Indianapolis Times, Volume 41, Number 72, Indianapolis, Marion County, 3 August 1929 — Page 11

AUG. 3, 1929

OTT OUR WAY

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THI' HA? HAPPENED MOLE' BUT N'HA M ■ r.)'ins r*t'or’r f-orr. B' -'or hs: taken Nf' York hi GEORGE •*'. DURBIK. th c*l*hr’trr; •hratnel producer, present.' her erst p!tr- Th" ric-th of Dflphir" Par-ro-i The eudienr* rop; uild Th* rr.r I '. hardboilrd trine: r" enthusiastic. E- ervbodv i; happv, except the people Moll" loves best H*r ntother is furious. Sh" is an oldfa.'hinned "oman. and -candauzed at the topics "-ith which Molly's play deals. Anri her father. ?. bit old-fashioned, too. 1' rath"r bn lldered E"rn her s-’e?i----h'ari JACK WELLS, doe - - no' se-m ra rticularlr enthti'ir r t;r . H"r motii'r nr.- <et a di aerceah!" "nr. and Mollis "."ar'-hrok"!'. Bin she must so on to ti". part- ■> Inch tne Durbins ar* giving NOW GO ON W ITH THE TOFT CHAPTER XXi 'Continued.> Gratefully Molly kissed her father. “Thank you. Dad." “Oh. your father don't like it any better than I do," ru’ in her mother savagely. He's just an old softy, that's all. He thinks it's just as bad a‘ I do. I thought jour father was going to have apoplexy, what's what I thought And if I'd died of shame right where I sat. it would have been your fault, my fine young lady!" “Tel! me tj-ir truth. Dad." Molly put, her hands on her father's boulders. Are you proud of your Molly-O, or ashamed of her." Proud." he declared firnilv. You're an awful smart girl. Molly." May God never strike you dead or telling lies!" enjoined Mrs. Turnham piously. Molly had grown very pale, but tobotij- could know that, in r he dark ttle alley. Tm awfully sorv," she said. “I • anted yovi all to be proud of me." Now-, Molly." objected her mother, “you know that it isn't the ■ruth. What you want is a career, and vou don't care what happens 'o arty of us. so long as you get what you're after. Not me. nor our .father, nor Mr. Wells here. You've a much as broken your engagement already. Anri geoedness knows you've broken all our hearts.” “Please. Mother!’’ besought. Molly. Perhaps I ni as selfish as you say. But let no? talk about it any more now Mr. Durbin had invited you a’l to a iittle supper party. But I rues: you don't want to go.” Some high-falutin' aflair. I suppctr“ " surmised her mother. “I'm afraid you'd think so." agreed Molly wearily. "Why don't •on fake mother back to the hotel. Dad? Perhaps you'd rome a little later with Tack?" CHAPTER XXIT (T wa- a gay and festive little part' But perhaps it is Ft well tha* Mr:. Burnham did rot go. Everybody was in evening clothes, r'roncesra Glascow. who played Delphinc Harrows, wore black satin, w(h a pa sled skirt The petals "err faced with pink chiffon, and the' wirleri and fluttered when she moved. Madge .Arthur.- the end reporter of *he pla; was dazzling in white, embroidered ’ith sequins. She wore a ne.kincr of square cut crystals Eut instead of wearing it against the front of her gown, she wore it down her back. And her back was cut to the waist. There was another girl in starched souffle chiffon of Mephisto red. Her •irht bodice was gathered in'o an astonishingly high ticck stiffened end boned to the tips of her cars. But under the arms' there were imitar slashes that b.ved half her chest. Molly thought of her mother's decent black, and her honorable ' at. And she decided that a the--trical party, after all. -as no place or an old-fashioned lady from Snodgrass. There was only ore gown that Mr'. Burnham would have considered really modest. And that. uangely enough, was the one Molly liked best of all. Mrs. Durbin, wife of thp pioducer. wore it. The bodice was of white moire, and the tiered : kirt of black Chantilly lace. Mrs. Durbin's hair was snow white, and he wore a close-fitting cap of shining iPt. Molly toid everybody that her mother was ill. “But my father may come later.” rhe said, 'with Mr. Wells.” She hoped devotedly that he would not. What could he say to all these smart, sophisticated people. with their swift, jangling chatter? How would he feel among these men in dinner coats, with their easy speech and polished manners? These women, with painted

■ mouths and eyes, and jew els gleamj ing against their ivory breasts. Molly heard Francesca Glascow remark that Berthe Starr had a. new | Rolls. With silver trimmings,” she said. not r THAT reminds me,” remarked Mr. Durbin. “You know Berthe's sister Rae married young Sini clair. and they had a Paris divorce. Well, now they're getting married again. I had an invitation yesterday. Regular engraved invitation.” From Cartier's,” murmured his wife. And it went something like this." continued Durbin. ’You are cordially invited to attend the premiere of The Married Life of the Sinclairs. Original all-star cast." How clever!" applauded Miss Glascow. There's an idea, for you to work into a story some time. Miss Burnham." ‘I think it was extremely bad taste." demurred Mrs. Durbin. And you know. Miss Burnham, I wish that plajwvrights and novelists would slop joking about marriage. There's such lamentable emphasis on divorce, and crime, and all sorts of unpleasant, things. Why don't, you do a sweet little romance?" “Why, that's exactly what my mother iust asked me." exclaimed Molly. Mother was shocked to death tonight. Mrs. Durbin. To tell the truth, it was the play that made her ill. I thought it was awful oldfashioned of her to feel that way. But if jou feel that way, too " Molly's voice trailed off. Oh. my dear." The producer's wife laughed a little bubbling laugh. "Sex butters our i*read. I don't know what George and I would do if every one should take to writing romantic comedies. But I know cxactl" how your mother felt. “My people are from Illinois, and T ran away from home when I was 18 to go on the stage. Mother and dad raised a mortgage and came all the way from Peoria to New York to rescue me. I was ‘dancing in a show- then on Fourteenth street. I wore a modest little rag. Like a ballet dancer. Layer on layer of white stuff. And I thought T looked rather like, a cotton batting angel. Well, mother and dad found out w here Twas playing. They reached New York late at night and look a taxi directly to Fourteenth street. And the minute mother saw ms she began to cry. And she criec and cried. It was perfectly terrible. She absolutely broke up the show, and next day there were stories in all the papers about the awful scene she made “I remember somebody, to console mother, told her he thought I locked quite spiritual. And mother, robbing her heart out. dried her eyes, and made a classic, retort. " There certainly isn't much materia! about her!' declared mother." Your mother was a real character." declared Mr. Durbin. "There aren't many like her these days.” Mrs: Durbin smiled, but she said nothing. “A real character." repeated the lit tie producer. "Wasn't she. Mona?” “Yes." she said. "I suppose she was—a real character." It It tt r T' , HEN the conversation switched Xto ‘ characters.' There are so many of them in the theatrical profession. And they talked of this one. and that. Os the celebrated producer who wears a Roman collar. And the great, actress who carries white mice wherever she goes. And the dancer who never breaks a $2 bill, but keeps them in a trunk, for luck. ’ It's all very well for outsiders to enjoy characters." declared Molly. "But it's different. I imagine, if you have one in your own family. Their little whimsies may delight the world, but I'll bet they're an irritation and an embarrassment to the fcliis at home." She was thinking, of course, of her mother, with her sharp tongue and her stern conscience. Her high-but-ton shoes, and her 16-button black kid gloves 'l've known quaint grandmothers." she said, “and arty fathers. And aesthetic sisters. And I'll bet they're a curse and an abomination to their families." Mrs. Durbin had crossed the room, to sit beside Molly. “What you said about characters

—By Williams

, touched a tender spot." she confided. “You know, my dear. I've a I feeling that your mother is rather like my mother. Tell me, truly—was she furious about the play?” “Absolutely furious,” confessed Mollj*. “She's simply frothing at the mouth." Mrs. Durbin sighed sympathetically. “Antagonism in the family has I thwarted many a talent." she obj served. “I suppose she had rather !j ou were an exemplary housewife j than a Broadway favorite?” j "Mother's awfully old-fashioned." | admitted Molly, and added loyally, I "But she means well. And she'd do anything in the world for me.” "Os course she would.” agreed Mrs. Durbin. ana WHERE'S that young man of yours?” someone demanded. Molly was embarrassed. ‘Really, I don't know. He took my father and mother to their hotel. Mother was ill. I thought he would be here long ago. But we needn't wait any longer. I'm a\v- , fully sorry.” The butler entered with a note for Molly. She knew before she ' tore it open that Jack was not. coming to her party. “Dear Molly,” he had written. “I know you won't mind. I shan’t be around this evening after all. Your mother made speeches all the way back to the hotel, and even threw a few hysterics. Nothing serious. Your father had a doctor up, an<J> he's given her a sedative. They're going back to Snodgrass tomorrow, and your father wants me Ito show him the sights. He’s a i great old b<jy. Molly. He wanted j to go to your party, but when he S learned that everybody would be j wearing dinner coats, he thought ! he'd better not. It isn't his kind l of a crowd anyhow. I didn't try to persuade him. I didn’t think he'd enjoy it. He got a great kick out of the play, whatever your mother says. Your mother won't be able to get him away until he has 1 seen you again. I know that. So don't worry. Have a good time. And know that everybody who loves you is rejoicing in your good fortune. “JACK." ! “It's just what I thought." Molly I told them. “Mother is feeling miserably. and father and Mr. Wells are staying to keep her company. They want me to tell you all hotv awfully sorry they are." i When they went in to dinner Mrs. ; Durbin patted Molly's shoulder and whispered understandingly: 'These temperamental parents!” “Oh, it's not dad!” murmured Molly. “It's just mother." The dinner, as such dinners go. was a success. But Molly, who never drank cocktails or champagne, felt, uncomfortably, that they were not her sort of people. They were so very wise. And hard. Hard as nails, she thought. There was something sharp and brittle about their humor. And the women’s laughs were strident and pitched to a false gaiety. (To Bf Continued)

TARZAN OF THE APES

When the tribe saw Kerchak's rage had teased, they came slowly down from their arboreal retreats. They had passed an hour or so pursuing their various occupations when Kerchak called them together and with a word of command to them to follow him. set off tow ard the sea.

THE INDIANAPOLIS TIDIES

BOOTS AND HER BUDDIES

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FRECKLES AND HIS FRIENDS

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WASHINGTON TUBBS IT

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SALESMAN SAM

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MOM’N POP

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And all the way Kala carried her little dead baby hugged closely to her breast. Shortly after noon they reached a ridge o'erlooking the beach where below them lay the tiny cottage which was Kerchak's goal. He had made up his mind to explore the interior of that mysterious den.

—By Martin

He wanted very very much to own that little black stick that had often roared out its terrible message of deatn to some member of the tribe. Tor ay there was no sign of the man about. Slowly, cautiously and noiselessly they crept through the jungle tow ard the little cabin.

OUR BOARDING HOUSE

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Kerchak himself slunk slowly to th p vew door and peered within. Behind him were two males and then Kala clasping her dead babe. They saw the strange white ape lying half acros- a table and a figured covered by a sail cloth. A plaintive wailing came from a tiny cradle.

—By Edgar Rice Burroughs

Kerchak entered. Grej tokr ? with a sudden start and f~ccd tnem. The sight that met his eyes must have frozen him with horror! His revolver j and rifle hung on the far wall. Within ihe door stoed three greaf bul! apes. Behind them crowded many more HOW MANY HE NEVER KNEW!

PAGE 11

—By Ahern

-By Blossei:

By Crane

—By Small

—By Taylor;