Indianapolis Times, Volume 41, Number 78, Indianapolis, Marion County, 10 August 1929 — Page 11

AL G. IU, 1 'jiJ

OUT OUT? WAY

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%/MINING-TALEMT / Ky ■ ELEANOR EARLY TH? ©R29 By ALA Yerv.ce kt

THIS HAS HAPPFNEP MOLLY BURNHAM, in th- mi'ist, nf turbulent rereer. goes alone to Italy. Hr advontures an 1 many and exciting. From Naples, she travels to Rome, and then to Venice. Later shf* goes to and buys her sweetheart. JACK WELLS, a fascinating ring from an old silver smith on Font* Veechio. Returning, hepp'lv. to the pension where she is staving, she receive a cable. Tearing it open rather tearfully. Molly falls at the feet of SKiNORIN A BENVENUTI mistress of the pension. For the first time in her life, she has fainted. NOW GO ON WITH THE STORY CHAPTER XXVI < Continued.) Molly's money was beginning to disappear. Before, she had always stopped at hotels. But in Florence, In order to economize, she had gone to a pension, which is rather like a boarding house in America. Only most pensions are nicer than most board ng houses. And Pension White, on the River Arno in Florence. happens to be run by one of the nicest women anywhere. Molly was beginning to erv, when B cnorina Benvenuti knocked r t her rieor. Perhaps she had guessed that Molly was travel worn and tired, and and seppointed because there was no mail. "Wouldn't yon like to begin getting acquainted with Florence?" she asked. "There is time before dejeuner to stroll down to Ponte Vechh'o. if you care to." Mollev looked blank. "Pcnte vecchio,” Signorina hastened to explain, “is the little old bridge that crosses the Aino. You'll know the minute you see it, because I'm sure you must have hundreds of pictures of' it. A’disls have be*n painting Ponte Yecehio for a thousand years, I guess. It's where all the jewelry shops are tucked away. Many of them on the very spots where goldsmiths sold trinkets to the Medici." Molly wiped her eyes. "Ive been having a dreadful fit of blues," she confessed. “But shopping always braves me up. Thank you so much. Signorina." I'll buy Jack a ring." she was thinking, "to make up for the little diamond that lie gave me. Maybe 3 can find an antique in one of those old shops." Tt was almost- too good to be true. She ventured into a stall that was smelly and down-at-the-heel. And there sat an ancient, silversmith, sticking rubies in the eyes of a silver monster, on a silver ring! The old man spoke no English, but he called a school boy apprentice in, who was studying the language. And the boy said that the ring was a copy of one worn by Lucrezia Borgia, who secreted a poison powder in the head of the monster. He showed Molly the secret spring that opened the creatures head, and there was a place to hide poison enough to murder a tiresome lover any day. "I suppose." hazarded Molly doubtfully, "that it costs a fortune." The apprentice conferred with the master. "Twentyifive dollars.” he said, "and hand-wrought. Signorina. by the finest smith in Florence. And the eyes of the monster are of rubies." "I ll take it," she declared, fearful lest the apprentice had made a mistake. and would correct it before she could acquire possession. It was not until she bought, in the market place, raflia handbags for 29 cents—the kird that sell in the smart shops at home for ss— she felt quite sure Florence was a wonderful place for shoppers. Happily she returned to Pension White, with the precious ring fur Jack and amethvst earrings for Rif A. Signorina herself drew back the big bolt on the door, and admitted Molly gavly. •The mail has come." she declared. "and also a cablegram." It costs such a lot to cable from the States to Italy that a cable is sometimes a rather fearsome thing. Molly took it nervously, and tore it open. “I hope it is good tidings,” remarked -JB gnorina Benvenuti. She was sorting the letters of her guests, and placing them on a table. And her back, as she spoke, was toward Molly. She turned when she felt a little fluttering hand on her shoulder. Molly's arms were outstretched and shaking. Before Signorina Benvenuti could catch her. she had fallen. Tire cable was in her hand.

. . . For the first time in her life Molly had fainted. CHAPTER XXVTT SERVANTS came running when Signorina Benvenuti called. Signorina chafed Molly's cold hands, and pressed brandy between her lips. And, when she could not be revived, they carried her to a divan in the living room: and the concierge went on his bicycle for a doctor. Then Signorina Benvenuti re- ' trieved the cable that had fluttered 1 from Molly’s stiff fingers. "RITA DEAD." it read. "INSISTED DURING CONSCIOUSNESS THAT YOU BE NOTIFIED j IMMEDIATELY. BOB.” Tears came to the Italian lady's j eyes. Her sympathetic Latin na- ! ture responded readily to the grief 1 of any living thing, and for the litI tie American girl traveling alone j she wept sincerely. Molly stirred, and her eyelids fluttered. I “I have great sorrow for you, j Signorina," murmured the mistress lof the pension. "I have read your message, and weep my grief." I Molly stared with unseeing eyes. The concierge had returned with j the doctor. And the murmur of j anxious voices penetrated her con- | seiousness. She raised herself on her elbow. Everything was clear now. She remembered the cable, and realized she bad fainted. “My best friend is dead,” she said, "and I must go home immediately, to tqkc care of h°r baby. I, I hope I didn’t frighten you. It was a j dreadful shock." Signorina nodded understandingly. “To be sure." she murmured. “A dreadful shock. I shed tears myself." She wiped her eyes. “The bambino?" slip asked. “You i will be mama to the little bam- ; bino?” "I promised my friend,” exclaimed Molly, "that if she died. I would take her little girl. She was ill then. But I never realized the end was so near. She did not seem very sick. I never dreamed . . Molly's voice | broke. “Sometimes it is better,” consoled the older woman, “when death i comes quickly. God knows best, j May He have mercy on her soul.” Molly nodded through her tears. “Yes. Rita wouldn't have wanted to suffer and be ill. I know that.” “She was content, maybe, to die, when she knew you would be mama ;to the little bambino,” declared Signorina. “And now if you will have a glass of my wine . . She proffered a goblet of purple liquid. The sun, slanting through | the shutters, filled it with light, so that it was amethyst and ruby, like i the sweet grapes from which it i came. “It will revive you,” she said. a a a MOLLY drank it gratefully. "I feel better already,” she declared. "I'm sorry I was weak and silly. I must have frightened you. Do you know. Signorina. when there ’ is a boat for the States?” Signorina did not know, but soon the concierge was busy with sailing lists and steamship tracts. The Conte Grande was sailing from Naples on Thursday. He would arrange immediately for reservation. Did Signorina wish to send a cable? Molly dictated a message of sympathy to Bob. It was good to have someone do bar thinking for her. Bob's answer was delivered the next day—the day of Rita's funeral. Whatever Rita desired, he ; said, should be done. Molly was very kind. He would meet her in New York, and they should talk things over. Thank God. he added, little Rita was too young for grievi mgJack cabled too. Bob had told limi that Molly knew of Rita's : death, and that she had offered to take the baby. He ‘sent his sympathy, and commended her for her ' generosity. But there was not a i word of love, nor hope expressed that he might see her in New York. When Molly read it, she practically decided to give the Borgia ring to Red Flynn. Red had been wonderful about Writing. Molly fancied that, be- ; tween the lines, she could read a I great many loving expressions. But the letters themselves were chatty and gossipy. She should commercialize her fame, he advised.

—By Williams

Another play, perhaps. Or a book. Maybe she could do some short stories. She was still, the child wonder of Broadway. The ingenue prodigy. The red-haired baby-gir! who could call the tricks any old lay. "They're eating out of your hand —the dear public,” wrote Red, "but they’re fickle as a flock of women. Keep ’em while you got ’em —and ride 'em for a flock of suckers. Can't you dish up another order of Crime, with a little Sex on the side? And give it to ’em het. dear. Hot and medium raw. And make 'em love it!” Reading a letter from Red was like talking to ,him. He had good ideas, too, His insistence upon holding the public, when she had them. Now was the time, she knew, to keep her place in the sun. She had a reputation, and she must keep it. Before very' long she would be forgotten. And, after that, she would have to start all over again. Mr. Durbin had written, urging that she begin work on another play. "The Death of Delphine Darrows” had proved the sustained hit of the season. He seemed willing to take a chance on almost anything Molly might write. “But don't turn sweety-pie on me,” he warned. “The public has you tagged as a girl who knows her crime. You can’t pull any love-among-the-daisies stuff on them. . . Kow about a nice juicy murder?” a tt a MOLLY had torn up his letter impatiently. She did not want to be tagged as a girl who knew her crime. Better love-amorg-the-daisies than a ‘nice, juicy murder!” Now, crushed with grief by Rita's death, confronted with the prospect of a long and unbearably lonely voyage, she decided to devote the entire trip to the task of writing another play. For some time she had revolved in her mind the dramatic possibilities of a tragedy of young love—the sympathetic study of a modern thrill-seeker. Life had furnished all the characters. The tragedy had taken place while Molly was in college. In real life, the inglorious hero had been murdered. For the purposes of a play, she would have him commit suicide—in a sacrifice' to honor and chivalry. But. until the last moment, the audience must believe him murdered. Even the defendants, and his sweetheart. must believe him murdered. The p'ot should revolve about the love of mother and daughter—each ready to give her life, to save the other—each believing the other guilty of murder. A freshman in college had fallen in love with a man whom her parents considered unworthy. Learning of the romance, her father had gone to the boy. There was a stormy session, during which the youth declared that the girl was pursuing him. that she had thrown herself at his head, and that whatever happened was her own fault. (To Be Continued 1

TARZAN OF THE APES

Tarzan was anxious to return to the cabin and continue his investigations of its wondrous contents. So early one morning he set forth alone. He found the knife, beside the bones of the gorilla. Enter,ng. he closed and locked the door and then turned his attention to * the picture books.

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BOOTS AND HER BUDDIES

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FRECKLES AND HIS FRIENDS

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WASHINGTON TUBBS II

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SALESMAN SAM

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MOM’N POP

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The pictures caught his fancy most. One, of a little ape similar to himself, fascinated him mightily. It had a strange colored fur, for such he thought the coat and trousers were. Beneath the picture were these little bugs—B-O-Y. Under another picture the “bugs.'’ appeared again— A B-O-Y AND A D-O-G.

—By Martin

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Long he puzzled; but slowly, very slowly, he learned. By the time he was fifteen he knew the various combinations of letters that stood for every p'eture in the little prime? and in one or two of tim picture books. He persevered for months—each time he came to the cabia

OUR BOARDING HOUSE

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One day he found a number of lead pencils in a drawer. Scratching upon the table top with one of them, he was delighted to find the black line it left behind it. He attempted to reproduce some of the little “bugs" of his books. It was a difficult task.

ri|||n, f OUT WOULO YA tfilMD WAITIMOr A ' : *0? I TILE. TH’ UUSSOS HA.S HAD J SISW s? —T \\ JBm. "*' )/ 'VV' T W [T^r

—By Edgar Rice Burroughs

Repeated experiments taught him how to hold a pencil. Thus he made a beginning at writing. From then on his progress was rapid. HLs reason now told h;m he was of a different race from his companions. He was a M-A-N. He didn't know he could not speak man's language. •

PAGE 11

—By Ahem

—By Blosser;

—By Crane

—By Small

—By Taylofi