Indianapolis Times, Volume 42, Number 28, Indianapolis, Marion County, 12 June 1930 — Page 12

PAGE 12

OUT OUR WAY

THER'S TH' DIFFRUNCE BETWEEN AN' INEXPERIENCE--EXPERIENCE NEVER STOPS AROUND A GIRLS' BALL GAME.__"OH I MISSED IT--BUT THERE'S A NICE BOY--HE'LL RUN AN' GET IT, WON'T YOU?, OH THANK YOU--OH THERE, SHE'S MISSED IT TOO." LET 'IM GET SOME EXPERIENCE HEROES ARE MADE--NOT BORN.

TWIN WIVES COPYRIGHT IBY ARTHUR SOMERS ROCHE

SYNOPSIS The two girls who are so amazingly alike argued for a few minutes and then Eleanor, the heiress, changed clothes with Cynthia. the chorus girt, and put on Cynthia's dress. She had evolved a, daring plan which was that she would return to the bedside of she would-be suicide Phil, whom she loved devotedly, while Cynthia representing her and dressed in her clothes was to go to Eleanor's house and pose for an hour or two as the bride of a few hours, pretending to be nervous and ill from the excitement of the wedding. CHAPTER EIGHT AS It was. thrust through no real volition of her own into an amazing masquerade, it never occurred to her, as she told the man to drive her to the Molvania, that later on the man might remember, when questioned, that he had driven Eleanor from the cheap hotel where Phil Jennings lay in semi-coma. Indeed, little clear-cut thought formed in her bewildered brain. She was too blurred, too obsessed with the feeling that she was doing a wrong, but that it was a wrong that some queer fate had planned long ago, when she and Eleanor had been cast in the same mold, and that it was wrong which she was ordained to do. Wrongdoing, to the normally minded person, presents itself as a complicated maze, beset with pitfalls and obstructions which should deter the evil-minded at the very outset. Virtue is prone to look upon vice as something so foreign and outlandish that its very aspect is a warning. Foggy though Cynthia's mind was, she yet vaguely feared that this mad—and wicked—adventure would be cut short before it was fairly on its way. She was to learn what, amazingly, has to be taught to every one; that one step in the wrong direction is easy, that the second is easier, that the third is less difficult, and that sin is infinitely less complicated than goodness until a certain point is reached. Riding to the Molvania, feeling the taxi man. passing through the lobby, unlocking the private door and stepping furtively into the Sanver home were all surprisingly simple things to do. The curious-minded who lingered before the bride’s home never noticed the girl who emerged from the taxicab. The persons who were in the apartment house lobby didn’t glance at her. The incurious attendants paid no attention to the girl who unlocked the private door. This very lack of curiosity was perhaps why they remained lackeys. For the ignorant are interested only in something noisy or eye-filling. A girl going about her business meant nothing. Nevertheless, easy though the first steps unexpectedly had proved to be, the feet that had taken those steps were uncertain as they turned to the left toward the flight of stairs that Eleanor had described to her double. And the knees above were weak and shaking as the ascent began. From somewhere at the right came noises, as of a herd of milling cattle, or possibly more like the buzzing of a hive of Gargantuan bees. These were the sounds made, she assumed, by the guests and relatives at the wedding breakfast. Bewilderment and fear both left her, to be replaced by cool caution. a m a UP to now her fears had been concerned solely with the possible effect of her impersonation upon Eleanor Sanvir—or rather Eleanor Carey. So soaked had she been in the personality of Eleanor, so submerged in thought of the scandal that might break about the head of the reckless girl, who was now speeding toward Phil Jennings, that she had given no heed to the dangers that threatened herself. But now the sounds made by the .throng, muffled though they were by distance and closed doors, became minatory, and the menace seemed directed toward herself. For a scandal that might wreck Eleanor would engulf Cynthia. Eleanor had money; she had a father whose power might easily extend to the press. Moreover, to aid Eleanor in her battle against scandal there would always be the solacing support of some one’s love. Weakling though the Jennings man unquestionably was, the mutual love existing between him and Eleanor would be a tower of refuge whither Eleanor could flee. A great i love is a buckler, a spear, an engine aof attack and of retreat It is like f|a inagic cloak which at will renders

the wearer or the world invisible. But with Cynthia Brown there were none of these things to bolster her in her desperate position. For with sudden clarity it had come to her that her position might be extremely desperate. For no particular reason that in the moment she could see, the noises of the wedding guests made her realize, as she had not done before, the enormity of the thing she had set out to do. Not its enormity as regarded Eleanor or Dean Carey, but as regarded herself. She was alone in the world. From a little Ohio town, where the local newspaper had made much of her singing in the choir, she had, upon graduation from high school, come to New York. Her parents, solid, respectable people, had left her a few thousand dollars. The life of a small town had no attraction for a girl who felt that she had a career ahead of her. And the death of her parents cut the only bond that bound her to Ohio. The sage village banker had advised her against drawing her little capital, but the principal was so small that the income would not do for her the things she wanted. For her ambitions had been circumscribed only by the limits of her imagination; study in Italy, a debut at the Metropolitan, a career that would astound the world. And why not? Hadn’t the daughter of a professional ball player achieved international renown? Hadn’t, more recently, a girl from Kansas conquered New York by the glory, of her voice? u QO the capital had been squandered, the village banker would have said, for the dreams never came to reality. A mediocre singing voice, sweet and appealing, but of no great power or range, was the net result of the expenditure of three years of study and travel and of the few thousands which constituted her bulwark against want. Not the kind to weep over spilt milk, Cynthia had turned her ambitions from a creer to a job. And so she had landed in Zogbaum's chorus and had achieved this not through her voice, but through her beauty of face and figure and a quick ability to master intricate dance steps. As she hesitated on the stairs the high spots of her life seemed to pass in review before her. What would happen to a girl from the country if she were discovered in this impersonation? Would an indignant bridegroom, an angry father and some hundreds of outraged wedding guests use violence toward her? Would the police be summoned, and would she be locked up in a cell? And would her name and shame be blazoned to all the world? But, now that she was considering herself and not Eleanor, her mind was clean. Consideration of herself was all that was needed to bring into play a mind naturally keen and resourceful. She dismissed almost the idea of turning back at this last possible minute. The wedding guests, Eleanor’s father and Eleanor’s husband were not people to be feared; they were to be outwitted for an hour or so! Surely a girl who had dreamed of being not merely a great singer, but also a great actress, could succeed in this adventure. At any rate, if failure overtook her, she could not let it be because fear made her laggard. Her knees lost their weakness as she reached the second landing. Once again she turned to the left and faced a door. Although Eleanor, in her haste, had not told her so. she assumed that this was not the usual entrance to Eleanor's apartment, but was probably the door which the maid used when breakfast was brought to her mistress. The stairs which she had ascended were undoubtedly servants’ stairs. But speculation was valueless now. She stepped across the hall and tried the door. It was locked. She knocked upon it. “Mary,” she called. From somewhere beyond the door she heard a gasp that might have been of fear pr of relief, and then there were the sounds of quick footsteps. The door was thrown open, and she facing the first testg of her impersonation. 1

—By Williams

A WIDE-EYED woman, whose fear and anxiety somehow conveyed an impression of disheveled dress and hair, almost dragged her into the room. “Miss Eleanor—how could you? An hour and a half —Mr. Carey—your father—” Cynthia quelled the incoherencies. “You didn’t let them in?” she asked. Vehemently the maid shook her head. “I’d have died first.” A gieam of humor shone in her eyes. Reaction from hysterical • mirth. “And they’d have died, too,” she declared. As she spoke she pulled Cynthia through a room that, equipped with a single bed, seemed to be the mand’s bedroom. For the next room to which they came was furnished on a scale which Cynthia had never witnessed before. The bed; the rugs on the floor; the articles upon a dressing table; the mirrow, the glimpse through a half-open door of a bathroom such as Cynthia had not known existed* the bridal costume, still lying on the bed; the packed bags; the closets bulging with gowns—two doors were ajar—and the thousand and one things that make for luxury and that are tangible evidences of wealth all dazzled the eyes of the girl who had known only a homey house in Ohio, shabby pensions in Europe, a cheap apartment beyond Eighth avenue and enough money to live on, but no more. Heretofore she had not analyzed her feelings toward Eleanor; urged by that identity of body and spirit which seemed to belong to them both, she had done for the other what some deep instinct told her Eleanor would do for her. But now she felt a certain respect for Eleanor's courage, even though that courage was better defined by the name of recklessness. For it was within the bounds of plausibility that Thomas Sanver would disinherit a daughter who behaved as outrageously as Eleanor was behaving. ‘ ' , . Eleanor could not have been sc reckless that she ignored this pos-. sibility. Scandal and disgrace and also poverty Eleanor was braving. The thought gave Cynthia new courage. She surely could be no less brave than the other girl, and to bravery she would add the cool caution that Eleanor lacked. “Where have you been?” asked the maid. Cynthia shook an impatient head. “You are never to ask me again —never to refer to this again. You are to forget, that I ever left this room.” (To Be Continued) Named to School Post Bu Time * Special NOBLESVILLE, Ind., June 12. City council has chosen Augustus Dreher, Democrat, a member of the Noblesville school board to succeed C. M. Gentry, whose term has expired. Gentry is a Republican and was a board member sixteen years..

THE SON OF TARZAN

Tan tor, the elephant, flapped his big ears lazily as he slowly walked through the teeming midday jungle. Now and then he would reach for some juicy morsel with his trunk. On his broad back lolled Korak, the ape-man. They made but a few miles each day. What matter to Korak. He had no place in particular to go. Since the years before when be had lost He was^bntent

THE INDIANAPOLIS TIMES

BOOTS AND HER BUDDIES

/ ” “N / “ S/• ;,- " " r ‘ ' ■’ ”■ '"Ny ' GEE \ \ READ iKi tW 9 PER W*fcߣ j aYo ,\ MS.M4 , HOWOV j AWE.M * XES MVtR X. WAS 60W*lx SKvV TOR. OO .VO.XR. l ! HAM •• \T HOHT ’. i THUOK \UV XOUC£ COER Ym I. 'rtxAv STER KiTta wn 6'6VE '.TI WmiT TO AVW ij. Twxs WAX, W’RM.-Vfc'S AV.REM7X Bi6*6TD •••• < i VV£A<bt oAnXVXOW ,tERXTXwWs AW OOSR 7 I sttwtto XT I • iTTA- j i! • ”, ' , * r T. CAMT STAX X.OOG 1 . "V SOS’ CAME ||||l|§| OH ,KYo *—• SA-AAX !Il OoHAHAHoMw f VSTT HISTTR X, 1 HfcAKi . TRAKJZ 1 M§|| I XOOR OLO MAK> \S —J WW \6fiY H.X 1 TEtL AS XT \ AVRTfvCX VW*> \<\K>OA HX6H HAT , [ TATHER Ht'S XOOR HVfe'.WTSS IA. GOT TS<OOW XShi'T HE ? J \ A fcOTVJEH TRAKiZ. RITKTX —X'STt / ttYo, A, J ' ' RtSCOEO HT.TRWA A VSRO OT l SOOTS jpil|| 1\ < . '•* m | __

FRECKLES AND HIS FRIENDS

THERES THAT TRIO OF AVIATORS AND THE KID, FRECKLES I'VE BEEN READIN' ABOUT IN THE PAPERS--I'LL SWOOP DOWN AND HAND THEM A NOTE.!!

WASHINGTON TUBBS II

S NOU V-SORe.FSLLA. PSVTI LOOK<T TU PO'SONED /& wflV l TRADeoM IwpAT VOO GOT? J FOR.THEIR. BIOWGONS. BOY, '0 SUC>£/ APT6.C A FEW PAYS Os ToiUNG OP RIV£R,THEY COME Hl | f / ZrGTO A WILD, MOUNTAINOUS, R&G'ON OF INDOCHINA If *VLJ l ■)&.„/ J INFES’.ED WITH TiGERS AND EVIL-LOOKING SAVAGES. SAVAGES, HOWEVER, SEEM HOSPITABLE ENOUGH, * ‘-'AHt EAGERLV TRADE BOWES OF RICE FOR “SALT. '

SALESMAN SAM

AdEU-.Hefl-e. 1 At- Heupiu'Y "I ( ( P'W- oppimo- comss e>u" Ti I (soww, tAiss. voo'r&t&o II oh.m'es, OUT VtR. AT WORKS' j ; APPLICANT OM "WE RUMUINO-! /) 6 Lftre. 1 ABOUT TVJEMTT TGAR.S. eMPUOTP\£NT AOrS.UCT! WOWTA / C_J _ V —, 2 —‘—, ■ 1 T \ ■ . ■

MOM’N POP

■ ( -MV UNCLE SAID YOU WHY.I THOUGHT IT MADE FACES AND / WAS XOU.HONESTi I WIGGLED VOUR FINGERS \ WANTED TO TAKE AT HIM THROUGH THE 1 YOU FOR A RIDE WINDOW AND WE RAVED / AND l WAS SPELLIN' AND SAID THAT HE'D TIC / IT ON MX FINGERS. ’ you IN A KNOT IF HG j AND WHEN l LOOKED CAUGHT VOU OVER / AND SAW A MAN AT \\IEREI _ WINDOW l VV^S>

Today he had come upon the trail of the sheik's band, but it did not interest him. All he wanted was never to see a human face again. Men always brought him sorrow and misery. It had been years since he had come this far north and the sight of a river aroused him somewhat from his apathy. For a while he busied himself fishing, then; gMpigd. jfeiinrelf in a fe to sleep. Nutria, t aT N him. He saw that#-

—By Martin

Presently something else caught his attrition. He listened. Was there something else in the tree beside himself? Yes, he heard the noise of something trying to clamber above. Then the click of a crocodile's jaws in the waters beneath! Korak gazed downward. Against the faint luminosity of the water he saw the figure of a man clinging to one of the lower branches. Silently the ape-man clambered to-

OUR BOARDING HOUSE

B>&ar I HAv/e. IAl& ROOM , OF A HUMPREP VARIOUS *Y j TOMORROW YoUYL 60 [Here WE GA*i -Take our l Daujid iu TWe tASEMemT f I Worp vou Have yr mjp giue those tro n-rj \ WHAT a TrATIGUIAJib / PoßCri WICKER cHairs \ IT IS'-Hm-W- -BUT Ii( A COAT GF VAR/xIISH t ~: kRET-ULLV OVER *THe ] > /(&!> THEM HAMG UP i lip PECIPEP THAT IT WILL J V THe PoRcH SUJ/M<3!lV fMER VELLoWSTo/ME PARK, < V - ,^ t A Tour oFTHE CAUAPIAM I v -

WHAT'S HE TRYING TO DO--

boat for pays, AS THE RMER. Becomes SWIFTER, it LOOKS ASTHO THEY -(-HE RIVER becoming narrow MIGHT HAVE TO TURN BACK, UNTIL WASH STRIKES A AN p LIFTER, THE MOUNTAINS - roggiPPiNG.

ROARING MAD-HE’S / ABOUT ME-VM ( 7’ „ [/ LATER GLADYS, t O AWFUL MEAN AND / NOT AFRAID OF l HE U ££.TTCR SKIP OUT VM SO WORRIED- # HIM. HE CAN'T \ NO'\A/ 1 . / l WHS WAX AND OVER MX IF HE'D EVER \ SCARE ME OR KEEP \ \ TUt gACVC FENCE 1\

By Edgar Rice Burroughs

Korak reached down, clutched the figure beneath him and dragged it up among the branches. It struggled weakly and struck at him; but Korak paid no more attention than would Tantor to an ant. He lugged his burden to the higher safety and greater comfort of a broad crotch, and. there propped it against the tree’s trunk. Nuroa, .below, roared in anger at , being so robbed of his prey. Thus Korak, the

JUNE 12, 1930

—By Ahern

—By Blossei:

—By Crane

—By Small

—By Cowan