Indianapolis Times, Volume 43, Number 230, Indianapolis, Marion County, 3 February 1932 — Page 13

FEB. 3, 1932

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CHAPTER ONE A MILK WAGON rattling along Pine street brought Ellen Rossiter wide awake. The Rossiter apartment was five floors above the ttreet but, Ellen thought irritably, even in the moment of waking, that the clanking below was sufficient to wake the dead. It was going to be another scorching day. The girl's face, rosy from sleep, was faintly damp and her thick, tawny hair was alive and beautiful with heat curls. She was conscious only of discomfort as she thrust it back and rolled over hastily to look at the clock. Only twenty minutes to 7. Twenty blessed minutes more. Ellen stretched luxuriously, assured herself that the alarm ww set for 7, and snuggled down again. As she was closing her eyes she noticed that the adjoining bed was empty. Myra already had risen and slipped quietly from the room. Ellen had sleepily decided that her sister intended to bathe before leaving for the library, when she heard from the kitchen Myra’a voice raised high in expostulation. Something was w r rong again. Ellen did not know quite what, but that particular note in Myra’s voice always meant trouble.

And trouble in the Rossiter household meant inevitably a difference of opinion between Myra and Molly Rossiter. r-uen sighed, tossed back the sheet and in one leap was out of bed. She grabbed a green cotton crepe negligee and streaked for the bathroom. The door was locked. Michael, aged 12, was inside. The one male of the family, the adored and spoiled little brother, he had special prerogatives and was not timid in enforcing them. “I’m studying,” he called out, “In the bathroom!” “In the tub.” He added plaintively, “I’ll get out If you want me to. Only it’s so cool In here and I’m always being interrupted no matter where ” “All right, darling. Stay where you are for ten minutes. But after that I’ll have to rout you.” Ellen Rossiter was three days past 20 on that morning in late July—three days past 20 and already beginning to be afraid that the wild and careless dreams of her teens would not be fulfilled in her twenties. It was money, of course. The Rossiters had more than their share of good looks, from Molly Rossiter, who had once been Molly O’Reilly, the prettiest girl in the whole of County Cork, to baby Mike, but they had nothing else. tt H tt npHE three children—Myra, the eldest, and Ellen and Mike—had from their father their thick copper hair and wide, thick-lashed blue eyes, and from their mother their creamy skin. The peculiar, arresting way they walked and stood, the nervous movements of their hands, the confident, arrogant ease with which they faced the world—all those were Rossiter ways, as Molly, who was a Rossiter by marriage, said so often. The unconscious air of distinction that was shared by all of them was from their father, too. It was Charles Michael Rossiter who had given them an unmistakable look of race. There was no denying that the young Rossiters were unlike the young Blacks downstairs, or the 3’oung Riordans in the basement, or the Shannenbergers who sprawled through the two floors above. They were different and suspect, Ellen had often reflected bitterly, as people always are who have a past and no future. But Molly Rossiter, an incurable optimist, never had once admitted the secret fears of her two daughters. Even when she had her crying spells, she always insisted hysterically that her children were better looking than any of the English Rossiters, better qualified to move in that mysterious world whose doors had been shut to them abruptly when Charles Rossiter, unable to forget green English fields and misty country English mornings even in the love of his wife and children, had closed his eyes and died of a common cold. There once had been money. Myra at 26 could remember surroundings quite different from the down-at-heel Brooklyn apartment, could, with a pang in her heart, remember the glorious years before her father’s death, the soft spoken servants, the gleam of candle-light on old silver (sold long since), and rugs so deep that all sound of footsteps was lost in them. Charles Rossiter had met Molly O’Reilly on a trip to Ireland. He had married her before his father and mother and many brothers and sisters could rush in to point out the impossibility of marriage between the fourth son of Lord Harmstead and a tenant farmer’s daughter. They never had forgiven him that. They were, as any one except Molly Rossiter would admit, scrupulously fair. Charles’ share of the

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Harmstead estate had been settled upon him at once. The condition was that he leave England. His father and mother had refused to meet his bride. And Charles Rossiter, stiff-necked with pride, had been glad enough then to leave England. He had come to America and never had gone back. He often had longed for England, but no one of his brothers or sisters ever had learned that. No one of them had shown the slightest interest in what he might have been thinking during those long years of exile. No one of them except his youngest sister, Myra, for whom his eldest daughter was named, had shown in the years following his death any recognition of the fact that he had left a family. His sister Myra, perhaps held back by the pressure of her brothers and sisters, never had seen any member of his small family, but she did from time to time send boxes of clothing, discarded by her own daughters. # tt that August morning Charles Rossiter had been dead twelve years. His death took place three days before his only son was born. He never could have foreseen that his two beautiful daughters would be forced to work, the one at an underpaid job in a public library, the other as an underpaid salesgirl in a great department store. s He had left a sufficient sum to bring up his children in comfort, to educate them, and to provide for the lifetime of his young wife. But Molly Rossiter, dazed with grief, had seen that money slip from her irresponsible hands within two years. Ellen could remember only as of something dreamed those days when money was not a daily problem, a daily topic of conversation. She had gone to work at Barclay’s department store when she was 14. She W'as still there. As she walked to the kitchen, she wondered a little hopelessly if she always would be there. When she entered the small, heated room where the bluechecked linoleum had long since retreated into the corners, her mother turned from the stove. Molly’s pretty, fading face was flushed and set in lines of determination. Ellen sighed again. She was afraid that her mother had hit upon another disastrous scheme which would make them all rich. Myra was seated at a chipped porcelain table, her chin resting upon her elbows, the morning newspaper spread out before her. Her head, with its smooth braids of hair lighter and less w r armly colored than Ellen’s, was bent over the society columns. But her mouth was set and mutinous and it was plain she did not really see the printed words. Her eyes were full of angry tears. “Myra and I have decided ” Molly Rossiter began firmly. Myra looked up quickly at that. “We haven’t decided anything, mother,” she interrupted in her long-suffering voice. “You only suggested ” Both of them looked toward Ellen. Ellen crossed to the stove, relieved her mother of the eggs and began to beat with furious energy so that the yellow foam leaped up the blue sides of the bowl. Molly had been ready to pour them into the skillet. Ellen was the one natural cook of the household. Molly’s cooking always was overdone or underdone and invariably too highly seasoned. Myra, perhaps in compensation for her mother’s lavish hand, never seasoned enough. Whatever she seif: to the table came with the slightly indefinite taste common to secondrate hotels.

IN the strained silence Ellen added -*• to the omelet a few grains of salt and a dash of paprika for the looks of the thing. She walked to the window to take parsley, chopped the night before, from a box-like contrivance .suspended outside and serving as a refrigerator. “Now what is it?” she asked the combatants, as she sprayed in the crisp green sprigs of parsley and poured'the golden fluff into the hot skillet. Molly and Myra Rossiter spoke simultaneously. “Mother spent half the rent money yesterday buying things for Mike that he doesn’t need,” Myra said. “And now she had an idea for you. You’re to make up the money working evenings.” “The things were on sale,” Molly explained eagerly. “Two pairs of pants for what I usually have to pay for just one. I saved so much on them that I thought I could splurge a little. “So I bought him some books he’s been wanting for ever so long and anew cap and some underwear.” She added defensively. “You wnuld not want Mike to go shabby, would you?” Ellen tested the omelet and lowered the flame beneath it. She turned off two flames, which had been burning needlessly before she spoke. “No, I wouldn’t,” she said patiently. “But how are we going to pay the rent? Tomorrow is Saturday, but we already owe the grocer nearly all my salary. And Myra’s isn’t due for ten days yet.” She did not suggest that the suit which Mike had not really needed would deprive her of a business dress which she did need. “That’s just it,“ Molly crowed, seizing her chance. “I have a marvelous idea for you. There’s an ad in the morning paper from a dance place named Dreamland. It’s a pretty name, isn’t it? They want girls for dancing instructors. Look —here it is. I marked it for you.” Ellen looked. Among classified advertisements, ringed in pencil, was a call for dancing instructors. But she knew Dreamland. She had passed it often on her way to work. And, although she never had been inside, she knew that “dancing instructor,” was a polite name for a girl hired to dance with unattached men at a small payment for each dance—a taxi dancer. They did, in fact, call those §irls taxi-dancers. “The best part of it,” her mother continued breathlessly, “is that you might meet a really nice man that way. I can’t imagine why girls as pretty as my two haven’t flocks of rich men trying to marry them. When I was young it was certainly different.” Ellen was uncomfortable as she was always uncomfortable when her mother talked that way; But Myra was frankly angry. “New York isn’t Ireland,” she said flatly. “Rich men may grow on bushes there. I don’t know. But rich men in New York marry rich girls. They don’t meet any other kind. If you’re thinking that Ellen might meet John Astorbilt at Dreamland, mother, it just shows you don’t know such places. “The only result of Ellen’s trying to work at night as well as day would be that she would break down her health. And then where would we be?” tt tt TtiTYRA ROSSITER smiled mys- -*-*-*■ teriously and, with characteristic optimism, overlooked all drawbacks. (To Be Continued)

STICK£PiS

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Yesterday’s Answer

RANT PLOD PORTLAND 0. “PORTLAND” k the name which can be made from the letters in “rant” and “plod.” 3

TARZAN THE TERRIBLE

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“Let us remain together as long as possible,” urged Ta-den. “You, Om-at, must seek your she by night and by stealth, for even we three may not hope to overcome Es-sat and his warifcors. But for this Tailless One to enter A-lur Is another matter. Though there IS a way if he has the courage to try it. Listen, come close, for the gods must not hear me" Then into Tarzan's ear, Ta-den, son of the Lion-man, unfolded his daring plan.

THE INDIANAPOLIS TIMES

OUR BOARDING HOUSE

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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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BOOTS AND HER BUDDIES

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• 1931. by Ed{v Ric Bmouth*. Inc Aufejbtj rmmrtA. jfi W

Night had fallen upon uncharted Pal-ul-don. A mellow moon bathed its white chalk cliffs but black were the shadows in Gorge-of-lions. There dwelt the tribe named Kor-ul-ja, under Es-sat, their chief. From an opening near the summit of a lofty escarpment a hairy figure emerged—the head and shoulders r,t —and fierce eyes scanned the cliff side every direction. It was Es-sat, the chief.

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Evidently satisfied that he was unobserved. Es-sat moved outward upon the sheer face of the cliff wall. Though he appeared to move in some miraculous fashion, a close examination would have revealed that stout pegs had been driven into the chalk wall. Essat’s four hand-like members and his long, sinuous tail permitted him to move with ease whither he chose. Like some gigantic rat, he picked his avoiding the cave mouths that lay L his path.

OUT OUR WAY

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UP TANARUS, Tsuu

—By Edgar Rice Burroughs

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At last he paused before an entrance way, listened, then quietly pushing aside the heavy skin covering the aperture, Es-sat disappeared into a large chamber hewn from the living rock. At its far end, through another doorway, shone a light, dimly. Toward this he crept with utmost stealth, his naked feet giving forth no sound. Now he removed the knotted club hanging at his back and held it, clutched for acticfti, in his left hand.

PAGE 13

—By Williams

—By Blosser

—By Crane

—By Small

—By Martin