Indianapolis Times, Volume 42, Number 114, Indianapolis, Marion County, 20 September 1930 — Page 8

PAGE 8

pi t T our WAY

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BEGIN HERE TODAY CELIA ROGERS. 17 arrti lust out o' high school, lives with her widowed mother. MARGARET ROGERS, in Baltimore. Mrs. Roeers is seamstress emDloved in a dress shop. Celia, after a lons search, finds work Rr. a stenographer. BARNEY SHIELDS, round newspaper photoßrapher. tells the cirl he loves her and swears some day thev will he married. Mrs Roßers receives a letter sißncd JOHN MITCHELL. olTerinß to Rive Celia cvcrv advantaße of education, travel, and social position if the mother will Rive her up. Marßaret declares she never will do this, but when she is faced with serious illness and loss of her iob she aßrces. Mitchell comes to Baltimore and has a lone interview with Marßaret. He chills at the Rorcts' apartment and Marßaret introduces him, sayinß. ' Celia, this is vour father.'' NOW GO ON WITH THE STORY CHAPTER EIGHT FOR an instant the room was silent. It was an electric stillness. Then Margaret Rogers went on falteringly. She was addressing her daughter and her voice was tense and low. “You don't understand, darling. You were too little to remember. But this is your father! He's come to—talk to you.’’ She turned toward Mitchell. “Cejja’s almost a young lady. Don’t youthink so?” Margaret managed a smile, but her words were tinged with hysteria. Celia’s eyes had not left her mother’s face. “But, mother—?” There was dismay in every syllable. Fiercely, protectively, Margaret Rogers gathered the girl into her arms. *

“I ought to have told you,” she crooned. “You should have known long ago. Forgive me, Celia. I thought I was doing the right thing. I tried to. “You see, long ago when I was very young I mai'ried your father. We—quarreled. You were a little baby—3 years old—when we separated. There was a divorce. After that we came to Baltimore. I married Bob Rogers. You used to call him 'Daddy Bob.’ And after the accident—well. I put off telling you about your own father until you were old enough to understand. Do you understand now, darling? Do you?” She lifted the girl’s chin, gazing fearfully into the brown eyes. “Tell me, Celia!” the mother insisted. “I'm—trying to understand,” Celia said. v Margaret stepped back. “John,” she said, “I'm sorry"—. Mitchell looked as staid and unemotional as when he entered the room. He tTeared his throat. “Now that your mother has explained the long story, shall we sit down and talk things over?” It was to Celia he was speaking. “You are much like your mother—in appearance. I was hardly prepared to find you so grown up.” a a a MARGARET had seated herself on the davenport. Celia crossed the room and sat beside her, taking her mother’s hand and holding it nervously. “For some time I have been thinking about your future.” John Mitchell leaned back in the big chair and crossed the right knee over the left. “Your mother agrees with me that the outlook here is limited. How would you like to go abroad for a year?” “You mean—a trip to Europe? Oh, but I couldn’t.” Celia was finding her voice again. Color flushed her pale cheeks. “Why not?” Mitchell asked. “I have a job.” The girl raised her head and there was pride in her voice. “I’m going to begin work next Monday.” “Would you rather do this work than sail for Europe?” Celia hesitated. A little wrinkle of stubbornness came between her eyes. . -Yes.” she said thoughfully. “Oh, but Celia, you don't realize what you're saying!” It was Margaret who protested. “Your father is offering you wonderful things. You haven’t heard it all yet. You mustn't be hasty, dear.’’ “But I couldn't give up my job, could I, mother?” John Mitchell spoke decisively. “You are to go back to New York with me as soon as you can be ready. We will decide later about your future education—whether it is to be travel or further study first. • But you should understand at once. Celia, that I am financially able to provide for you in a liberal way and the idea of employment is out of the question. You will have an ample allowance.” Celia's quick glance passed from Mitchell to Mrs. Rogers. ’ Mother, does he mean—are we both going?” Margaret Rogers' bp trembled.

"No, dear. It will be better for you to go without me. Besides. I must stay here.” She turned her head away. “Then I can't go.” the girl said firmly. “I don't want to go.” For a moment Mitchell appeared to be nonplussed. Then he spoke coldly: “A girl of 17 hardly can be expected to know what is best for her, I suppose. Since the matter has been decided, Margaret, there is no more to say. I “No doubt the shock has upset the I young lady. I believe I may as well Igo now. I shall communicate with i you in the morning. There will be details to consider ” He had risen from the chair. Margaret Rogers was on her feet, too, as she said: “Yes—you'd better go.” “Then I bid you good night.” “Good night, John.” a a a CELIA still was sitting on the davenport. Her mother turned. “You’re forgetting to say good night to your father,” she said. Celia jumped U p. “Good night,” she cried, lacing Mitchell. “But I haven't said I'd go with you, and I won’t. I don’t see what you had !to come here for. Mother and I were getting along all right. We—- | we don’t want you or your money jor anything! We want to be left j alone! ” ,

Tears filled her eyes. Then, with an incoherent cry she ran from the room. “Please, John, she doesn’t mean—” Margaret started apologetically. ! Mitchell was already in the hallway. “Good night,” he said again stiffly. “I’ll call you in the morning.” He was gone at once. Margaret | Rogers turned and cast one despairj ing glance about the room. Then j her eyes closed and for a moment ! her two hands were gripped together tightly. In her heart was a prayer for strength. She went into the bedroom and I there, as *she had expected, lay | Celia, face down among the pillows. I Her shoulders rose and fell with her j sobs. Margaret sat on the edge of i the bed and slipped an arm about her daughter. “Don’t, darling,” she said softly. \ “Please don't cry- It hurts mother.” The sobs grew gentler. Margaret said no more and presently the girl turned, pulled herself up and began to dry her eyes. “He—he can't make me go, can he?” she begged. Mrs. Rogers shook her head. “No. He can't make you gc No one will do that, Celia. You are old | enough to decide matters for your- ' self.” “Then”—a few more sniffs and sobs—“l’ve decided.” Whatever Margaret Rogers had | been about to say remained unspo- ! ken. Her lips moved, but she checked I herself before the words came. In- ! stead she stroked the girl's hair softly. 1 “Mother!” Celia said, sitting | bold upright. "That wasn’t true, was it—what he said about your agreeing with him that I should go away? I knew it wasn't so—.” “It was true. dear. Ido think j you should go.” “Why—mother!” Margaret Rogers took both of her daughter's hands. ••Celia.” she said, “you told me this evening you would try to understand. You've had a terrible shock. I should have known better and tried to prepare you for it “Mother's made—mistakes. Celia. Oh. I see them clearly. But we can’t afford to make any mistakes in your life. We're not going to, either. Long ago you should have known your father was living, about his wealth and importance. “He's a great lawyer, Celia. Rich. “Os course he wants to do the things for vpu that only such a father can offer. He will forgive what you said this evening John Mitchell is—just.”

■'T)UT I don't want him to forgive ■*-* them! I don't like him! Mother—how you ask me to leave you?". Dusk had fallen. -'There was no light in the little room except the slanting rays from the open doorway. Celia coul4 not see her mother s face. There was a pause. Suddenly Margaret Rogers arms were thrown about the girl She held her tightly, rocking back and forward in the unconscious motion of a lullaby. “Nothing, my pet. is going to separail us! Don't you see?"

—By Williams

I breathed Margaret. “Oh, my baby, you're not really going to leave me. ! “What does it matter if you are Jin New York—in Europe—so long as | each of us has the other? That's | why mother can let you go. Don’t you understand. Celia?” “But I don’t see why I need to go.” Margaret Rogers sighed. “There are so many, many things in the world that you must learn, darling. So many lessons! Tonight I you've had what seems a bitter one. I wish I could make it all easier. ! “You and I, living here together, have seen some hard times, but we've managed to get through them. The bigger lessons—the things s’ou needs to learn now—are out in the world. Your father can help you more than I can, dear. That’s why I want you to go with him.” Her words died and this time it was the girl who was silent. “Celia,” her mother went on presently, “do you think you are being quite—kind to your father?” A restless motion was the answer. Out of the silence the girl’s voice came sharply. “Was he jpruel, mother?” “He was—no, you must not think i that! John never meant to be cruel |to any one. He—that is, we made ; mistakes. Both of us. “But you must not blame your father. When you know him better perhaps you'll understand. Your father may seem stern, but he is a man of great character. All that is past and forgotten. It's the best way. I think you can make him very happy, dear.” “But what would you do?” - Margaret Rogers’ answer was a short, low laugh. Managing it was the bravest thing she ever had done in all her life. “I’ll be all right, Celia. Os course! And I’ll write you a letter every single week!.. Both of them were tired and overwrought, but there were plans to be made. There were many, many things to be discussed. Past midnight and into the morn- } ing hours mother and daughter sat there. At last, very weary, they undressed and slept. When Barney Shields knocked i cheerfully on the door of the third floor flat next evening Mrs. Rogers met him at the door. “Celia's not here,” she announced. (T£o Be Continued.)

GAS OVERCOMES TWO Anderson, Police Captain and Wife Prostrated in Home. Bn Times sitccinl ANDERSON. Ind.. Sept. 20.—M. C. Kershner, police captain, and his wife, Edith, were overcome by gas while asleep at their home. Gas escaped from a break in a main directly beneath their bed room. Mrs. Kershner had gotten out of bed and was staggering about the room when her husband awoke. He stsarted toward her, but was overcome and was too weak to carry her to safety. He managed to open all doors and windows, before he collapsed. Mrs. Kershner's brothers, who were sleeping in another room, were slightly affected.

TARZAN AND THE JEWELS OF OPAR

Tarzan. entering the tent of Achmet Zek, searched the interior thoroughly. He tore the bed to pieces and scattered the contents of box and bag about the floor. He investigated whatever his eyes discovered, nor did those organs overlook a single article within the habitation of the raider chief; but no pouch of pretty pebbles rewarded his thoroughness. Satisfied at lasr that_ Ills belongings were not in the possession Achmet Zek, Tarzaij decided to secure the •she. H *

THE INDIANAPOLIS TIMES

BOOTS AND HER BUDDIES

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FRECKLES AND HIS FRIENDS

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WASHINGTON TUBBS II

SALESMAN SAM

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MOM’N POP

After that he would further search for the pouch containing the jewels of Opar. Motioning Chulk to follow him. the ape-man passed out of the tent by the same way he had entered it( and walking boldly through the village made directly for the hut where Jane Clayton had been imprisoned. He noted with surprise the absence of Taglat, whom he had expected* to find awaiting him outside the tent of Achmet 2ek, but he was accustomed to the unreliability c l apes and gave it no serious attention.

—By Martin

\ \(/ vevnit! A f \NwW-.ON ( •cftUSE. A \\ STAGS’ / IT CM-i'T BC nj . smu ON thc \ VNy ’fiOOP j- I

So long as Taglat did not cause interference with his plans. Tarzan was indifferent to his absence. As he approached the hut, the apeman noticed that a crowd had collected about ' the entrance. He could see that the men who composed it were much excited, and fearing that Chulk's disguise should prove inadequate to the concealment cf his true identity in the lace of so many observers, he commanded the ape to betake himself off to the far end of the village and there await iuov

OUR BOARDING HOUSE

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\ HE SAYS HE 'SnT FaRSAQ. ! 1 f an' MOnJ HE vIANTS To U / at a11... see, N.Egse vE ) . j tale aae Bacu to tue ranch ) V-' AAAOE a aaistaue .. NJELL.. \ an' FESS UP SNHV’ \( ANYWAY HE STOLE that J "THEBE ISN'T ANY T _jrfM'U IS K'S^L W ' 1 X- L SANDWICH LEGE / J sUi fAE AN THATS ENOU<3h A Gfi# It a-t- . ■ 11 )' / i- / * ••'K TO HINV OUT A V. <?f * / /V/ ' J I ■" s ■■''[' ' CT 17

By Edgar Rice Burroughs

Chulk waddled off, keeping to the shadows. Tarzan advanced toward thj group bef-ne the doorway. He mingled with the blacks and Arabs, trying to learn the cause of the commotion, totally forgetting in his interest that only he carried a spear and a bow and arrows and thus might become an object cf suspicion Which was just what happened! As Tarzan shouldered his way forward, an Arab grabbed him, crying; ‘Who is this?” at live same tune snatching back the hood from the ape-man's fST*-

.SEPT. 20, 1930

—By Ahem

—By Blosser

—By Crane

—By Small

—By Cowan