Indianapolis Times, Volume 37, Number 193, Indianapolis, Marion County, 14 December 1925 — Page 8

8

ZA e Love Dodger By VIRGINIA SWAIN

BEGIN HERE TODAY BARBARA HAWLEY 25. after teachin* school three years, decides to tro into newspaper work In order to see life. When her fiance, BRUCE REYNOLDS, objects, she breaks with him and gets a Job on the Indiananolis Telegraph, of which ANDREW McDERMOTT, a close mend of her father, before his death, is managing editor. „ . . Returning home. Barbara finds Bruce NOW d G0 B ON WITH THE STORY CHAPTER II i ARBARA saw him before he IRI saw er ‘ 1 I The sunlight struck a rebellious lock of hair that always, to her mind, gave him the air of a particularly childish Billiken, even in the midst of tragedy. It made Barbara gasp to see the sun on that lock. It back so many things. She stiffened her carriage and advanced toward the steps. Bruce seemed lost in thought. He did not raise his head until she stood almost over him. When he did, he stared at her a second and sprang to his feet.* "I had to come, Barbara. Things

Beautiful JOANNA MANNERS, a New York clerk, who was given SI .000.000 by an unknown bonefactor, is jilted by her fiance. JOHN WILMORE. celebrated architect, for VYONNE COUNTANT divorceo, with whom she lives at villa Amette in France. , FRANCIS BRANDON wealthy nerohew of her banker, ANDREW EGGLESTON. proposes to her but she is unmoved. Yvonne had played for him in vain. In Eggleston's library hangs a large old painting of a girl who resembles JoJ *LADY BETTY WEYMOUTH asked Joanna to discourage the attentions of her brother. LOUD DORMISSTEIt. When Brandon hears that Joanna and Roddy Kenilworth are going to the clubhouse on La Turbie mountain, he follows. After he stages a hold-up. Brandon informs Joanna that he control sthe source of her money, that he does Rot love her, but unless she marries him. tho money must be returns!. With a champagne bottle she knocks him to the floor and escapes to Amette in his car, only to overhear John proposing to Yvonne. She turns him down. A pompous fete is in progress on Amette grounds. The curtain lifts on Joanna’S surprise of the evening. By H. L. Gates CHAPTER XXXVI SHE curtains spread upon vague shapes that took form in a phantasy that slowly emerged from a vapor of pale blue light. Out of a far background, admirably conjured by skilled artists, spires and domes and gabled roofs of a conglomerate city loomed. Illuminated windows shone dully. Miniature streets, crooked and narrow, came down out of the perspective and converged upon an open space before the Invisible footlights—the painted city’s market place. In the center of the square a pillar rose, with a rim of water troughs at Its base. Against this column, her head bowed, shoulders drooped and motionless body limp in a posture of despair, leaned an unknown girl, of some warm pulsed type, her body gleaming White through a diaphanous drape—a girl who was fresh and young and lovely. Hunched before the youthful figure three old crones in the garb of witches swayed in rhythm with the plaintive song of the orchestra. In the hands of each a lantern swung, its flame shedding a dim, colored glow. Even as the audience gasped at the weird symbolism of the picture—a vibrant, beautiful, unsullied girl hemmed in by evil witches—one of the old crones, one whose lantern glowed in sickly yellow, roso and, still swaying to the music, lifted her light so that Its yellow rays bathed the body of the girl. Across the sky over the painted city in the background, great letters made by invisible lamps manipulated from behind the stage slowly took shape and, like a fantastic reflection, spelled the word, “MISUNDERSTANDING.” The letters died away. The second witch arose and danced before the girl against the pillar. The glimmer from her lantern bathed the white form in scarlet, and new letters glowed In the sky—“DISTRUST.’ The guests of Joanna stirred in their seats and settled again into tense, breathless silence. The third Avitch danced and held aloft her light. The figure in the market place took on a hue of green. New letters formed: “ENVY.” Yvonne, Avho had stared fascinated at the unfolding of the tableau, suddenly was conscious of a breath on her bare shoulder. She looked around and peered Into the fixed eyes of Brandon. Around his forehead a bandage shone white. He stood beside the vacant chair into which he had Intended to drop quietly .Yvonne watched his lips and saw them frame the whispered words—the words he remembered as Joanna’s plaint to Eggleston, long ago. In the sombre library of the house on the avenue when she told the banker of the three things that had haunted her in her coping with the problems of the girlhood of today—“misunderstanding, distrust and envy.” Brandon was so tightly wrapped in the spell of his memory and this amazing reminder staged by Joanna with her troupe of actors and actresses especially brought from Paris, that Yvonne reached back and touched him to bring him to a realization of his surroundings. He brushed his hand across his eyes and dropped into the vacant chair. "I am just in time,” he remarked, ■‘to witness the sensation she arranged so secretly. I fancy it will be most interesting.” Yvonne studied him a moment and then turned back to the scene on the stage. SHE three witches danced away into the background. Out of the crooked little streets of the make-believe city other shapes were coming down into the open space—fantastic shapes, with empty faces pallored white with chalk, ghastly, grotesque. On the small stage it seemed as if there was an army of them, the population of the

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said at midnight don’t count next day.” Barbara unlocked the door ar.d ushered him In. “Sit down in the living-room a moment, Bruce,” she said quite naturally, “while I go up and take off my wraps. I shan’t bo long.” Upstairs Barbara to her dressing table, added a touch of bloom to her cheeks, dusted a puff across her nose and ran a comb through her hair. Her eyes, still sparkling with the thought of the new job, smiled at her reflection in the glass. Barbara had always admitted to herself that she was satisfactory to look at. And now, with a spurned lover waiting downstairs, she found added spice in her beauty. Bruce was sunk in the depths of the big davenport when Barbara entered the living-room. He rose anil Avent quickly to her, reaching for her hands. She evaded him gracefully and

city they sprung from. Brandon started so violently that ATvonne and Kenilworth shot a glance at him. When they lacked back upon the stage they saw why. Gnquestionably he Avas among those grotesque figures, for one of them Avalked with exaggerated grace and his head was bandaged! And just then, as if a common realization had swept over the men and women, the puppets and mannequins, the pierrots and Columbines In the audience, there was the sybilant sound of pent-up breath escaping hundreds of lips. Almost every one of those who had come to the revel of the Golden Girl recognized, in or.e of those weird, whitefaced figures on the stage—himself or herself! Betty Weymouth saw that Joanna had caricatured her. Prince Michael saw himself, as surely as Brandon had recognized the graceful form In the bandage. John, Avho stood at the back of the pavilion saw a masque of himself. Everyone else saw something of his or her, representation in the silent city s . inhabitants as they trooped down into the market place around the almost nude girl who leaned against the column in the center. The girl raised her head and shook the long strands of her billoAvy corn yellow hair. When she saw that the witches had faded away from her, and that she was among the people of the city—the people of the world in which she found herself, her body straightened. The orchestra burst into a joyous rhythm. The girl leaped into the throng of masques and danced among them danced gaily, her filmy draperies flowing In utter abandon. “Watch the witches!” Brandon murmured. He spoke to himself, but Yvonne and Kenilworth nodded In acknowledgement that the thought had come to them, too. A little company, in the masques of morose solemnity, Assembled at one side of the stage. Up to them and around them the girl danced ecstatically. They SAvayed back and forth in time with the young feet that seemed to dance as if slippered with quicksilver. A note of mournfulness crept Into the music. The girl danced slowly, more - heavily. The witch Avith the yellow lantern. “Misunderstanding,” fell into step behind her. The girl shrank; relentlessly the evil witch pressed upon her. An eerie lamentation shrieked from violins and reeds; slowly, mercilessly, “Misunderstanding” drove the lovely girl back to the pillar. Again the dancer escaped her baleful guardians and inoA*ed merrily, hopefully, carelessly. She was driven back from the group that gathered around her, by “Envy.” A third time tried to spread her rhythmic doctrine of carefree youth and grace and vividness, and again— In the audience a woman uttered a half scream, half moan. Another woman rose to reach over to her. A man stood. In an instant the puppets and mannequins, the pierrots and .Columbines were on their feet. Many faces were as white as those of the mute characters on the stage. Now the three Avltches, all of them, Avere bearing down upon the girl, who fought so valiantly to overcome the misunderstdaning,, the distrust, and the envy of those whitefaced people Avho stifled her. The music quickened. The girl, In a panic, sought to flee. The witches penned her in and drove her, step by step, while the silent masques circled and swayed monotonously, back to the Avater-trough post. The orchestra burst Into a discordant crescendo. The dancer helpless, discouraged, backed against the pillar and flung out her arms in mute appeal. The witches raised their lanterns in hideous glee. The green, yellow and scarlet rays pierced the filmy covering of the young body and bathed it in a mellow glow. And by some weird trickery of a hidden electrician the rays from the lantern of misunderstanding, distrust and envy, made a shadow against the city, a shadoAv black as night—the shadow of a cross. This time it Avas Yvonne Avho whispered softly: "Crucified by those who don’t know!” With a common impulse Yvonne, Kenilworth and Dorminster, and, even, Betty Welmouth, made their way through tho pilent, thoughtful throng of departing guests, to the door that led onto the pavilion stage —the door through which Yvonne had seen Joanna disappear before the actors began their play. The direc tor of the company of performers shook his head: "Mademoiselle left with me the money to pay my troupe, and ther Avent away,” he said. “She was mosl generous, and we would speak mor< of our gratitudes tc her but she is not here.” • John, his face as Avhite as had beer those of the actors, appeared out o' the dark of the grounds. He cor - . - .. A ■„ ... w . ,

seated herself in an armchair at some distance from the couch. Bruce began* to speak, the words tumbling out in haste. “I've been waiting for you for hours, Babs. The house seemed to be empty. Nobody answered the bell. So I Just sat down and waited. I simply had to see you.” Barbara made aS if to interrupt him, but the boy rushed on. “It can’t be true, Babs, dear. All this day I’ve been telling myself that I dreamed it, and when you came home, everything would be all right. We can’t give each other up, sweetheart. We love each other too much." He was standing beside her now. “Why, Barbara, we’ve grown into each other's hearts so that we can't break apart noAV. We'd never forget, clear, and we’d never be'happy.” Barbara had been listening quietly, her eyes cool and distant. She sighed gently and looked up at him.

fronted Yvonne. “We must find Brandon —quick!” he exclaimed. “She has gone. I went to the house to wait for her. I wknted to say—a great many things. Your butler told me she left, alone, In her car. There Is a message he says, for Brandon." The horns of the automobiles in which the guests at Villa Amette were starting for their homes and their reflections upon the amazing climax with which the Golden Girl had revealed them to themselves, echoed up from the sea road. John, Kenilworth, Dorminster and Yvonne hurried to Joanna’s little sitting room. Martha, Cecllle and Marie, Joanna’s maids, with wonder and shock in their faces, met them. Martha. led Yvonne into the gorgeous bed-room and pointed to a glittering mass of jewels—every ornament from her mistress’ gem case, piled on the brocaded satin covering. In

BOOTS AND HER BUDDIES—By Martin

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TIARBARA TELLS BRUCE HE DOESN'T UNDERSTAND HER AND THAT SHE IS DETERMINED ON A CAREER

“Have you qulte--flnished t Bruce?” she asked. “Because, if you have, perhaps you’d like to hear how I spent my day.” The boy looked at her, his eyes Avide with misery. The lock of gold brown hair stood aloft on the crown of his head. "No, I haven’t finished,” he flared. “You’ve got to listen to me. This is nonsense, breaking up a beautiful thing just because we differ on nonessentials. I don’t care If you Avant to write, Barbara. You can do anything you choose, so long as you’re all mine. I won’t haA*e my wife mixing with the herd, and grubbing for money, that’s all.” “Nonessentials?” repeated Barbara. “My ambitions and talents are nonessentials. I suppose the only real essential Is your pretty conceit.” “But didn't you ever love me, Babs?” Interrupted Bruce. "You

The Story of a Modern Girl and a MILLION POLLARS *

her hand Martha held an envelope. Her fingers shook as she handed it to Yvonne. “She said it was for Mr. Brandon,” the maid exclaimed. “And she said I was to say there would l>e nothing more—ever!” Martha lost her fight to keep back her tears and her eyes suddenly swam with them. "She s gone, ma'am!" she cried. “She said somebody was taking her money away from her because she was too old fashioned Inside!” 1 1 iNE of the supremely modern Ifj young persons whose left L_”j hands spread A’arl-colored weaves on the silk counter In the great department store called to her companions on either side of her: “AVatch your step, children! Good Morning is coming!” Mr. Hark ness, the buyer, sleek and self-sufficient, as ever, murmured soft apolmries as he edged his Avay through *he crowds before

OUT OUR WAY—By WILLIAMS

THE INDIANAPOLIS TIMES

couldn’t have meant It when you said that between your ambitions and me, you’d choose your ambitions!” The telephone rang in the hall above. “Excuse me, please,” s?Md Barbara. “There’s no one else at home to answer the phone.” A few moments later she returned, her eyes gleaming. “That was a call from Mr. McDermott’s secretary. I am to go to work tomorrow instead of Monday.” She had been longing to find a good opening for the topic of her new job. Bruce stared at her. “To work? What do you mean?” “I have been gi\*en a place on the staff of the Indianapolis Telegraph,” said Barbara. Her voice almost trembled Avith triumph. The effect of her words upon Bruce satisfied her. He was clearly dumfounded. When he found his voice, he asked, "Asa reporter, Barbara?”

the counter to summon with his eyes, the girl with the shimmering gold brown hair. His manner was gentle, strangely respectful. His tone was almost deferential. “You are to get your wraps Miss Twenty-Seven, that is to say, Miss Joanna! It is Mr. Graydon's request. You are to go in his car to this address on the ave’.ue!” He handed Miss Twenty-Seven—-with her old number In her old job—the slip of paper on which he had written the directions given him by The Old Man's quiet secretary. When she read, the shadow came into her face, and something of dread. She had written a long,- very long letter to this same address, to Andrew Eggleston. She had hoped she’d never ha\*e to face him. But she turned away, with a “thank you!" for Good Morning, and went to get her cloak, and to the subway. (To Be Continued)

Again Barbara heard the flat note with which Wilma Collins had pronounced the word. “Yes,” she snapped. “And perhaps you had better run along now. t have many things to do this afternoon, to get ready for work tomorrow. I must be at the office at 7:30 In the morning. “Do you mean that you will have to go running around the streets, into the offices of all kinds of Ynen and into all sorts places, as a common reporter?” he asked. Barbara looked at him aghast. This was intolerable. “It means exactly that,” she said coldly. “It means that I’m ready to do anything from interviewing the President to sweeping out the Telegraph office. It means that I’m going to see life, instead of being tied to a kitchen all my days.” Bruce winced. But Barbara ran on. “It means that my mind is going to live as well as my body, and that I’m going to be a person before I die. “Is there anything else you’d like to know?” “No," said Bruce slowly, “there isn’t anything else, I guess. You’ve said about all there Is to say. But you can’t make it, Barbara. Even if you do succeed in the work, you’ll be wretchedly unhappy. You can’t live without love, Barbara. You can’t live on intellect alone. You’ll starve.” He looked around for his hat. Ho found It on the piano and crushed It between nervous fingers. Barbara followed him to the door. "We’ll say goodby, then," she almost cooed. “You’re a nice boy, Bruce, but you don’t understand me. It s lucky I found it out when I did.” He looked at her outstretched hand. Barely touching it, he said, "Goodby.” As he stepped through the door, he put on the hat, crushing the rebel lock that stood on the crown of his head * • , w V] HEN Mrs. Hawley returned yLf from a shopping trip, that —. evening, she found Barbara in the kitchen, standing over the ironing board. A pile of miscellaneous garments lay near by on a chair. She was whistling a little out of

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FRECKLES AND HIS FRIENDS—By BLOSSER

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tune, and plunging through the pressing job with reckless gayety. “Well, Babs,” cried her mother, "what news?” “Good news, mumsy,” cried Barbara, setting the iron down with a clang on Us metal stand. “A Job and everything. Going to work tomorrow. Expect to be writing American magazine articles on my success by the end of a year.” Mrs. Hawley smiled. There was no sign in Barbara's manner of a relapse from her decision of the night before. Barbara pushed her mother into a chair, chattering gayly about the new Job, the interesting personality of McDermott, and the joys of newspaper work, as observed in her flf-teon-minuto wait in the Telegraph office morning. “It’s such a lovely, noisy place, mumsy,” she cried. "And the smoke Is so thick it chokes you, till you get used to It.” She spoke as If the greater part of her twenty-five years had been spent In a smoky newspaper office. "And people are all running 7 around, as If they had a million things to do, all of them internationally important. Gee! What fun it’s going to be, to work in the center of things, and to know everything before anybody else in town knows.” Mrs. Hawley smiled uncertainly. "Sounds pretty strenuous, Babs,” she said. “I hope you won’t break down. I’ve heard tales of what newspaper life did to people.” “Me break down?” Barbara’s laugh was scornful. “Now laassk f you, did I ever have a sick day In my life, except with measles and whooping cough? As for its being strenuous. I’ll thrive on It. That’s what I want —anything that’s all excitement—the opposite of school > teaching. “What dress 11 I wear tomorrow?” Without waiting for a reply, she had run up the steps to survey the closet in which her rather meager wardrobe hung. Not a word had been said of Bruce’s visit. After dinner, Barbara and her mother settled themselves before the fire In Barbara’s room, to refurbish her work clothes with fresh collars

OUR BOARDING HOUSE—By AHERN

MONDAY, DEC. 14, 1925

and cuffs, and to sow on missing buttons. • “You know. It's really so easy to look spick and span,” remarked Barbara to her mother, “If only you will give a little forethought to your clothes and have the right things for the right occasion.” At 10 o’clock they drank hos chocolate and prepared to go to bed. When Mrs. Hawley went downstairs to lock up the house for the night, she paused by the davenport in the living room. There, lying on the carpet that she had swept that morning was a cigaret stub, ground into the nap of the carpet. She stooped and picked It up, as she had picked up innumerable similar stubs, during the last two years. When she went upstairs, she said nothing. But her brows were ered. • • • mHE downtown streets of Indianapolis at 7:30 In the morning were a revelation to Barbara. She had never walked through them at such an early hour before. She had had no Idea that life was stirring so early, that crowds of people were swarming into restaurants and office buildings before she rose in leisurely fashion to make ready for 9 o’clock school. These crowds of people, the smoky fog that covered the face of the early sun, the film of frost over the sidewalks—the bustle of the lunch counters behind their plate glass windows—all of these things were part of a picture that later came to typify to Barbara her whole 1 life as a working woman. She walked rapidly, after alighting from the interurban, trying not to think of the ordeal that lay ahead of her. As she neared the building In which the offices of the Telegraph were, she saw a clock. It said 7:20. She stared up at the windows of the editorial room. Even at this distance, the tobacco smoke haze over the electric lights was visible. Barbara turned and walked away. There was still time to walk around the block and get her nerve back. Ten minutes later she stepped from the elevator into the editorial room of the Telegraph. (To Be Continued)