Decatur Daily Democrat, Volume 28, Number 136, Decatur, Adams County, 9 June 1930 — Page 3

"EXTRA! EXTRA!"

ROM the street below came that most terrifying of ■ sounds, the fullchested roar of two men shouting. “Eiifa! Extra!” through the Wktra! Extra!” Mr. Whidden, reading his paper, wondered what tfct®trvuble was. He could nothing from the oniinthat assailed his ears, men might have been Russians for all of SKwßnt there was an ominous Smo their voices—the waruQ dark calamity—the grim of wars, plagues, balSHusts. *t®jere do they get those voices like that, and they do between exhe thought mStb- Whidden emerg'd from whither she had to bathe the supperan extra out, Ray,’’ I hear,” said her hus MOB w!>o was not above an OcSon d facetious sally. ;S|>e walked over to the winjew.fopened it, and thrust her iMSout into the rain. In the Itrekt. five stories below, she CWllfsee the two news-vender-. ■Hrtra ! Extra!” Mis Whidden turned from must have hap •;SbHb ” There was an overtone of in her remark that recognized only jjjil's suggested unwelcome on Mr. Whidden’s part. that she would come out and say. "(Io downand get the paper.” but did. She always pre her commands with ■Mos whining insinuations. Btiwonder what it was?” she “ lou ßh expecting her SHrod to know. f*Oh, nothing, I guess. Those Mtns never amount to anyMrs Whidden turned again Kw window. '.®>mething awful must have happened,” she observed, and flKcounterpoint of complaint BKlven more pronounced. gßf. Whidden shifted uneasily chair—the one comfortah&thair in the flat—the chair Which he himself had bought for hisßbwn occupancy and about MMp there had been so much ■Hfpient. lie knew what was VMUpg; he didn’t want to move, 4nd Lwalk down and up four flight of stairs for the sake of wane information that would noiJdTtct his life in the remotest Sbon’t you intend to find asked Mrs. Whidden, and it Bas evident that she had reached the snappy stage. Iler ■■and knew that, if he didn’t go flown and buy that paper, be wotUd provide fuel for an irritation that would burn well into the night Nevertheless, that chair was so comfortable, and thtf weather was so disagreeable, and the stairs were such a di»b! . . . guess I won’t go down, Emm\. Those extras are always hkes.' anyway, and, besides, if it ia anything important, we’ll find •ut about it in the morning paper.” • ;The roars of the men shouting “Extra! Extra!” reverber tied through the street, beating With determined violence against th«|'sheer walls of the walk-up apiftment - houses, shuddering through the open window of the Whiddens’ living-room, jarring th® fringed shade of the readthe souvenirs on the ■Slk-Bhelves, the tasseled portieres that led into the little gaou’re just lazy, Roy Whidden,” said Mrs. Whidden. “You nti there reading your paper — Right after night — night after night.” She turned as though to an invisible jury, to whom she was addressing a fervent plea for recognition of her prolonged martyrdom. Then, with ill the dramatic suddenness of wexperienced prosecutor, she mapped at the defendant: “What do you read, anyway? MMwer me that! What do you MM?”

“So you left me for a fog-horn! Well, what z j are you bumming around here for now? I , F advise you to make yourself scarce before A he gets home!” *_ K J —- & A#* JfcM tSo OHigL jWIB ■> ’Kf I Ini w 1 tp /Hj U'w u J Ud JF? SEE 111 IL < 4|lrwtS“w » L ■■ ’- J - ? ’I i fTM v'-'jl t! i ’'l I in - w p » : 4 I ' fl/ j • 8 ifwi 1 K-W iiWnOM 1! 11 M ( As

Mr. Whidden knew that the question was purely rhetorical. No answer was expected. "You don’t read a thing. You just sit there and stare at that fool paper —probably the death-notices. When anything important happens, you don’t even care enough b> step out into the street and see what it is.” “How do you know it's important?” Mr. Whidden inquired, being inclined, albeit unwisely, to display a little spirit. . . "How do you know it isn tr Mrs. Whidden back-fired. "How will you ever know anything unless vou take the trouble to find Mr. Whidden uncrossed his legs and then crossed them again. “I suppose you expect me to go down and get that paper, cried Mrs. Whidden, whose voice was now rivaling the news-ven-ders’. “With all I’ve got to d<> —the dishes, and the baby’s ten o’clock feeding, and ... all right! I’ll go! I'll walk down the four flights of stairs and get the paper, so that your majesty

DECATUR DAILY DEMOCRAT MONDAY, JUNE 9, 1930.

won’t have to trouble yourself.” There was a fine sarcasm in her tone now. MR. WHIDDEN knew that it was the end. For seven years this exact scene had been repeating itself over and over again. If there had only been some slight variation in his wife’s technic . . - but there never had. At first, he had tried to be frightfully snorting about it, assuming the blame at the first hint of trouble and doing whatever was demanded of him with all possible grace; but that pose, and it had not been long before he admitted . that it was a pose, was worn away by a process of erosion, a process that had kept up for seven years —rseven years of writing things in ledgers in an . airless office on J)ey Street; seven years of listening to those i endless scoldings and complaints at home. Whatever of gallantry had existed in Mr. Whidden’s soul had crumbled before the persistent and ever-increasing waves of temper. He knew that

now, if he gave in, he did so because of cowardice and not because of any worthily chivalrous motives. He threw his paper down, stood up, and walked into the bedroom to get his coat Little Conrad was asleep in there, lying on his stomach, his face pressed against the bars of the crib. Over the crib hung a colored photograph of the Taj Mahal, a lovely, white building that Mr. Whidden had always wanted to see. He also wanted to see Singapore, and the Straits Settlements, and the west coast of Africa, places that he had read about in books. He was thinking about these places, and wondering whether little Conrad would ever sec them, when his wife’s voice rasped at him from the next room. "Are you going or will I have to go?” “I’m going, dear,” he assured her, in the manner of one who is tired. “Well, hurry! Those men are a block away by now.” Mr. Whidden put on his coat,

looked at little Conrad and at the Taj Mahal, and then started down the stairs. There were four flights of them, and it was raining hard outside. TWELVE years later Mrs. Whidden (now Mrs. Burchall) sat sewing on the front porch of a pleasant house in a respectable suburb. It was a brilliantly sunny day, and the hydrangeas were just starting to burst out into profuse bloom on the bushes at either side of the steps. “And do you mean to tell me you never heard from him?” asked Mrs. Lent, who was also sewing. “Not a word,” replied Mrs. Burchall, without rancor. “Net one word in twelve years, lie used to send money sometimes to the bank, but they’d never tell me where it came from.” “I guess you ain’t sorry he went. Fred Burehall’s a good man.” “You’d think he was a good man all right if you could’ve seen what I had before. My joodnesa! When I think of the

By— — ROBERT E. SHERWOOD

seven years I wasted being Roy t Whidden’s wife!” Mrs. Burchall heaved a pro-1 found sigh. “Ain’t you ever sort of afraid ■ he might show up?” asked Mrs. Lent. “Not him. And if he did,' what of it? Fred could kick I him out with one hand tied be- : hind his back. Fred Burehall’s a real man." She sewed in silence for a while. “Os course, I am a little worried about Conrad. He thinks his father’s dead. You see, we wanted to spare him from know ing about the divorce and all that. We couldn’t have the boy starting out in life with his father's disgrace on his shoulders.” Shortly thereafter Mrs. Lent went on her way and Mrs. Burchall stepped into the house to see whether the maid was doing anything constructive. She found her son Conrad curled up in a chair, reading some book. “T’oti sitting in the house reading on a fine day like this! Go on out into tha fresh air and shake your limbs.” “But, mother —” “Go on out, I tell you. Can’t you try to be a real boy for a change?” “But this book’s exciting.” “I'll bet Anything in print is better than fresh air and out door exercise, I suppose. You're just like your —can't you ever stop reading for one instant ? I declare! One of these days you’ll turn into a book. . . . Now you set that book down and go out of this house this instant.”

CONRAD went out to the front yard and started. I with no enthusiasm, to 'bounce an old golf-ball up and down upon the concrete walk That led from the front porch to the gate. He was thus engiged I when a strange man apj>cared in the street, stopping before the jgate to look for the number which wasn’t there. “Hey. sonny, is thia Mrs. Burehall’s house?” “Yes,” said the boy, “it is. Want to see her?” The man was short, slight, and none too formidable-look-ing; although he was obviously a representative of the lower classes—possibly a tramp —Conrad was not in the least afraid of him. He had a rather friendly expression, a peaceful expression, as though be bore ill-will to no one. “What's your name?” the man inquired. “My name’s Conrad—Conrad< > Whidden.” Conrad wondered why the i man stared at him so. ! “I used to know your mother,” i the man explained, “before I went to sea.” “Ob, you’re a sailor!” Conrad was obviously impressed, i “Where’ve you been ?’’ “Oh, all over. I just came from Marseilles.” “Gosh,” said Conrad “I’d like to go there. I’ve been read- • ing about it in a book — it’s • a book called ‘The Arrow of I Gold.’” 3 The man smiled. “You were named after the I man who wrote that book,” said - the sailor. “I never knew that.”

PAGE THREE

“No, I guess not Your mother didn't know, either.” i Just then Mrs. Burchall appeared on the front steps, attracted perhaps by the suspicion* cessation of the sharp pops that •- the golf-ball had been making on the concrete walk. When she saw her former hus- i band leaning on the gate, her first thought was this: “Well, of all things! And here I wai ‘ talking about him to Adele Lent not ten minutes ago.” Then she realized, with sudden horror, ' that her son was actually in conversation with his father. She wondered whether that fool Roy had said anything. . . . “Conrad, you come here this instant!” Coprad ambled up the concrete walk. “How many times do I hare to tell you not to talk to every strange man that cornea around ?” “He’s a sailor, mother.” “Oh, a sailor, is hes” Somehow or other that annoyed Mix Burchall. “Well, you just cliane yourself around to the baek and don’t let me cutch you talking to any tramps—or sailors, either.” Conrad cast one glance toward the man who had come from Marseilles, and then disappeared from view behind the house. Mrs. Burchall walked ele-, gantly down to the front gate and confronted Roy Whidden. “So you’re a sailor, are you?” she said, and surveyed him with deliberate satisfaction. “You look to me like a common bum. I always knew you’d never get anywhere.” “I guess you were right.” He smiled as he Mid thia. Mrs. Burchall was irritated by the easy good humor of his tone, by the calm confidence in his eyes. “Why did you do it?” she asked. “I don’t know. It was a rainy night, and I heard a fog horn out in the river.” “So you left me for a foghorn !” “Yes — I knew you’d be all right Your people had money, and I sent some” “A lot you sent.” “I guess it wasn’t much —but it was all I could scrape together.” “Well, what are you bumming around here for now ? What do you want? More money? Well, you won’t get it Not one nickel. I told Fred Burchall if you ever showed up he was to kick you right out. And he’d do it, too! I advise you to make yourself scarce before he gets home.” “Don’t worry. I’m going. My, ship sails at six.” “Oh, your thip sails, Coes it! I’ll bet it’s a fine ship.” She laughed harshly at the mental picture of any ship on which Roy Whidden could obtain em-J ployment. “How did you ever' find out where I live?” “Oil, I kept track of you through the bank. I knew when you got the divorce and got married again.” “Well, then, why didn’t you leave me alone? What did you come snoopin’ around here for?” “Just curiosity. I wanted to see what the boy looks like.” “Well —you've seen him.” “Yes, I’ve seen him. That's' all I wanted.” He straightened up and | started to move away. “Well—-gwxl-by, Em.” “Good-by, and I hope you enjoy yourself on that ship of yours.” He was walking away down I the street when suddenly she ' called to him: "Royf" 11b i stopped abruptly in response to ; that well-remembered summons. , , “There was something I meant to ask you,” she said with ( an unusual hesitancy. “What — what was that extra about?” i He rubbed his none-too-smooth chin and thought for an instant. "Let’s see,” he said. “It was I something about . . . no, that was later. I guess I’ve forgotten.” “Was it about the world series?” she asked, as though trying desperately hard *o prompt him. “The morning papers were full of it Was it about that?” He smiled with relief. “Os ■ course—that was it I The Red I Sox won.” 1 (?) McClure Newspaper