Indianapolis Times, Volume 35, Number 234, Indianapolis, Marion County, 8 February 1923 — Page 8

8

ALICE ADAMS by BOOTH TARKINGTON Second novel In the Times series by Indiana writers Copyright, 1921, by Doubleday, Page & Cos.

ADAMS laughed, and went back to his sheds. "I guess my foreman was right,” he told his wife that evening with a little satisfaction. “As soon as one man shows enterprise enough to found an industry in a broken-down neighborhood, somebody else is sure to follow. I kind of like the look of it; it’ll help make our place seem more busy and prosperous when it comes to getting loan from the bank—and I got to get one mighty soon, too. I did think some that if things go as well as there’s every reason to think they ought to, I might want to spread out and maybe get hold of that old factory myself; but I hardly expected to be able to handle a proposition of that size before two or three years from now, and anyhow there's room enough on the lot I got, if we need more buildings some day. Things are going about as fine as I could ask; I hired some girls today to do the bottling—colored girls along about 16 to 20 years old. After while, I expect to get a machine to put the stuff in the little bottles, when we begin to get good returns; but half a dozen of these colored girls can do it all right now, by hand. We're getting to have -ally quite a little plant over there; y. sir, quite a regular little plant!'’ -He chuckled, and at this cheerful sound, of a kind his wife had almost forgotten he was capable of producing, she ventured to put her hand upon his arm. They had gone outdoors. after dinner, taking two chairs with them, and were sitting through the late twilight together, keeping well away from the “front porch,” which was not yet occupied, however. Alice was In her room changing her dress. "■Well, honey,” Mrs. Adams said, talting confidence not only to put her hand upon his arm. but to revive this disused endearment; —“it’s grand to have you so optimistic. Maybe some time you’ll admit I was right, after all. Everything’s going so well, it seems a pity you didn’t take this —this step —long ago. Don’t you think maybe so. Virgil?” “Well —if I was ever going to. I don’t know but I might as well of. I got to admit the proposition begins to look pretty good: I know the stuff'U sell, and I can't see a thing in the world to stop it. It does look good, and if—if—” He paused. “If what?” she said, suddenly anxious. He laughed plaintively, as if confessing a superstition. “It’s funny—well, its mighty funny about that smell. I’ve got so usee to it at the plant I never seem tc noth’" it at all over there. It’s only when I get away. Honestly, can't you notice—V” “Virgil!” She lifted her hand to strike his arm chidingly. “D ■ quit harping on that nonsense!'’ "Oh, of course it don't amount to anything,” he said. “A person can stand a good deal- of just smell. It don’t worry me any.” “I should thim; not—especially as there isn't any.” “Well,” he said, “I feel pretty fair over the whole, thing—A lot better’n I ever expected to, anyhow. 1 don’t know as there*! any reason I shouldn’t tell you so.” She was deeply pleased with his jLcknowledgmvnt, and her voice had tenderness ir/ it as she responded: ’’There, honey; Didn’t I always say you’d be glad if you did it?” Embarrass'd, he ccughed loudly, then filled h's pipe and lit it. "Well,” he said, sloVly. "it’s a puzzle. Yes, sir It’s a puzzle^’ “What is?,’ “Pretty m,ach everything, I guess.” As he spcke, a song came to them from a ligated window over their heads. Th'.n the v.. rkened abruptly, b’-.t the song continued as Alice went down through the house to wait on the’ little veranda. “Mi chiamo Mimi,” he sang, and in her voice throbbed something almost startling In Its swe' tness. Her father and

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mother listened, not speaking until the song stopped with the click of the wire screen at the front door as Alice came out. “My!” said her father. “How sweet she does sing! I don’t know as I ever heard her voice sound nicer than it did just then.” “There’s something that makes it sound that way,” his wife told him. “I suppose so,” he said, sighing. “I suppose so. You think—” “She’s just terribly in love with him!” “I expect that’s the way it ought to be,” he said, then drew upon his pipe for reflection, and became murmurous I with the symptoms of melancholy la lighter. “It don’t make tilings less of a puzzle, though, does it?” “In what way, Virgil?” “Why here,’’ he said —“here we go through all this muck and moil to : help fix things nicer for her at home, ! and what’s It all amount to? Seems like she’s just gone ahead the way she’d ’a’ gone anyhow; and now, I suppose, getting ready to up and leave us! Ain’t that a puzzle to you? It is to me.” “Oh, but things haven’t gone that far yet.” “Why, you just said ” She gave a little cry of protest. “Oh. they aren’t engaged yet. Os course they will be; he N s just as much interested in her as she is in him, but ” "Well, what’s the trouble then?” “You are a simple old fellow!” his wife exclaimed, and then rose from her chair. “That reminds me,” she said. “What of?'’ he asked. “What’s my being simple remind you of?” “Nothing!” she laughed. "It wasn’t you that reminded me. It was just something that’s been on my mind. I don’t believe he’s actually ever been inside our house!” “Hasn’t he?" “I actually don't believe he ever has,” she said. "Os course we must ” She paused, debating. “We must what?” "I guess I better talk to Alice about It right now,” she said. "He don’t usually come for about half an hour yet; I guess I've got time.” And ivith that she walked away, leaving him to his puzzles. CHAPTER XIX ALICE was softly crooning to herself as her mother turned the corner of the house and approached through the dusk. “Isn't it the most beautiful evening:” the daughter said. “Why can't summer last all year? Did yeu ever know a lovelier twilight than this, mama?” Mrs. Adams laughed, and answered, j “Not since I was your age. I expect.” ! Alice was wistful at once. “Don't 1 they stay beautiful after my age?” “Well, it's not the same thing.” “Isn’t it? Not—ever?” “You may have a different kind from mine,” the mother said, a Tittle sadly. "I think you will, Alice. You deserve—” "No, I don’t. I don’t deserve anything. and I know it. But I’m getting a great deal these days—more than I ever dreamed could come to me. I’m —I’m pretty happy, mama!” “Dearie!” Her mother would have kissed her. but Alice drew away. “Oh, I don’t mean—” She laughed nervously. “I wasn't meaning to tell you I’m engaged, mama. We're not. I mean—oh; things seem pretty beautiful In spite of all I’ve done to spoil 'em.” “You?” Mrs. Adams cried, incredulously. “What have you done to spoil anything?” “Little things,” Alice said. “A thousand little silly—oh, what’s the use? He’s so honestly what he is—just simple and good and intelligent—l feel a tricky mess beside him! I don't see why he likes me: and sometimes I'm afraid he wouldn’t if he knew me.” “He'd just worship you,” said the fond moth. “And the more he knew

you, the more he’d worship you.” Alice shook her head. "He's not the worshiping kind. Not like that at all. He’s more ’’ But Mrs. Adams was not interested in this analysis, and she interrupted briskly. "Os course It’s time you.- father and I showed some interest in him. I was just saying I actually don't believe he’s ever been inside the house.” “No,” Alice said, musingly; “that’s true; I don’t believe lie has. Except when we’ve walked in the evening we’ve always sat ou- here, even those two times when it was drizzly. It’s so much niver.” "We’ll have to do something or other. of course,” her mother said. “What like?” "I was thinking ” Mrs. Adams paused. “Well, of course we could hardly put off asking him to dinner, or something, much longer.” Alice was not enthusiastic; so far from it, indeed, that there was a melancholy alarm in her voice. “Oh. mama, must we? Do you think so?” “Yes. I do. I really do.” “Couldn’t we—well, couldn’t we wait?” “It looks queer,” Mrs. Adams said. "It isn’t the thing at all for a young man to come as much as he does, and never more than just barely meet your father and mother. No. We ought to do something.” “But a dinner!” Alice objected. “In the first place, there isn’t anybody I want to ask. There isn’t anybody I would ask.” “I didn’t mean trying to give a big dinner,” her mother exolained. ”T just mean having him to dinner. That mb lotto woman. Malena Burns. go>out by the day. and she could bring a waitress. We can get some flowers for the table and some to put in the living room. We might just as well go ahead and do it tomorrow as any other time: because your father’s in a fine mood, and I saw Malena this afternoon and told her I might want her soon. She said she didn’t have any engagements this week, and I can let her know tonight. Suppose when he comes you ask him for tomorrow. Alice. Everything’ll be verynice. I’m sure. Don't worry about it. ’ “Well —but ” Alice was uncertain. “But don't you see. it looks so quedr, not to do something?’’ her

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poverty-stricken. We really oughtn't j to wait any- longer.” Alice assented, though not with a | good heart. “Very well. I’ll ask him, j if you think we've got to.” “That matter’s settled then,” Mrs. \ Adams said. “I’ll go telephone Ma- j lena, and then I’ll tell your father about it.” But when she went back to her

OUT OUR WAY—By WILLIAMS

THE OLD HOME TOWN—By STANLEY

cited state of mind, and Walter standing before him in the darkness. Adams was almost shouting, so great was his vehemence. “Hush, hush!” his wife implored, as she came near them. “They’ll hear you out on the front porch!” “I don’t care who hears me,” Adams said, harshly, though he tempered his loudnfess. “Do you want to

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I thought he’d maybe come to tell me he’d got a little sense In his head at last, and a little decency about what’s due his family! 1 thought he was going to ask me to take him into my plant. No, ma'am; that’s not what he wants!” “No, it ain't,” Walter said. In the darkness his face could not be seen; he stofd motionless, in what seemed tin Mfl-UMUH AtULucPn andhesnoke

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quietly, “No,” he repeated. “That isn’t what I want.” “You stay down at that place,” Adam went on, hotly, “instead of trying to be a little use to your family: and the only reason you’re allowed to stay’ there is because Mr. Lamb's never to notice you are still there^Lv..\ 1 Just wait —’’ “You're offdjjv gaiter said, In the same quiet iLdl-M. “He known I’m

FRECKLES AND TITS FRTENDS—Bv BLOSSER

OUR BOARDING HOUSE—By AHERN

there. He spoke to me yesterday: he asked me how I was getting along with my work.” “He did?” Adams said, seeming not to believe him. “Yes. He did.” “What else did lie say, Walter?" Mrs. Adams asked quickly. "Nothin'. Just walked on.” "I don't believe he Imew who you were.” Adams declared.

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“Think not? He called me 'Walter Adams.' ” At this Adams was silent; and Walter, after waiting a moment r-ald: “Well, are you going to do anything about me? About what I told you I got to have?" “What is it, Walter?" his mother asked, since Adams did not speak. (To Be ConttnuedJ

FEB. 8, 1523

—By ALLMAN

—By AL POSEN