Indianapolis Times, Volume 42, Number 265, Indianapolis, Marion County, 17 March 1931 — Page 11

MARCH, 17,1931

fyIAD MARRIAGE-Il fy LAURA LOU BROOKMAN Author of’HEART HUNGRY,‘etc.

RKC.IN MERE TODAY GYPSY M BRIDE. 19-year-old typist. 1* miserable and lonely when she finds that ALAN CROSBY, Just returned from • year and a half in Paris studying art. no longer rare* for her. Crosby is Infatuated with a MRS. LANGLEY, wealthy divorcee, who consider* herself a .patron of art. Gypsy becomes disgusted with her Job and when she is criticised for carelessness impulsively resigns. Bhe accepts an invitation from her wealthy cousin. ANNE TROWBRIDGE, to take the place of another guest at a. formal dinner. The party Is a bore. She leaves to get her wraps and go home, hears a noise in the next room and opens the door to see a man climbing in the window He is JAMES WALLACE, guest of the Trowbridges, who has entered by the fire escape to avoid the dinner party guests. Wallace tells Gypsy he has lust been lilted by his fiancee. She admits she has had the same experience. To spite 'he girl he cares for, Wallace asks Gypsy to marry him. She refuses, but later accepts. They are married next morning. NOW GO ON WITH THE STORT CHAPTER TWELVE IT was Anne Trowbridge who exclaimed, "Heavens, Jim! Aren’t you going to kiss the bride?” Anne had relented in her disapproval sufficiently to come with Phil to see the couple married. . James Wallace bent his head and dutifully saluted Gypsy's cheek. She heard the magistrate saying something in his hoarse voice about wishing them a "long and happy Life.” Phil was talking—apparently what he said was a Joke, because the others smiled. Gypsy looked about her and the others seemed figures in a dream. This could not be really she, Gypsy Mcßride, beside the tall young man with blue eyes who was holding her arm. Another moment and she would wake and know she had imagined the whole thing. On the second finger of Gypsy’s left hand gleamed a circlet of diamonds. They were very bright. They caught Are from the sunlight and shot it back in dazzling radiance. The diamonds were real. She had not imagined them. Then she knew she ha 4 not imagined any of it. It was all true. James Wallace was her husband. There was no time for a wedding breakfast. Wallace was anxious to make the 11 o’clock train. He had the tickets in his pocket. They went out of the building to where Trowbridge’s car was waiting. Phil glanced at his ‘watch. Plenty of time,” he assured them. "We’ll make it and have fifteen minutes to spare.” The car was a sleek dark blue coupe. Gypsy and Anne climbed inside. Wallace was muttering about "confound traffic” as he followed them. He had experienced one unfortunate tieup in New York streets and never forgotten it. “Darling, you’re looking pale,” Anne said to Gypsy as they started. "Didn’t you sleep well?” Gypsy smiled. She did look tired. “I'm all right,” she said. ‘After I got home last night I packed. And I was up at 7 this morning.” ‘‘Never mind,” Anne reassured her. "Brides are supposed to be pale anyhow, I remember at my wedding ■” She chatted on, but Gypsy was not listening. Whenever she heard that word "bride” she wanted to turn and look for another person. It seemed impossible that she was the one referred to. it a a YOUNG Mrs. Trowbridge had done her best to give the hasty marriage conventional touches. She had seen to it that there were flowers for Gypsy—bought by Wallace at a comer florist’s shop just before the ceremony. There was a cluster of gardenias pinned to the lapel of Gypsy’s suit coat. White flowers, sweet and fragrant, for a bride. In one old and bulky suit case stowed away in the rear of the car were all of Gypsy’s belongings. Tire suit case was not crowded. Half a dozen dresses comprised the girl’s wardrobe. The other things had been so worn she was ashamed to pack them. The old tweed coat., an insult to any trousseau, she had given to Mrs. O'Hare, to be handed down to her niece. Besides the dresses, the suit case contained the few things Gypsy had saved when she disposed of the household possessions after her father's death. A clock that had belonged to her mother. A small, old-fashioned photograph album bound in yellow plush, containing pictures of her grandparents. Her father's copies of “David Copperfield” and "Tristram Shandy.” Packing these things had seemed a sacred rite.

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Anne's voice broke in on Gypsy’s reverie: “I’m so glad the sun is shining,” she said. "It's a good omen, you know —means good luck.” "I’m glad, too” Gypsy agreed. She wasn't thinking about propitious omens. She was thinking that the last spring suit which was her bridal costume would look much more appropriate so long as the day was warm. The brown suit had been an extravagance, even though Gypsy had bought it late in the season. It had been irresistible, because It was exactly the shade to make her brown eyes seem more lustrous and velvety than usual and because it had tricky pockets she could sink both hands into. When she did this, Gypsy looked like a rather naughty small boy. Anne knew the suit was last season’s, but she complimented her on its becomingness. There liad not even been time to shop for anew hat. Gypsy wore the close-fitting felt she had bought last June and thanked heaven the summer had been so warm that she had given it scarcely any wear. Her blouse was white and the gardenias did a good deal for the entire costume. Wallace ar.d Trowbridge were talking about the car. Phil boasted about the mileage he had covered. Wallace described the roadster he had purchased two months ago. He said it could do 90. "Say, Gypsy,” Phil called back over the wheel, “ever drive with this fellow? Know what a speed demon he Is?” “No-no, I haven’t.” “Well, believe me, you've got something to look forward to!” Wallace protested. He said it was safer to drive fast than slow. Anyhow, he wasn't reckless, never took chances. What this country needed was a minimum instead of a maximum speed law. The conversation was cut short as they reached the railway station. Amid a hub-bub of barking taxi horns and snorting vehicles they arrived at the passenger entrance. Three red caps ran forward to get their baggage. Wallace helped Anne and Gypsy out and Phil drove away to park the car. He called after them that he would return immediately. “Tt yTADE it all right,” said Wallace IVA with relief in his voice. The big station clock pointed to 10 minutes of 11. They waited near the gate until Trowbridge rejoined them. A station attendant, with sonorous voice, was calling out the departure of a train. “Not ours,” Wallace hastened to assure Gypsy. The whir and bustle of the great waiting room roused the girl. "Oh, Anne,” Gypsy said, "I'm sorry I’m not going to see you any more ” She was saying good-by, not to Anne Trowbridge, but to all she was leaving behind, to New York, to those crowded days at MacNamara’s, to memories of her father, to Alan Crosby. Gypsy laughed and no doubt the others thought the tears in her eyes were tears of happiness. "You’re going to like it where you are going,” Anne reassured her. "What’s the name of the place? Forest City—that’s right. Write to us, darling. We'll be waiting to hear from you!” Os course she would write. Gypsy clung to Anne’s arm. This cousin whom she had thought of so casually suddenly had become the last remaining link between the new life and the old. Phil Trowbridge’s big hand fastened itself over Gypsy’s in a grip that was almost painful. "Wish you every happiness!” he told her, grinning. "Deserve it. Think Jim’s damned lucky! Nobody's told me I could kiss the bride, but I’m certainly going to!” He planted a quick kiss on Gypsy's lips. In the confusion and laughter that followed the girl found herself beyond the train gate, waving one gloved hand at Anne and Phil across the barrier. The colored boy with the baggage was ahead leading the way. Gypsy tried to match her short steps to Wallace's great, striding ones. They reached the car, entered it, and the girl's eyes widened. There were great, comfortable armchairs in place of stiff train seats. A halfdozen passengers already were in the car. Beside each chair there were little tables for magazines or books. The white-coated porter led them to the other end of the car. He helped Wallace out of his coat and

hung it away. Gypsy sank into her big chair. She closed her eyes for an instant, opened them again. Wallace was watching her. “Everything all right?” he asked. Gypsy nodded. Her husband glan/?d about at the other passengers. A woman directly ahead of Gypsy was throwing off a handsome mink coat. She was a tall woman. Her features were not beautiful but they were distinctive. As she moved Gypsy sensed the odor of spicy, elusive perfume. Suddenly Wallace jumped up, "Newspapers!” he exclaimed. "Forgot about ’em. Be right back!” He reached for his hat and hurried out of the car. a a a IN a few minutes he was back. Under his arms were two bulky morning newspapers and several magazirfes. He handed the magazines to Gypsy. "Thought you might like something to read,” he explained. “Didn’t know what you care for. I hope these are all right.” Cosmopolitan, Harper’s and Liberty. Gypsy thanked him, opened the Liberty and turned through the pages. Presently she felt the train moving out of the station. Across the aisle Wallace was lost to view behind his newspaper. Gypsy dropped the magazine and stared out the window. There was nothing much to see. She turned back to the article she had been reading. The words blurred. This was a honeymoon. Gypsy Mcßride —no, Gypsy Wallace now—and her husband departing on their honeymoon. The newspaper across the aisle drooped. She heard her name and looked up. Wallace, from behind the folds of print paper, was peering at her. “Gypsy,” he said, “there are some things I suppose we ought to talk about.” "All right.” Wallace dscarded the newspaper. “First of all,” he began, "everybody calls me Jim. I suppose—if you don’t mind—you’d better call me that, too.” “Jim’s a nice name.” the girl agreed. "I like it. We used to have an office boy named Jim.” "Bright boy?” "I don’t knovL He only stayed two weeks. I think they missed some money from the office expense drawer.” Both of them smiled. So long as they were on trivial subjects everything was all right. “Is Gypsy really your name?” The girl l.odded. "Don’t you like it?” “Yes. of course. It’s just—sort of unusual. I never heard it before. For a real name, I mean.” "I’ve never been called anything else. My father named me Gypsy before I was old enough to walk or talk or anything. “They did christen me Mary Elizabeth—it was written in the Bible mother used to have—but I like Gypsy better.” “Then that’s what I’ll call you— Gypsy.” "All right, Jim.” There was a pause before she asked: "What time do we get to Forest City?” (To Be Continued)

STKKEP.S fjf l6 /^> Sk lt \\ \.23^T- y/ 24 JJ During revolver practice with die above target, a score of 100 was made. How many shots were fired, and where did they hit?

Answer for Yesterday

31 8 @© 3o S’ 34 1 @i@ 3s 4 7 32 @1(27) 6 29 _2 3 36

Above shows numbers filled in the circled squares in such a way that each hori* zontal and vertical row and the two diagonal row*add to Ilk.

TARZAN AND THE GOLDEN LION

Through a long, winding corridor Tarzan followed his mysterious guide. Down flights of age-old steps, through dim passages they groped their way, opening doors that creaked and groaned on rusty hinges. How far they traveled thus the ape-man could not guess. He recalled Jane’s prophecy of the evils he might expect to befall him if he persisted In this third trip to Opar. Was she right? Did some guardian demon hang over tliis accursed city to protect its forgotten treasure vaults?

THE INDIANAPOLIS TIMES

OUR BOARDING HOUSE

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FRECKLES AND HIS FRIENDS

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BOOTS AND HER BUDDIES

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Now from the underground passages they ascended a flight of stairs and emerged into the center of a clump of bushes. Gratefully Tarzan breathed fresh air and saw more clearly by the light of a pale moon. Still on without pausing, the woman led the way silently through a heavy forest, along a trail leading always upward. Guided by the stars Tarzan knew he was in the mountains that lie beyond Cpar, a region so rough and hazardous tlr.c even the courageous ape-man had never viAed it.

—By Ahern

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Himself given to a few words, his guide’s continued silence made no particular impression upon Tarzan. Those who travel far and fast have no breath to waste in conversation unless there is good reason for speaking. The eastern stars were fading at the first hint of coming dawn as the two scrambled up a steep cliff high above a valley. Day broke and far below was visible a building that glistened and sparkled and scintillated in ,the light of the new day.

OUT OUR WAY

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'NEEE , YOU EL *** ."VH ONEY MY CUTEO --YOO ARE A BVuEO GAME TIME. YVMNG THAT l'vJE CEAG\NG SOURCE. OV WONOER. TO OOm TO BY TELLWXG tUER. REALLY ME. ! YOU POLL BLONDER G V/JWCH PLAIN ME. VNHAY \T ©OWE: , OEY GHOW EMERY INDICATION CHF BEING TALK , IS -—I'M A GINELL 'G "WE WORK OV GENIUS ANO THEN, HONEY SOCKET AY TEY U N’ E OUT OV A CLEAR GKY ,YOO MAKE HL RVOOVtS YHXMK. I'O BE a GENGIBLE REMARK. , GOCH AG MEANG a PLENTY GMART THAT YOU SUGY MENYVONEO , AMO NOW ' Y'GEAY WITH \AM YEMPTEO TO BELNEUE. THAT YO'G ,

—By Edgar Rice Burroughs

Then Tarzan looked at his companion, who, without warning, lifted her veil. Btanding before him was LA, the High Priestess of Opar! “YOU'!” he exclaimed in consternation. “Now, Indeed, wilLCadJ have the excuse he sought to put you out of the way!” “THAT he will never have,” replied LA, “for I shall never return to Opar!” “NEVER RETURN?” Tarzan exclaimed, “then where are yoh going?” “With you,” she replied, “I do not ask that you love me. Only take me with you.”

PAGE 11

—By Williams

—By Blosser

—By Crane

—By Small

—By Martin