Indianapolis Times, Volume 37, Number 231, Indianapolis, Marion County, 27 January 1926 — Page 10

PAGE 10

SANDY

(Continued From Page 1)

Jude, you're the darlingest thing on earth!” She repeated it softlyj a warm huskiness filled her mouth.

mT meant nothing, of course. She and Douglas had known each other years. She couldn’t remember when they first started taking long walks together —almost since the day be and his mother, Emma Keith, had moved into the flat next door. From the very beginning he told her his hopes and how he intended to make it up to “Em” for the way she'd sacrificed educating him. He told her about the girls he liked. There was that angel in his class at college. Judith listened in a soft, understanding way. When the angel passed, it was the little blonde typist in the law offices where he got his first job. Then it was the stately Miss Kane. He was very glowing about them all, talking to Judith as though she were 150 years old. But last night he came over all a chuckle. He pulled the dishtowel from her hands with a breezy: “Gee, you’re the pokes in this shack. Em and 1 finished hours ago. Get your hat—got something great to tell you.” They walked up Fulton street — quickly because he was excited with his amazing good luck. The newspaper he’d worked on at college of-

The Love Dodger

CHAPTER XXXV 0E was holding out his hand, but Barbara did not see it. Her eyes were on his face. “Hello, Babs!” he cried. She stammered, “Hello, Mr. —er— Byers. How did you know I was here?” Ills face wrinkled again in a grin. “Oh, I have the hotel beat now. llow have the mighty fallen! From dramatic editor I am demoted to the . humble duties of a cub/ But the Telegraph is running short of help these days and we’re all pressed into , service, so I saw your name on the register this morning.” Barbara had recovered her breath. “It’s awfully good to see you. Yours ’is the first familiar face I’ve seen since I came last night. I was beginning to think that I must have dreamed that Indianapolis was once my home. For there are no signs of the people I used to know here.’ Byers shook his head. “Funny how a town does change in a little while. But you’ll fin/1 several old friends at the Telegraph office. There are some new pepple, of course, but a few of the old ones too. Tour friend Wells is gene for good—died last month. But McDermott and Jimmy, the office boy, and your friend, Miss Badger, are still with the ship, to say nothing of myself and a few other humble reporters.” Barbara smiled. “I’m almost afraid to go to the office,” she said, "lest it be changed,, too, so much that I shan’t be able to believe I ever worked there. It’s a ghastly feeling, this walking about in places that werd once a part of your everyday life, and finding that everything ‘is the same, yet nothing is the same. “You can’t tell whether it is your- . self that has died, or the people around you.” “For heaven's sake, Barbara, ‘ brace up. That's maudlin rot you’re talking. Get your things and come on over to the office. You won’t be allowed to feel like a dead one over • there. You’ll be the lion of the hour. Shouldn't wonder if Mac ' would demand an Interview on how ' it feels to be a New 1 York success and all that.” , Barbara laughed somewhat shril- . ly. But she went to get her hat.. The Telegraph was in the midst of its morning rush when they en- ‘ tered. Barbara looked! eagerly about . her as they stepped out of the elevator into the editorial room. She sniffed the tobacco-laden air, and her eyes shone. .

Jimmy was the first to catch 1 sight of her. He was running to the composing room with his hands full of copy when his eyes fell upon her. “Hi, there, Miss Hawley,” he ■ shouted, making a dive toward her. The new city editor, a young man with a thin nose and stern eyes behind spectacles, raised his voice. “James, hurry that copy to the composing room.” Byers whispered in Barbara’s ear. “That’s Holcomb, Well’s successor—a college journalist, by God!” Jimmy made a dash for the composing room and returned through . the swinging doors like a steam engine. By this time the staff had ; gathered around Barbara, shaking her hand, asking questions, and looking admiringly 'at her clothes. Only Miss Badger remained at her desk, with her back to the group. Under the influence of their admiration and envy, Barbara talked gaily. The color came back to her cheeks, She glanced toward Miss ; Badger and laughed. “Come, admit,” whispered Byers, “that the Badger’s cut is pleasing you more than the others’ adulation.** . Barbara frowned at him. During the levee telephones rang unanswered and the austere city editor looked through his horn glasses and called one after another of. his staff without getting a response. At length he rose and walked hoross the room. Touching Byers on tho arm, he said audibly, “Will you please Inform me as to the identity of our visitor? Is she a Russian grand duchess or merely a motion picture star, or yet an Atlantic City beauty, that the entire machinery of the Telegraph should stop at her entrance?” Byers laughed Impudently. “Guess again, Holcomb. This is Miss Barbara Halwey, former member of this same, humble newspaper staff, but now one of the props of metropolitan Journalism; in short, a staff writer for the Footlights Magazine. Bow, Barbara, bow.” Barbara was taken aback. The ■city editor glanced at her with increased disapproval and W'*- -• ♦

sered him $25 a week. Think of it — twenty-five dollars! And be bad only to write about 800 words a day—short, snappy stuff of current events illustrated with goofy drawings. What a pipe! They reached’ Alamo Square—looking far out to the lights blinking so daintily—little golden midgets Jumping on the water. * Pretty lucky, Jude? Now I can blow you to a good show every seven months or so." Judith trembled. He had held of her hands, waiting, with boyish eagerness for her approval. She loved the ardent look in his rich, dark eyes—loved their sweet, direct gaze. She said: “Oh!” Tears ran down her cheeks and she gulped: "I’m so glad—so awfully glad. Oh, Doug, isn’t life gorgeous!” He gave her a quick pull toward him, laughing in her face: “What a nut! What a queer, darling thing! Jude, you're the darlingest thing on the earth.” Sho walked homeward, drenched in happiness. For a long time that night Judith sat on her bed smiling into the darkness, telling herself, with an eager anguish: “Oh, it was nothing—nothing—l wonder—.’’ Sht

luctant acknowledgment of the introduction. “Why, Barbara Hawley,” said a familiar voice very close behind her, and turning, Barbara found Sinbad Sullivan coming through the gate from the elevator. He walked straight up to her and wrung her hand, smiling into her eyes. “Gee, kid, I'm glad to see you. Suppose you’ll high hat the old crowd now, though. I would, if I were in your place. Lord, what a skyrocket career you’ve had.” Barbara listened restlessly. But she did not attempt to contradict him. “Look here, Babs, you finally forgave me for that Lighthouse affair, didn't you? 1 felt pretty rotten over that for weeks. Funny* thing, too. j Not long after you went away, I ran into a chap and he gave me a dirty look and said. 'Oh, yes, you’re the cur that took Miss Hawley to the Lighthouse dinner and then got drunk and left her to get home as best she could, aren’t you?’ “Honest to God, Babs, I’d never have taken that from any man. But it was funny. I had that whole mess on my conscience so I couldn’t properly sock him. Just wilted and walked out of his office.” “Reynolds?” Barbara gasped, but got no further. Byers was tugging at her arm. "Come on in and see the chief,” he said. “He doesn't know you're here yet.” Barbara turned unwillingly and followed him. McDermott looked up from his work and rose quickly. “Why, Barbara,” he exclaimed, "where on earth did you come from?” “Sttaight from New York, and mighty glad to get here,” answered Barbara. “I’ve just come home to look around. New York was getting on my nerves a bit.” McDermott looked at her shrewdly. “So Indianapolis is still home, Barbara?” / She flushed. “Yes, of course it is. I’ve been well enough off in New York. It's a marvelous city—all shimmer and silk and lights and shades, One can never grow really tired of it. But one’s nerves get jumpy there. And besides, the place you came from is always home, isn’t it?” McDermott smiled. “Perhaps. But tell me how things are going. You haven’t written me for a very long time.”

“You’ll be glad to know I’ve seen Fancy and had dinner at her home,” Barbara began, but the door burst open and Byers came in. “ ’Scuse me, folks, but if we’re going to run this story, we’ve got to have anew picture of Barbara right away. The'one in the morgue isn’t spiffy enough—doesn’t look like a ; Broadway success.” “No,” laughed Barbara, “I remember when It was taken. It was one day after a clothiers’ convention and I’d spent hours chasing down the best dressed man at the meeting, for his picture. Then when I got back to the office, somebody had telephone Wells and threatened libel on a story of mine. And on top of all that, they took my picture for the morgue. No wonder I didn’t look like a success.” “Well, if you’ll come right downstairs now, they can snap you and perhaps get the cut through in time for the paper today,” said Byers. Barbara looked uncertain, but McDermott waved his hand. “By all means run along with Byers, Barbara. We must have that picture.” When she returned a few minutes slater, he was waiting for her. “What do you mean to do, Barbara? And how long will you be here?” She looked at the floor. I’ve done a terrible thing, Mr. McDermott. I ran away from my job without notice, and only sent a wire back saying where I had gone. To tell truth, I didn’t even think of my job till I was several hours out of New York. "I suppose it was because I’d been to dinner with Fancy. The subject of Indianapolis was discussed all evening, and that night, 'riding back downtown, I was simply swamped w|th homesickness —the worst fit of the kind that I ever experienced. I rushed down and packed my things and caught a train out.” McDermott nodded. Barbara went on speaking low. “It seemed to me that if I didn’t get a glimpse of Indianapolis and some of my friends I rdlght just as - -A*)

A NEW STORY OF A MODERN GIRL

Then she jumped up with a sound of joy, mumbled glowingly r 4l .Sandy! Os all things!’

loved Douglas Keith. She admitted it to herself with a boundless unrestraint that was both ecstasy and pain. • • • morning she thought of A him. She was so glad it was Saturday—so glad when the other girls in the office began leaving. She was in no hurry to return to the commonplace flat in Fulton St.—home, where she was cherished,

BOOTS AND HER BUDDIES—By Martin

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THE INDIANAPOLIS TIMES

lof course, but taken for granted; ’ expected always to “act like a sensible person and be thankful she had i good health and the use of all her limbs.” This was one of Mrs. Moore’s formulas for keeping her children’s feet firmly on the ground, i , Judith hated the violent way her • mother and sisters had of flouncing |on her thoughts with an irritated: j “What in the world are you mooni ing about! Why don’t you get up

OUT OUR W AY —By WILLIAMS

and do something! I don’t know how you can sit there so idle!” As though mere motion were the most laudable thing in the world. It was pure luxury to loiter undisturbed in the deserted office. Judith drew the black oil cloth cover over her typewriter—absently, lost In a great sweetness. The door opened, a voice laughed, a Ifttle gust of perfume fluttered In I Judith's face. She blinked as one

by Elenore Meherin, AUTHOR OF “CHICKIE”

rudely and unwillingly awakened. Then she jumped up with a bound of joy, mumbled glowingly, “Sandy! Os all things!" A tall, lightsome girl caught Judith’s hands. She filed the room with vividness: with charm as though the sun had come up unexpectedly or a song trilled. She talked gaily with little throaty laughs, stopping three or four times to kiss Judith’s flushed cheeks. She was Sandy McNeil. Judith’s cousin, the most captivating person Judith knew. Everything that was I romantic 'or unusual, she coupled j with Sandy. Judith’s mother was a McNeil. From infancy Evelyn Moore’s children perceived that this was an honor —a kind of kingly privilege. They were aware that Evelyn McNeil had stepped down woefully when she married their father. Mrs. Moore never allowed the self-effac-ing husband to forget that she had “given up everything—made a complete sacrifice of her life” to become his wife. • • • i • IHF, greatest compliment she I I ever pald her daughters was | Ito say: "You’re a McNeil!” In the same way she charged to the father’s heritage all the unpleasant traits that cropped out In her children. Mrs. Moore was a colorful, domineering woman. Her children resented her- tyrannies, yet they adored her; they hung on her words, quoting her as though she was infallible. Argument ended when one X>r the other could bolster her cause with: “Mamma said so!” So they ! regarded it almost an insult to be ; told with aggrieved impatience: "I declare to goodness, you’re a regular j Moore!” | In Sandy was concentrated all the ! gay distinction; all the beauty of the McNeils. Sandy had that thin, wistful figure. She had white skin, Its pallor made haunting by the Intense black of her eyebrows; the intense red of her hair. More than this, she seemed to move In color and music. Her visits to the city were the j thrills of Judith’s existence. They had become friends three years pre- | vious when Sandy's father wrote i to his sister inviting the youngest

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DECKLES AND HIS FRIENDS—B.y BLOSSER

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daughter, who happened to be Judith, to his home in Santa Barbara for a vacation. Since then every month or so Sandy dashed into the office where Judith worked and they went off together on a lark that for Judith was a priceless adventure. She loved walking into the Palace with Sandy. She felt proud as though she were displaying some rare exotic flower. She would whisper eagerly: “Sandy—the x way men stare at you!” The head waiter knew Sandy. He ushered her to a table in the very center of the room. She accepted tribute as a queen might. Now Sandy drew off her gloves. Judith watched her. Finally she reached over and touched Sandy's hand where a diamond the size of an almond glowed. Sandy laughed: “Oh, I forgot to tell you. I’m somewhat engn^ed.” Like taking a glass of water:' As though one became engaged every ten minutes! Judith, tense with her own emotions, asked softly: “Who? Is he glorious?” Sandy’s brows raised whimsically: “Well—he might be called poetic. He’s somewhat fragile. I think it may be quite charming floating down Geneva in a gondola while he sings me ballads. He’s an Italian—terribly rich.” “You love him? Sandy, do you love him achingly?" Sandy began to laugh. Then she frowned impatiently: "Heck, Judy, don’t take It all so seriously! It’s not a funeral. I said I’m engaged. I didn’t say I’m married.” Judith stared at her accusingly: “Do you get engaged to a man if you don’t intend to marry him?” “You can only marry one of them!” Then Sandy leaned forward: “How can you tell If you love a man, Jude? How do you know when the thing you feel is love?” • • • mUDITH’S blood came very warmly to her face, making her eyes shine. "You know it all right! It’s love when you feel glad all over, because he’s near. It’s love when you walk along the streets turning this way and that, hoping to catch a glimpse of him.

OUB BOARDING HOUSE—By AHERN

JAN. 27, 192 G

It’s love when you almost faint if he looks straight in your eyes or touches yvur hand ... its love when you wish and wish that he’d only stoop down quick and kiss you—-” "That’s not what I’ve got! But say, Jude, you sly thing—how do you know?” “I can imagine! You won’t marry him, then?” "Yes—at least I’m headed that way." “And you don’t love him?" “What does love amount to? They say it’s all the same after the first few months, as long as the man is fond of you—” “After the first few months? Who’d give "Ihem up, I want to know!” Judith demanded hotly. "Who says it’s the same?" “Every one. My mother—my father—the whole clan of aunts and uncles and sisters and brothers. They say ghat’s all fiction—the kind of love you’re raving about—” “Are they doing the marrying. Sandy?’ Sandy grlnnned. “Os course! I told you he was so wealthy his pockets bulgo—” • “And you’ll let them push you Into a thing like that? Why, Sandy, you have your choice of all the men in the world—” “Being married won’t alter that— ’’ but Sandy's dark, shadowed eyes were now a little frightened. She dropped them suddenly. She said softly: “Now I’m in for It—l usually manage not to think. Pushed Into It! Jude —they can do it—l'm terribly afraid they’re going to succeed. I Just feel—Oh, I don’t know —but I may not worm out of it—” Sandy rose. She let her hand press on Judith’s. Sandy’s hand was very soft, appealing, like a child’s. “Sometimes I get frightened about it, Jude, just stark, coocoo frightened. I don’t know which way to turn— ’’ In an hour of wild desolation when murder would have seemed right to Judith’s tortured spirit, she remembered Sandy as she stood then, the wistful plea on her beautiful face, the touch of her hand. She remembered the charm of her that Saturday when the dream was new in Judith’s heart. It made it easier to answer Sandy’s need. (To lie Continued)