Indianapolis Times, Volume 41, Number 82, Indianapolis, Marion County, 15 August 1929 — Page 13

'AtTG. 15, 1929.

OUT OUR WAY

HkJtW N INO, s TALENT / Sy ELEA/MOU EARLY '*ls? Q 1929 Rv AEA jorvice live.

CHAPTER XXX—(Continued) "Maybe you think I'm kidding you. But Bob carries a revolver these days. Miss Burnham, and that’s no kid. He’d think no more of poppin’ you off than he would of takin’ another drink. I’m the only one that can manage him, when he gets goin’.’* "If you're telling the truth,” asked Molly coolly, ‘why do you want to marry him” Miss Smith scuffed her cigaret on the bedside table. "That's my business,” she retorted. “I suppose he’s refused already?’ "If he hadn't,” admitted Elsie sourly, “I wouldn’t be here.” ‘I don’t know what you think I can do.” a a a MISS SMITH shrugged. "I’ll give you time to think it over,” she offered. “If Bob gets to drinking you’ll be glad enough to come to terms. Boston won t be big enough for you and him. He’ll pester the life out of you. And you can't shut your door on him, nor call the police, because you want his daughter.” Molly vouchsafed no reply. “Well, you heard me. Think it over.” Miss Smith shook out her purple skirts, and preened in the long mirror. "I'm going up to Montreal for a while, to visit a girl friend. You have your answer ready, when I come back.” Shie stopped at the mirror, to touch her lips, and smear a bit of blue shadow' under her eyes. “No hard fellin’s, I hope. You'll be glad enough, dearies, to get rid of the boy friend. Take it from a little girl that knows.” She was at the door, w'hen Molly cried sharply. "How about Rita?” "There’s a high school girl that takes care of her day-times,” explained Miss Smith. "She’s a good girl, and real fond of Rita. I’ve spoken to her already. She’ll be at the flat, waiting to hear from you.” "Does Mr. Newton know what arrangements you’ve made?” "Mr. New'ton?” Elsie's shrill voice took on the affected tones of a society woman. “Oh, Mr. Newton is otherwise engaged.” “He hasn't gone away?” “Well, not far,” Elsie smiled maliciously. "Mr. Newton got blotto last night. It’s a habit with Mr. Newton.” When the door closed behind her caller, Molly sniffed distastefully, and opened the window's That afternoon she telephoned Bob s flat. It was as Elsie had said. A gnTfan ■> oicp told her that Miss Smith was away. Mr. Newton was out of town, too, she thought. But Rita would be ready any time Miss Burnham wished. Her clothes were packed, and her toys. Before dark everything was settled. The baby had her supper that night in the blue and buttercup nursery. And Molly undressed and bathed her. and tucked her in the fairy-tale bed. that had Alice in Wonderland on the headboard. And the Mad Hare, with his tall silk hat and his white kid gloves in his hand, scurrying across the footboard. Then she telephoned Mr. Durbin. He was arranging, he told her. for immediate production. There might be a little trouble with the censors. But that wouldn't make any difference. It would be good advertising. "But what could they object to?” she asked in astonishment. "Well, the suicide. The motive's not what you’d call simo-npure, you know.” "But. my goodness, they can’t expect people to commit suicide for only exemplary purposes! A man's got to have some reason for shooting himself. And it isn't always a pretty reason, is it?” u a a Durbin laughed. "Nine times out of ten it's a pretty ugly one.” he admitted. “But the censors are nice, cheery little boys, who like to have us look on the bright side of life. Besides, if they didn't censure, they wouldn't be censors, would they? Naturally, they've got to And something to kick about. But don’t you worry pbotrt that. They won’t be able to close us. And all their chattering wilt be Just so much advertising.” “1 thought of a good name today.” Molly told him. “What do you think of 'Sacrifice?' You see there's the sacrifice of mother for daugh-

ter, and daughter for mother. And then there’s the boy’s sacrifice to chivalry and honor.” The producer demurred. “Not very sexy,” he pronounced. But Molly did not want a sexy title, Or an unpleasantly suggestive one of any sort. And four weeks later, when the play opened it was called “Sacrifice.” The censors w'ere there that first night. They went into conference between acts. And, at midnight, when the last curtain had gone down, they met again, to prepare a hasty statement. As soon as it wash typed, they rushed it to the j newspapers. Meantime the critics were writing their reviews. “Sacrifice,” they said, was a better play than “The Death of Delphine Darrows.” In her sympathetic study of a modern young thrill-seeker, Miss Burnham had scored her biggest triumph. She had portrayed, with exquisite delineation the tremendous and self-sacrificing love of mother and daughter. Her courtroom scene, they declared, was as dramatic as that celebrated scene from "Delphine.” The plot itself hinged upon a situation that had to be handled with rare delicacy. The critics were unanimous in their opinion that Molly had achieved her final climax wthout offense. Mr. Durbin was elated. Molly wondered how—with countless successes to his credit—he could retain all the fervor of his most youthful enthusiasms. The applause of the audience left her cold. She was unutterably weary, and lonely, with a fierce loneliness. She had written to ask her mother and father to go to New York for the opening night, and then to be her guests in Boston. But her mother had written promptly and politely, declining in firm tones. However, she thanked Molly for her kind invitation. And she hoped sincerely, she ’ said, that some day Molly would return to her father's home. Mr. Burnham had neuralgia. A painful attack that made traveling impossible. Red Flynn was doing a series on the liquor situation in Canada and could not leave Ottawa, where an important interview pended with his excellency, the Governor-General. Bob was in town, but Molly did not care to invite him. She hoped, in fact, that he would not attend. For the first night of “Delphine” she had sent Jack a ticket and asked him to sit with her father and mother. She would never be able to forgot that evening and its nideous aftermath. In very recollection it could make Molly ill with the poignant memory of her misery and humiliation. She had considered sending Jack a ticket for "Sacrifice,” but decided, at the last moment, that it would be undignified—as though she were soliciting his attendance. But Jack was there. She saw him from the wings. With him was a woman. A stout, florid creature in red. Molly had never in her life seen so many diamonds on one woman as that fat lady wore. They were even in her hair, which was not at all fashionable, but certainly conspicuous. They sat in the very front row. And Molly noticed that the woman kept her hand on Jack's arm. CHAPTER XXXI OF course it spoiled the evening for her—Jack's being with a woman. And sittng as they were, in the front row, where Molly could hardly keep her eyes off them all evening. Such a woman, too! “If she were young and pretty, I wouldn’t mind half so much!” fumed Molly. But that, of course, was wrong. She would have minded a great deal more. "The wretched creature!” she fretted. “Done up like a circus rider, and fat enough to burst! A woman like that would wear red—it’s exactly the colo" of her face.” There was no doubt about it. It was Mrs. Bulwer-Eaton all right. "A charming matron.” the papers called her! Well. Molly knew what she’d call her—only the papers wouldn't print it . . . The big fat ox! Hadn't she sense enough to know that coquetry in a woman of her age was simply disgusting? The j way she was hanging on to Jack’s arm l And Jack red as & beet.

—By Williams

Molly was glad he had the decency to be embarrassed. At last it was over. The curtain came down on the last act. And the lights went up over the theater. Mrs. Bulwer-Uaton was clapping her puffy hands. And her diamonds were bleaming like mad. “Author! Author!” cried the audience. And, once agani, Molly found herself on the stage, breathless and bowling. She was wearing yellow' tonight. Yellow taffeta, with an enormous bow in back, like the bustles of long ago.. Over her shoulders she wore a spangled scarf of chiffon the color of water-lily leaves. Mrs. Bulwer-Eaton. against her crimson front, clasped a corsage of w'hite orchids. With a quick movement, she snatched them from her gown, and threw them at Molly’s feet. Molly had meant to ignore Jack. But now she stooped for the orcids. and accepted them with a smiling nod. Jack’s face was as scarlet as his lady’s gown. Molly was glad if he was embarrassed. She wished he would burst a blood vessel. It would serve him right! Afterward she had supper at the Exclusive Club with Mr. and Mrs. Durbin. And there they saw the morning papers. On the front pages were the threats of the censors! They meant to close the show’. To padlock the theater. To arrest the author and the producer and all the actors. Molly’s coffee cup clattered from her hand, and, breaking on the table, spilled its ambler contents over the skirt of her lovely yellow frock. But Mr. Durbin struck his knee with his hand, with a mighty slap. “Great!” he applauded. "Great!” echoed Molly faintly. aa ' a SHE felt as she did that day in Pension White, when she opened the cable that told of Rita’s death. Quite as if she were going to faint, and slide right under the table. A waiter w r as trying to mop her lap. A buss boy came running with more serviettes. But she waved them away. “Pease. It doesn’t matter.” She reached, instead, for a glass of water. It would be too awful to make a scene. “Wonderful!” Mr. Durbin was saving. “The best break I’ve had in a long time.” “I think it’s dreadful,” quavered Molly. ‘Perfectly dreadful!” "Close up?” he cried. “They can’t close us. Maybe they can bring us to court, and maybe they can’t. I doubt if they can. But anyhow we win. They can t put a legitimate endeavor out of business. There isn’t a fair-minded judge in the state could find us guilty of presenting an obscene spectacle. We’ll get a clean bill of health all right. Nobody but a bunch of fanatics could object to a play like ‘Sacrifice.’ But, meantime, while the thing is dragging—while they’re trying to padlock us—think of the publicity we’ll have!”

(To Be Continued)

TARZAN OF THE APES

Tarzan always kept his grass rope lasso in readiness when journeying through the forest, catching many small animals. At last came she whom he sought—Sabor. the lioness. Nearer and nearer—to where Tarzan of the Apes enqueued upon his limb, the colls of his long rope-poised ready.

THE INDIANAPOLIS TIMES

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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Like a thing of bronze sat Tarzan. Sabor passed beneath. Three strides she took. Then the silent coil shot out and settled about her neck. With a quick jerk, Tarratn snapped the noose tight about the glossy neck. She made a bound and fell upon her neck! Sabor was trapped.

—By Martin

But Sabor had now found that it was only a slender cord that held her, and, grasping it in her huge jaws, she severed it! Tarzan was much hurt. His well-laid plan had come to naught. Sabor paced back and forth beneath the tree for. hours, often springing at him. ' _

OUR BOARDING HOUSE

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Tarzan mocked and danced above her, hurling twigs and branches at her unprotected face. At last he tired of the sport. With a parting roar of challenge, and a well-aimed ripe fruit that spread over her face, he swung rapidly through the trees a hundred feet above the ground. / y /

—By Edgar Rice Burroughs

In a short time he was among the members of his tribe. And here he recounted the details of his adventure, with swelling chest and so considerable a swagger that he impressed even hie bitterest enemies, while Kala fairly danced for joy and pride at her fo^erson’s bravery and prowess.

PAGE 13

—By AherU

By BlosseiJ

—By Crane

—By Small

—By Tayloc