer.
I'm only working for him. There's
nothing wrong in that, is there?
And can't you see, Jerry, it’s my
waited for all my life. I couldn't
let it slip through my fingers.”
Jerry forced a slight smile. “I
see,” he gulped. “I guess maybe
you’re right. Well, anyway, I sure
hope you're a great success when
you get to New York. And I know
you will be. You'd be a success
anywhere; you’ve got the stuff in
you.”
“Oh, Jerry-” She threw her
arms suddenly about him, kissing
him briefly on the forehead. “Good
bye, Jerry,” she said softly.
“Goodbye, Ellen-”
She turned, gathered up her
things quickly, and hurried away,
leaving him sitting there, vastly
confused, amazed.
♦ * *
New York was a revelation to
Ellen Young. Never before had
she seen anything like it. In glow
ing terms she described it in the
long letters which she wrote each
night to her mother, telling of the
awe-inspiring splendor of its sky
line, the beauty of its waterfront,
the magnificence of its towering
buildings. Her tiny apartment in
the heart of Harlem was a palace
to her in comparison with the
dingy little Cream Ridge shack in
which she had lived all her life.
The parks, the buildings, the
streets, the subways, the theatres,
all were a constant source of in
terest to her. How beautiful, how
wonderful life was here!
Harold Stern located himself in
a somewhat more elaborate apart
ment hardly a block from hers
The night after they had gotten
settled, he called for her in his
car. “We've got to get to work.”
he told her. “Tracey’s got that
show rounding up already, and he
wants some snappy advance notices
in the papers about it. We’ll go
over to his apartment first and see
what we can pick up. Bring a pen
cil and some paper with you.”
“All right,” she agreed. “You
go ahead. I'll be down in a min
ute.”
She changed her clothes quickly,
grabbed a stenographer’s notebook
and pencil, and hurried down to
join him. The car astounded her;
she had never before seen one so
beautiful, so handsomely appoint
ed before, except at a distance.
‘They wouldn't let me bring it
down to the Ridge with me,” he
explained. “Said it looked too
prosperous and would mane all ..ie
people down there turn against me
I guess they were right, at at."
“It's simply swell,” Ellen sighed,
leaning back on its luxurious up
holstery. They sped through the
streets of Harlem, past row ’ter
endless row of almost identical
brown-fronted houses. Then Lenox
Avenue, a turn to right, and they
were there.
Earl Tracey’s apartment was one
of the most elaborate establish
ments which Ellen had ever visited.
The lights were soft and shaded,
the carpets deep, the walls hung
with beautiful tapestries. A fire
place with its blazing log i >ade
the first room cozy; further back
a radio furnished music.
There was a brief wait before
Tracey himself put in his appear
ance . Ellen sat on a deep-cush
ioned sofa with Stern and talked
in a low undertone about nothing
at all. When Tracey at last came
in she saw a small, thin, very nerv
ous man in a long dressing gown;
a very dark complected man, but a
rather handsome one.
“Oh, hello there, Stern,” he
said as he entered the room. “Glad
to see you back.” Then he turn
ed to Ellen. “Your stenographer?”
Stern gripped his hand. “Yeah,
brught her back with me.”
“I get you.” There was a brief
hint of a sidewise smile on Tracey’s
face which Ellen could not under
stand. However, as it was obviously
intended for Stern, she did not let
it bother her. “What’s your name?”
he asked.
“Young. Ellen Young.”
He nodded briefly. “All right,’
he said, “come on back here and
let's get to work.”
They went into the rear room
Tracey switched off the radio, then
began talking rapidly to Stern about
the projected shov;. Prom time to
time, Stern would turn and snap
a few phrases at Ellen, which she
would dutifully record in her note
book. it was long past midnight
when they were through. Stern
took Ellen home in his car.
The following morning their
work began in earnest. There
were newspaper stories to be got
ten out and mailed—dozens of
them. There were feature stories
about each of the stars who were
to take _part in the elaberate pro
duction, shorter items concerning
the chorus girls and lesser princi
pals. There were advertising con
tracts to be let. programs to be or
dered, circulars to be distributed.
It was all very new and interest
ing and fascinating to Ellen, and
though it was hard work, she re
veled in it.
Tracey was whipping the show
into shape very quickly for an
early -opening, so ail of the pre
liminary work had to be rushed.!
Often Ellen worked with Harold
Stern in his apartment until early;
in the morning, taking down items
as fast as he could dictate them,
suggesting new slants out of which
---- v*'
he could fashion stories. With un<^ •
tiring energy she attacked th»
great mass of work, and long be
fore the time of the final rehearsal
Tracey’s show, which he had nam-,
ed “Dark Harlem,” had received
an extraordinary amount of pub-1
licity.
Only the final dress rehearsal
now remained before the whole
show would be loaded up and sent
to Washington for a try-out week.
If it proved a success there, they
all knew it was due for a long,'
Ung run in Harlem, or even on
Broadway.
i!iiien attended the dress rehears-*
al as part of her job. Any little'
incident which happened now
would be news, and Stern’s busi
ness was to get the news into the
papers. They sat together in the
front of a chilly, deserted theatre
while Tracey ran the performance
from a point of ’vantage in the
orchestra pit. Often things dis
pleased Tracey, and when that
happened his nervous temperament
would flare up; he would call for
a repetition of the scene which had
displease 1 him. The night dragged
on as number after number was
gone over, pepped up, slowed down,
or cut out altogether. The orches
tra grew weary with the constant
rej ..lion; most of those who had
merely dropped into the theatre
to watch the rehearsal left their
seats and went home. Still Harold
Stem remained, picking up bits of
interesting information here and
there, dictating them to F’len for
future reference.
At two o’clock in the morning
the whole performance definitely^
struck a snag. Tracey was work-,
ing on a garden scene, one which
featured a very beautiful young’
girl in a charming duet with on?'
. of the male principals. Th<
I trouble was with the girl. She wat
tired and sulky, and Tracey’s con-:
j slant fault-finding only served to
sharpen her temper.
“Good Lord!” the producer shot
I at her after the fifth try, “What’a
I so hard about that number, any
:way? Why, I could pick a girl up
lout of the streets who’d do it bet-’,
Iter than you without half trying.1
Why don't you stop acting and'
just be natural? That’s all there
is to it.”
The girl tried again, with even
worse results. Tracey tore at his
hair. He looked around him.
“Look,” he cried, "I could get that
girl back there, with nev:r a day
of stage experience, and put her in'
there—and I’ll bet she’d do tho|
part better than you’re doing''it*
now.”
Ellen smiled at the reference to
herself. She was growing tired of
this scene now—she had seen it so
many time she knew it almost
by heart.
But Tracey was serious. He turn
ed suddenly and beckoned to her.
“Come up here a minute,” ho
called.
She hesitated.
Stern nudged her. “Go ahead.
He means you,” he prodded.
Ellen arose and with pad and
pencil in hand walked down tho
aisle toward the stage. Tracey mo
tioned her to go up onto it. She
did. The lights, pouring down up
on her, blinded her for a moment, •
then she found herself in the midst
of the garden scene which had
caused so much trouble.
“Miss Young,” Tracey explained.
“You’ve seen what I’ve been trying
to do all this time. I want you to
step in there ani take the girl’s
place just long enough to show
Enid here how it should be done.1
Don’t try to act. Just be natural.1
And hum your part of the song
if you don t know the words.”
Ellen was nervous, she trembled;
all over. She dropped the pad
and pencil to the floor, then col-,
lected herself Snd started to do as’
she had been told. Enid LaPrance,!
the original girl, stood off to th^'
side, her temper slowly arising af>
the proceedings. J
The orchestra started, and th0f
words of the duet came dimly backj
to Ellen. The action she did n«