Indianapolis Times, Volume 41, Number 221, Indianapolis, Marion County, 24 January 1930 — Page 20

PAGE 20

OUT OUR WAY

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Uoiwedvce NEA Service Inc “£ 6V LAURA LOU BROOKMAN

BEGIN HERE TODAY JUDITH CAMERON, typist in a New York publishing house, marries ARTHUR KNIGHT, executive of the department In which she works. Knight is a widower with a .daughter. TONY, 18. in Paris, and a son, JUNIOR, 16, at school. , _ A honeymoon in Bermuda Js interrupted by a cablegram that Tony is on her way to America. Judith and Arthur sail to meet her. When Knight brings his daughter home the girl ignores her stepmother. Later she tells Judith she must leave the house. Knight, overhearing, forces Tony to apologize. . . . ... The girl spends much of her time with MICKEY MORTIMER, filase amusementseeker whom she met in Paris. As days pass, a state of armed neutrality exists between Tony and Judith. Junior arrives home for the holidays and treats Judith with cold, aloof politeness. Christmas proves to be a dismal day with both children away from home and all Knight's eager preparations are wasted. Judith is uncomfortable until the boy returns to school. ANDY Craig, a young man Knight has helped through college, calls on Tony. Craig is to be employed in the legal department of the publishing house. He has loved Tony for years—rather hopelessly. One afternoon Judith encounters' Craig unexpectedly. She is annoyed at her embarrassment. Because time hangs heavily on her hands, Arthur suggests that Judith should have the house redecorated. Craig calls frequently and one evening when Tony refuses to accompany him to a dog show at Madison Square Garden, Judith goes. _ NOW GO ON WITH THE STORY

CHAPTER NINETEEN (Continued.) THE sound of the car disappearing down the drive came to Knight and his daughter In the living room. “Father,” said Tony softly, snuggling closer and resting her head on his shoulder, “it’s awfully nice to have an evening alone with you—again!” “Why, Tony! As though you couldn’t spend every evening with me if you wanted instead of racing off with all these wild young men!” Knight spoke in vein of easy, quiet playfulness. Tony raised her eyes to her father’s seriously. The wide eyes looked innocent and touched with wistfulness. Then she shook her head slowly. “But it's not—like this. Father! ’ she insisted. “I like to have you alone to myself!” She reached up soft fingers and touched his cheek. “Nonsense! You know you'd rather be frisking around with young folks. That makes me think, Tony. You know there's something in particular I wanted to talk to vou about tonight. I don’t like the Jway you’re mistreating young Andy. Craig!” “Mistreating him? How?” “Well, he comes over here to sec you night after night when you go oft on other engagements or make fun of everything he says. “Andy’s a fine boy, I want to tell you. Any girl he pays attentions to can consider herself lucky. You ought not to treat him the way you do. Tony!” The girl hung her head. For some time there was silence between them. Then Tony looked up slyly, looked away and then back at her father. "I didn't want to tell you.” she a # strained voice. “I wasn't going to—but maybe you'd better know. Andy doesn't come here to ee me at all, father. He comes to see Judith.” CHAPTER TWENTY \RTHUR KNIGHT spoke heatedly. • “Tony, that’s not true. Why. Judith wouldn’t—! You've no reason In the world to say such a thing! It's nonsense.” ”1 didn't want to tell you.” mumbled the girl with eyes downcast. "But It isn't true!” Tony made no reply to this. It was. by far. more effective than ■ rgument. Knight could not deny when she made no allegations. And 'ilence gave Tony the appearance of keeping her own counsel. What did the girl know? Was there anything—anything she was keeping from him? No, of cours* not. It was preposterous! Thoroughly annoyed and upset, Arthur Knight turned on the girl. “You’ve never been fair to your stepmother!” he told he- sternly. "If you think you've seei. lything more than ordinary friendship between her and Andy Craig you've iir ined it. She’s fond of the boy , just as I am. Why—l’ve treated Andy almost like a son. It’s—it’s preposterous.” That was enough. Tbny Knight jumped to her feet. Her eyes were flashing and she •Upped one loot as she cried: 1

“All right for you, Arthur Knight! So I imagine things, do I? Oh, yes, I imagine them! And you've treated Andy like a son. Well—why did you have to marry someone young enough to be your daughter? Why did you do that? Andy and Judith are angels, of course, but I—l. your own daughter—oh, I think you’re hateful!” Tears streaming from her eyes, the girl ran out of the room. A few moments later there was the loud slam of a door being closed | upstairs and Arthur Knight was ; left alone with his thoughts, j He did not see his daughter again that evening. When Judith and Andy Craig came in shortly after 10 o'clock both were too eager to tell of the cuddlesome, wobbly pups, bright-eyed terriers, awkward bulldogs and handsome German shepherds they had seen to notice anything unusual about Arthur Knight’s manner. Judith had lost her heart to one small shaggy Scotch terrier in particular. She lauded him extravagantly. "Well, well,” Knight told her, “why didn't you bring him home with you? There doesn't seem to be any doubt but that we’ll have to have the brute if he’s necessary to your happiness.” His wife smiled slyly. “I did write down the name of the kennels,” she said. “Here it is.” She rummaged in her purse, produced a bit of cardboard and handed it to Arthur. He glanced at it, then pocketed the card. “Well, the evening certainly was a pleasure. Mrs. Knight,” Andy Craig spoke up. “May I say good night now and run along? Same old battle of the alarm clock in the morning, you know. Good night, Mr. Knight I wish you’d gone with us.” “Good night. Andy.” Arthur and Judith spoke almost in unison. a a a WHEN the young man had gone Judith moved over to where her husband stood before the hearth. "It was a fine dog show,” she said softly, “but I'd have enjoyed i it more if you'd been there, dear.” Was there questioning in Arthur | Knight's eyes? For an instant Judith thought she noted something peculiar in the way her husband looked at her. Then lie laughed and she wondered v hat nonsense had prompted the thought. “I’ll see about the pup tomorrow.” he promised. “Been thinking it would be nice to have some sort of a pet about the place. Well, it’s getting late. Better be getting up- ! stairs, I guess.” “Arthur ” He looked at her sharply, saw that Judith was smiling mischievously. She continued: “I’m famished. What about a raid on the ice box?” “Think we might find anything : there?” “Wait a minute—l'll go look.” She came back before long with a tray on which was piled a remarkable midnight lunch. There were cheese sandwiches. cold chicken and tomato sandwiches, thin wedges of apple pie, olives and a dish of baked beans. There was also a pot of fragrant coffee, j “Coffee. Judith, at this hour?” Knight protested. She nodded her head affirraa- | tively. “It's madness. I know, but I was hungry. And nothing in the world is so good as coffee and pie at raid- ( night. They spread the lunch out on the reading table, arrayed themselves guiltily with nankins and set to devouring the food. Twenty minutes later nothing but stray crumbs covered the plates. Judith marshaled the bits of bread into two crossing lines. “X” she pointed them out to Arthur Knight, “marks the scene of tile disaster.” Knight returned the tray to the kitchen table. Then he and Judith mounted the stairs. She thought afterward that he had showed an unusual amount of tenderness that evening. The following morning Arthur Knight awoke to face a disagreeable world. His head'ached. He load not slept lor hours and hours

—Rv WTH^ttis*

through the night. It was that confounded late eating, of course! u a tt JUDITH tried to minister to him as best she could. She found this difficult, for Knight was in testy humor. He wanted aspirin. He did not want a hot water bottle. He vetoed all possible suggestions for breakfast, then capitulated and called for black coffee. When the coffee was ready he wanted dr; toast, too. Knight looked as miserable as he no doubt felt, and the young wife reproached herself. It had been her notion entirely to indulge in the late lunch. She had tempted him with coffee. Arthur's complexion had a sallow tinge that morning. He looked every one of his 48 years. He did not want Judith to stroke his head.' “Does it feel any better at all, now, dear?” she inquired solicitously as he finished the coffee. “Don't know. Guess I can make it to the office all right. Will you tell Bert to bring the car around? Couldn’t stand that damned train this morning.” “But, Arthur. I don’t think you should go to the office when you’re so ill!” Judith worried still after she had seen her husband go down the walk slowly, get into the car and drive away. She knew her thoughtlessness was to blame for his misery. At 11 o’clock she telephoned the office and Arthur Knight’s reassuring voice came back over the wire. Yes, he was feeling better—much better. He would stay through the day at the office and reach home about 5 o'clock. Judith was so concerned over her husband's welfare that for some time she failed to notice Tony. And Tony was taking particular pains that day to be noticed. She came downstairs about 11:30 o'clock, looking glum and occasionally shooting glaring glances in Judith’s direction. She told Harriet she wanted breakfast served in the dining room. Judith wandered about the house, busy with a dozen morning tasks. At 12 o’clock Mrs. Wheeler found her upstairs in her owti room. The housekeeper apparently was laboring under some mental ordeal. She came puffing up the steps and knocked at the bpdroom door. “Come in.” called Judith, and when she saw who was waiting added. “Whv, Mrs. Wheeler, w'hat’s the matter?” “It’s Miss Tony—” she panted. ■‘She's ordered three different breakfasts, ma’am, and sent every one back! Cora's mumbling and taking on something terrible and Harriet’s sittin' down in the kitchen wipin’ her eyes. I don't know what 3’ou’re going to do, ma’am. You can't afford to lose a cook like Cora, ma'am.” Judith was on her feet. “No. of course not. You wait here. Mrs. Wheeler. I'll go down and see what I can do with Miss Tony.” (To Be Continued)

—— —^—i ' ~

With a gasp of terror, Jane clasped the stricken Infant closer, turned and fled up the trial. For behind came the shouting of men and the sound of shots. She knew the Swede had met the Russian! There Vas no time to be lost! A half hour later she stumbled, exhausted, into a little thatched village. Quickly she was surrounded by a swarm of eager, curious, excited natives.

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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THE BEASTS OF TARZAN

They asked a hundred questions, no one of which she could understand. Pointing tearfully at the piteously wailing baby, she repeated over and over. "Fever—fever.” A young woman now semed to sense her trouble and took her to a hut. where the witch doctor came. He boiled a zebra's tail, made weird passes, and mumbled strange incantations. The women sat about moaning and walling.

—By Martin

It must have been nearly midnight when she became aware of a commotion in the village. Presently footsteps approached the hut in which she sat before a fire, with the baby that now lay very still in her lap. She looked at the little face, with fear-haunted eyes. The footsteps she had heard without the hut halted before the door and she was conscious of a strangely familiar voice speaking without.

OUR BOARDING HOUSE

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Bv Edsrar Rice Burroughs

And now she was aware that someone had entered. One of the women threw a fagot upon the dying embers, which, with a sudden flare, lighted up the interior. The blaze disclosed to Jane's horrified gaze that the baby was lifeless! Over the silence broke the hideous wailing of /he women. In her misery, Jane heard her /name spoken. Startled, she raised her eyes—and beheld the evil visage of Nikolas Rokoff.

JAN. 24, 1930

—By Ahern

—By Blosser

- -By Crane

—By Small

—By Cowan