Indianapolis Times, Volume 43, Number 239, Indianapolis, Marion County, 13 February 1932 — Page 11

FEB. 13, 1032.

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BEGIN HERE TODAY Be*utVul ELLftN ROSSITER. leirl In Rarclav'* denartmrnt *tore. ;:vf* yith har extravagant mother, MOLLY HOSSITER her elder *l*ter. MYRA, and her voting brother. MIKE. The two atria aunoort the family. Mollv foolishly enenda money saved to •av the rent. Film decide* to work •t night at Dreamland as a dance nail hoateaa until the mm la made un. The hostesaea mu*t wear evening dressea and Ellen owns none. . . STEVEN BARCLAY, a man of 57 and Ellen's emolover sees the girl crvtng and diacoyera the situation. Obviously Interested. he loan* Ellen a lovely white taffeta frock when she refuses to accent it as a gift. ... . Ellen forget* her wealthy employer a kindness when .t Drearolind h- meet* handsome LARRY HARROWOATE an artist. She acceDt* Larrv a invitation to tea. , , In the morning flowers arrive from Barclay. Ellen, distressed that the gift Is not from Larrv. auarrels with her mother and sister. Then she confesses that, she Is deeply Interested In I>arr/ "'sow’fio ON WITH THE STORY CHAPTER NINE < Continued) Instead, she tore it to bits and flung the scraps in the wastebasket, her frightened, apologetic eyes fixed on Ellen’s colorless face. “Oh, Ellen, honey, don’t look like that,’’ she begged. “I’m sorry I ever cut the darn thing out.” Again Ellen did not speak. “You don’t know,” Myra went on timidly. “Perhaps the engagement Is broken.” “That’s unlikely.” Ellen said dully, “when it was announced last Tuesday.” # “But she’s gone to Europe. It was in the morning paper. Wait, I’ll get it for you.” “Don’t bother.” “Oh, Ellen, darling—” “Let’s not have any more melodramatic*, please. I’ve been a fool, that’s all. Just a fool.” “But, Ellen, you don’t know what he—” “I know this much. I know he made an engagement with me three days after this was announced. He told me, as I remember it, that I’d make his summer for him. I suppose he wanted a summer sweetheart while his fiancee was away.” u n n ELLEN laughed mirthlessly, sat down, put on the shoes that W’ere quite good enough now, and quietly selected a dress to wear. “Isn’t it funny that his engagement would have been announced In the society columns when he told you he hadn’t any money or Bny prospects?” Myra said restively after a while. “Why do you suppose that is?” “I don’t know r ,” Ellen answered, listless and distinterested. “I alw’ays thought of society people as having lots of money. That shows just how ignorant I am,” Myra said, exaggerating her selfdeprecation in an attemp to make It amusing. Ellen did not respond. Nor did She smile. “Don’t you think, Ellen, that maybe we’re sometimes too careful and conventional and formal just because we don’t know?” Myra suggested with a nervous effort. “I mean, know how people do things now. “Maybe the people In different Bets, smart people, don’t think that being engaged is so important as we think it is. Maybe that’s the way he feels about it. People do think differently about those things.” “I know what I think.” Ellen said in a level, unemotional tone as she went on with the dressing that had become so meaningless. Neither girl spoke for a long time. Myra had opened her mouth when there was a knock on the door, followed by Molly’s familiar demand for admittance. “What shell we tell her?” Myra’s lips noiselessly framed the words. “Tell her the whole thing. I don’t care what you tell her. You know she’s bound to get the story out of one of us somehow,” Ellen said, wondering how long the pain in her heart could last. “In just a minute, mother,” Myra called. On her way to the door she stopped by the chair where Ellen sat staring into space. “What are you going to do about your date, Ellen?” Ellen gave a deep sigh and drew her thoughts away from the memory of Larry’s laughing face. Her eyes were bright with tears, her mouth was drooping: to her sister she looked childish, pathetic, young, In her flimsy voile dress. But even as the older girl watched, the square, boyish chin came up.

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“What am I going to do? I’m not going—that’s all!” CHAPTER TEN ELLEN knocked at the door of Steven Barclay's office at 1:05. Under her arm, carefully wrapped in tissue paper, was the ivory taffeta dress. There had been time enough, after all, for her to pick up the borrowed dress before going cn to the store. % That morning in the basement had been no worse than any summer morning. But it had seemed to Ellen that it never would end; it had seemed to her that before the slow hands of the clock dragged to 1 o’clock she would be dead of suffocation. The morning had ended; she was not dead, even though she felt that there was no particular reason for continuing to live. Life was tiresome and stupid and unfair. She tried to convince herself that Larry had been only a casual infatuation, but she could not forget how different the morning would have been if only she had not read a newspaper clipping, if only the day could have gone as she had dreamed it would. Even the fact that she was calling on the “big boss,” that he had sent her flowers, things which only the day before would have left her trembling with excitement, seemed dull and unimportant and completely colorless. She knocked again. Barclay’s secretary, Ruth Tevis, a plain girl whose plainness was heightened by heavy eye-glasses, opened the door. “Mr. Barclay had to go out for a minute,” she said, peering over the tortoise shell frames of her spectacles. “He told me to ask you to wait if you will.” When Ellen was seated in the dim, cool office with the dress over her lap, the secretary began fussing unnecessarily and a trifle officiously with the flowers on the rosewood desk, rearranging them, plucking a leaf here and there and sliding the slender crystal vases an inch nearer the center. She moved a pile of typed letters, awaiting Barclay's signature, to the left of the desk, then back to the right again. You were here yesterday, weren't you?” she asked casually. “Yes,” Ellen replied. She wished the other girl wouldn’t stare so. The steady, near-sighted regard of those pale eyes was making her uneasy and nervous, unsure of herself. Ruth Tevis cleared her throat and opened her mouth—to ask another question, Ellen was sure—just as Steven entered. He said impersonally to Ellen, “I’m sorry I kept you waiting, Miss Rossiter.” And to the secretary, “I’ll call you if I need you, Miss Tevis.” „n n n HIS words were a dismisal. With a dissatisfied glance at Ellen, Miss Tevis turned and went into her own office. As if by accident she managed to leave the adjoining door a trifle ajar, but Barclay rose and closed it. “Miss Tevis, I'm afraid,” he remarked with a twinkle in his eye and an entire change of manner, “is begining to be curious.” Ellen went directly to the point. She was, to tell the truth, vaguely disturbed. The secretary’s attitude had in a small way served to confirm her mother’s pleased insistence, her own secret fears of the morning. It was possible, it was more than possible that Barclay’s interest in her was more than friendly. Certainly there had been a note of intimacy in his voice after the door had closed, a light intimation that both of them were in league to defeat the secretary’s curiosity. She intended to avoid complications of that sort. “I’ve brought back the dress,” she began, as she leaned forward and laid the box on his desk. “I I can’t tell you how much I appreciated using it. And the flowers were lovely. They've made our apartment into a florist shop. I’ve never seen ! lovelier ones.” 1 “Did you like them?” Barclay ex-

claimed, deeply pleased and missing entirely her subtle, gracious air of withdrawal. “I hope they didn’t wake you when the yarrived this morning. But I was determined you should have them before you left for the store." He was like a young boy, achingly, wistfully anxious for praise at his cleverness. Ellen did not stint her praise. It was absurd she thought, even as she thanked him, that she could give a man like Stevens Barclay such pleasure. He was looking down at the dress. “I’m sorry you’ve returned it so soon,” he remarked with a shade of disappointment. “I’d hoped you’d kepe it a long time.” “Mother bought me one yesterday afternoon,” Ellen said casually. “Nothing like so beautiful as this, but more suitable for Dreamlond.” “I didn’t think of that,” he admitted. “But I do hope everything went all right. Ellen felt her inextricable net closing around her. Yesterday she had, in that unfortunate burst of confidence, told him so much that today it seemed unfriendly to become remote and impersonal. It was impossible. So she painted Dreamland for him with very light strokes. She made it a place almost pleasant, determined above all, that he should not be sorry for her. She did not tell him of her first unpleasant encounter, nor did she, of course, mention Larry Harrowgate. She told an amusing, if underemphasized story, of Jacob Salomon, of Tony, of the other hostesses. But Barclay felt, she knew, a lack of spontaneity. “I’m sorry you have to work so hard,” he said slowly, when her story was finished. “Glad it won’t be for long. “Now, of course,” he said, looking straight into her candid, youthful eyes, “now that everything’s going so well, you won’t need to see me any more, will you?” “Certaintly, I will,” Ellen said quickly, ,} if you want to see me.” nun CHE could not have him believing she was like that. “Then come to lunch with me,” he suggested, unable to conceal his pleased relief at her answer. “I’m awfully sorry, but I have some errands for mother.” She really did have, too. “But you will some other time?” “Os course.” It was impossible for a Rossiter to be tepid. Ellen saw with dismay that he had misinterpreted her instinctive graciousness. Worse tnan that, she was harried by fear that he might think she was coquetting with him, refusing a first invitation so that he would more thoroughly appreciate her acceptance of a second. And she must accept the second one. She had promised. As she rose, feeling helpless and uncertain. he spoke again. “I’ve thought a lot about that young brother, Mike. How is he?” “Just as usual,” Ellen smiled. He woke me this morning by dropping his kitten on my face.” “I’d like to meet him sometime—and your mother.” ‘‘You must—sometime.” She left his office in a disturbed frame of mind. She was no calmer when she observed that Ruth Tevis opened the door of the adjoining office and stared after her as she hurried to the elevator. (To Be Continued)

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Yesterday's Answer

©©©©(A) (D®©@© LOS ANGELES Los Angelo* is the city which can be spelled with the letters shown in the circles. 13

TARZAN THE TERRIBLE

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Tarzan and Om-at clambered back to the vestibule of Pan-at-lee’s cave and there, with Ta-den, the three awaited whatever might follow the death of Es-sat, the chief. Silence reigned for some time. The tribesmen looked first upon their dead chief, then at Om-at and the two strangers standing upon his either side. Presently Om-at spoke: “I am Om-at,” he cried, "Who will now say that Om-at is not ‘gund’ of Kor-ul-ja?”

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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He waited for a taker of his challenge. One or two of the larger young bucks fidgeted restlessly and eyed him; but there was no reply. “Then Om-at is ‘gund,’” he said with finality. “Now tell me, where are Pan-at-lee, her father and brothers?” An old warrior spoke. “Pan-at-lee shoujd be in her cave. Who should know that better than you who are there now? Her father and brothers are away. These things concern us not, but one thing does.”

—By Ahern

> C I*3l. by E iim Ric* Burroughs Inc. All hght rejtrved. . / /

“Can Om-at be our chief,” continued the old warrior,” and yet stand at bay against his own people with a Ho-don and that Terrible Man at his side—that Terrible Man who has no tail? Hand the strangers over to your people to be slain as is the way of the Waz-don and then only may Om-at be ‘gund’.” Neither Tarzan nor Ta-den spoke then; they stood watching Om-at ard waiting for his decision, a faint smile upon* the lips of the ape-man.

OUT OUR WAY

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—By Edgar Rice Burroughs

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Ta-den, at least, knew that the old warrior had spoken the truth—the Waz-don tolerate no strangers and take no prisoners of an alien race. Then spoke Om-at again: “Always there is change; the passing clouds, the changing moon, the seasons. Now I. your ‘gund,’ bring another change. Strangers who are brave men and good friends shall no longer be slain, by the Waz-don of Kor-ul-ja." Growls and murmurings greeted this as the warriors eyed each other to see who would lead them against Om-at, the .conoclast. *

PAGE 11

—By Williams

—By Blosser

-—By Crane

—By Small

—By Martin