Indianapolis Times, Volume 44, Number 7, Indianapolis, Marion County, 19 May 1932 — Page 15

MAY 19, 1932.

'the mm HuriTCR/ $ BY MABEL McELLIOTT •/Ml 0* MM Kim MC.

I BEGIN HERE TODAY . SUSAN CAREY, JO nod b*mut!ful 1* ir lo* with 808 DUNBAR ICB of million*!**. mlthoufh *hr rng*Ml to ERNEST HEATH her former employer She bellere* Bob li er.g*e<l io DENISE ACKROYD. b eoclete girl- BEN LAMPMAN former *dmir*r of Susan * shoots •t Heath and wounds himself. After his Teeorerr Heath urges an early wedding. He arranges for Susan a aunt, who has been lu. to go south. JACK WAR* INO advises Susan not to go through with the marriage stressing the difference in her age and Heath I *. At a masked ball Suaan meets Bob and her love for him flares* up again. Denise inter enes. Bob find* Susan at her home and urges her to elope with him Heath overhears. NOW GO ON WITH THE STORY CHAPTER FORTY-THREE (Continued) With anew soberness she took of? the lovely stilt and hung it away, slipping into her sober office dress for the evening meal. Tomorrow Aunt Jessie would be home and the hours would be crowded until Monday morning, when she would be married. Married! The word struck on her heart like a knell. Susan was glad when Rase bustled in a few minutes later, bundle laden and bringing With her a breath of cool, night fcir?" “Is your man coming tonight?” Rose wanted to know. Susan said he wasn’t. He had had to go to a dinner at the club. “Well, I won’t say I’m sorry,” tried Rase. “We can have a cpmfortable, gossipy evening. What have you been doing all day?” Susan said. “Nothing much.” She had been for a walk She hoped her voice did not betray her. “This time next year you’ll never >et foot on the ground. I suppase. You and your limousines!” said Jtose with affectionate raillery. Susan said, “Don’t be an Idiot.”

in the woods today —...- +

'p*&2 mm

The Violet BY' DR. FRANK THONE HCopyriftht, 1932, by Science Service, Inc.) THE violet, long a flower of poets and romantic persons, is a favorite with the learned botanists as well. Not less than 300 species, scattered through all temperature regions, have been studied and described. The great majority of then can be told apart only by experts, but there are a good many species whose leaves depart from the basic heart-shape we have come to regard as typical, varying from the finely divided fingers of the bird-foot violet to almost grass-like affairs found on some swamp forms. The flowers are much the same in all cases, however; there is no mistaking a violet. Except when it is a pansy. For all our cultivated pansies are descendants of one species, the beautiful wild-tricolor violet, which still may be found fairly frequently in well-sheltered woodlands. The many fancy shapes and colors of cultivated pansies are due simply to the long and careful selection of gardeners, just as all the many widely varying kinds of dogs, from “Pekes" to St. Bernards, have been derived by breeding from a single strain of wolf-like ancestors. In the midst of the many admonitions of “spare the wild flowers” campaigns, it is a great relief to know that violets may be gathered as freshly as any reasonable person likes. Most flowers must be spared, because there must be seed for the next year, but the violet docs not depend exclusively on its yellow or blue t>lo6soms for reproduction. After the showy blooms are gone, the violet plant produces a strange second crop of closed green flowers that look like rather large buds. i These never open, but fertilize themselves internally with their own pollen, and thus produce the larger part of the violet’s seeds. f Next—Buttercups.

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Under the current of talk all evening, her thoughts reverted to Bob. What was he doing? Whom was he talking to? Her heart throbbed w-tih a slow and steady pain. Bob was reckless and angry. She had | sent him away—to what? Susan did not sleep well that night. Idling heavy-eyed at the break- ; fast table next morfling she heard Rose fling back from the hall, “Sue, here's a letter for you. It looks important.” Susan's pulses leaped. She seized the envelope with trembling fingers. It was addressed in Ernest’s handwriting. CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR THIS was the letter Heath had written to Susan: “My Dear—l hope you are going to understand what I am trying to say. It may seem at the eleventh hour an absurd gesture on my part. But after giving the matter a great deal of thought I have decided this marriage of us is not wise. “I am asking you to release me. feeling a quaint certainty that the release actually will be yours. Susan, dear, you are much too young for me. I knew- it from the start, but I deluded myself into thinking we could surmount that obstacle. “Now I have come to the conclusion it is too serious to be taken lightly. I am afraid I have been selfish through all this. I have been try inf? to recapture my own youth through your eyes, and that is neither natural nor fair. “I am hoping you will marry soon someone of your own age or thereabouts. Be sure the man you choose is worthy of you. No. I take that back. Be sure you love him enough. “Everything else will follow. I don’t mean, my dear, to sound like a fatuous old dotard, but perhaps you will forgive me for offering you all this advice. “There's another thing. It was on my account that you left gainful ocupation. It may be difficult for you to find interesting and wellpaid work just now. For that reason, f am asking you to accept in good part the arrangements i have made through my lawyer. A trust fund, which will pay you a modest weekly income, has been placed in your aunt’s name. You see. I have been so sure that you would try to refuse this that I have tied it up hard and fast. You can do nothing about it. It is, anyhow, a small favor to grant me. “You may explain this in any way you like to those who have known our plans. I am sailing the day after tomorrow. If I were not sure this was the wisest course, believe me. I should not be acting as I am. I wish you. as always, the very best life has to offer. “ERNEST HEATH.” Susan read the letter through again, dazed. Then she folded it mechanically and put it beside her plate. Mrs. Milton bustled in. “That coffees cold, child,” she said chidingly. “Let me get you a fresh cup." m * m SUSAN heard the words as In a dream. She sipped the steaming liquid, grateful for the burning sensation it afforded her. She felt numb. “What’s the matter, child? Don’t you feel well?” ‘•Yes, perfectly. Only I’ve just remembered I have an errand to do.” She flung on her hat and coat and tore out of the house. There was a pay station at the corner drug store. She fumbled the pages of the telephone book and called ft number. “Is Mr. Dunbar In?” A shadow of disappointment flitted over her face. “No, thanks, no message. I’ll call him later.” Susan paused, irresolute, at the stand where the telephone directories were kept and rifled the pages again. There was a chance Bob might be at his father’s office. Again she was doomed to disappointment. Young Mr. Dunbar was not in, the operator said. She had no idea when he might be. He seldom came to the office or Saturdays. There was just a chance that madam might find him at the country club. Did madam know the number? If she would wait a minute it could be found for her. Susan held -he receiver, the blood pounding in her ears. After a long wait the operator's mechanical voice came back over the wire. No, Mr. Dunbar

wouldn’t be at the club today. The operator had Just learned Mr. Dunbar was leaving on the Century for New York. Susan thanked her and stumbled out of the booth. So she had meant wtnt he said yesterday about leaving town. She had thought it the idlest sort of threat. Bob had spoken recklessly about shipping on a tramp steamer for Central America. Oh, she must stop him before It was too late! “The Twentieth Century leaves at 12:40 from the La Salle Street station, doesn't it?” The clerk behind the counter stammered, 'Tm sure I don’t know, Miss.” mm m THE huge clock In the corner testified to the fact It was ten minutes past 10. Susan had not realized that breakfast had been so late. She flew back to the house. “I’m going downtown,” she told Mrs. Milton. “I don't know when I’ll be back.” “What time Is It your aunt gets in?” “Tonight at 8.” The girl laughed aloud. She had completely forgotten about Aunt Jessie. Well, that was all right. She would have plenty of time for that later. The thing to do now was to catch Bob at the station. She changed her clothes and dressed with meticulous care. The fawn-colored suit hanging in the closet tempted her, but she ignored it. Instead, she put on her old blue coat with the beaver collar. It was a cold, damp day and the moisture brought out the waviness in her cloudy dark hair. She smiled at herself in the glass, not illpleased at the reflection. She was shabby, it is true, but somehow it didn't seem to matter. She was conscious of a deep surge of happiness within her. She was dressed and ready with time to spare, but in spite of the

7TTSGDK A rw BY BRUCE CAITQN

FOR the fatalistic —those quaking mortals who never crawl into a Pullman berth without the fear of a train wreck just outside of Albany or Troy—here is a book to be recommended. It is: “What Time Is It?” by the young Russian engineer, M. Uin. The writer, whose “New Russian Primer” was hailed last year, has covered the romance of the clock from the relatively important watch of the express train engineer back to Brother Augustin’s unreliable Psalter. The book's reassuring message surely would put the most pop-eyed passenger to sleep in serene confidence. What ineffable solace to know that Brother Augustin was not the train dispatcher! Brother Augustin told the time by his holy book of psalms. During the still watches of the night, good old Augustin reached the words: “To the leader of the chorus of Idhumov, Psalms of Asaphs.” Thereupon he would dash to the belfry and set up a din with the bell to wake up the brothers for morning service. Brother Augustin, however, was not altogether free from such sins of the flesh as overeating and overdrinking. Occasionally he would nod over his tome and the sun would be high in the sky ere the brothers awakened. It is just as well Augustin’;? perusals do not govern the switchthrowing for one of the eighteenhour New York-Chicago fliers. Isn’t that joyous enough philosophy to lull the most pessimistic Pullman wake.tilness? The book is published by J. B. Lippincott Company, and sells for $1.50.

JTICKfcft.S

P-R-C+-T-P-R+-K —T Four vowels and one consonant are missing from each of the above words. The place for the consonant, in each word, is indicated by tbe star. Can you fill in, to complete tbe words?

Yesterday’s Answer

dAhDellon cOnUndQum The large letters are the ones which w ere sw itched from one line to the other. And the switching made the lines into words. f9

TARZAN AND THE ANT MEN

Paint with fright, the little daughter of the cannibal witch doctor hid in a comer of her father’s hut. She trembled at the dreadful secret she possessed. She tried to think how she could save fr&r village from the fate the supposed river devil had told her was about to descend upon Obebe's tribe. She couldn't even Imagine what it would be. Worst of all. he had warned her not to tell her father. What waa she to do? It was the first problem that Aad ever entered her contented young ( life.

THE INDIANAPOLIS TIMES

fact she became horribly nervous as the trolley jerked and dawdled it way downtown. What if she should min Bob? What If he should change his plans and leave from another station? She paled at the thought. It was not quite 12 o'clock when Susan reached the station. All at once her errand seemed undignified and foolish. He might be traveling with other people. He might not want to see her atfer their quarrel yesterday. Her face grew hot and her palms Icy. The wait seemed interminable.

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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Suddenly Uhha sat erect as a thought came to her. Very plainly the river devil had said that if he were released, he would know he had one friend and would reward with everything the friend wished. “Perhaps,” she mused, “he may not destroy us when he is free.” But after a few moments, Uhha’s hopes drooped. How was she, a little girl, to liberate the river god, alone? As she pondered over this problem and her savage little brain could find no solution. Kwhamt* her lather, entered the hut.

The big station with its rows of wooden benches, its gloomy reaches of space, oppressed her. She watched, fascinated, a little group of foreigners who had alighted from an eastern train and now stood ill at ease and restless, waiting for tardy relatives. One of the women wore a yellow scarf tied around her graying hair, gypsy fashion. Susan was interested in them for a few minutes, but soon her nervousness was uppermost again. She had an almost overwhelming desire

to run away. She had come on a fool’s errand. With fast beating heart, she assured herself that Bob would be remote and cool to her. He would not forgive her for things she had said the day before. What was it he had said at parting? “You don't love me at all. You never have. Tm through with you!” m m m OF course he had been angry, but what if he had really meant it? The girl shivered, and the woman wearing the scarf who had been

—By Ahern

“How, ‘baba’,” asked Uhha when she had respectfully greeted her father, “does the river devil destroy those who harm him?” “He might send the fish from the river and the game from the jungle,” replied Khamis, “or cause our crops to die. Then we should starve. He might bring the fire out of the sky at night and strike dead all the people of Obebe.” “But he can not esc-pe,” she asked, “while the Iron collar is arour ! his neck? Who would remove that lor him? 4

envying and admiring the tall miss in the furred coat looked at her curiously. Susan wandered out to the region of the train gates and strolled back and forth. The minutes lagged. It was cold and draughty here. Several well-dressed couples passed briskly with laden porters in their wake. A rakish looking man in a romantic, wide-brimmed hat swung by. carrying a brief case. There was the hustle and subdued excitement attendant to the departure of the crack train. Twelve - twenty. Twelve - thirty.

OUT OUR WAY

PCIFT ABOUND, UtONPEQtNb HOUJ THEV /jPIdiVN) fcASV SCQAMOIES UP, AND PeV6R GET ASOARO UNSEEN. WHEN IMEV CHANCE fcucONG, ANXIOUS MOMENTS CIAPSfc. -- ~~ mewto u s pt. V v _ f >

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Twehv-thlrty-flve. Susan’s heart was like lead in her breast She had loet him—she had lost him I Trainmen began to shout orders. Last - minute stragglers hurried through the gates, impatient at the delay over tickets. Her eyes raked the crowd. No tall young man In a dark topcoat. No fair head, or stern Jawed profile in sight. The clock’s hands crawled Inexorably ahead. (To Be Continued)

—By Edgar Rice Burroughs

“No one can remove it but Obebe. He carries in his pouch the bit of brass that makea the collar open,” answered her father. “But the river devil needs no help, my daughter. Ask no more questions. You shall see.” There was silence between them until Uhha started to leave the hut. “Where are you going?" asked Khamis. “To visit the daughter of Obebe.” she called back and went her way. Little did the witch doctor realize that never again would he see his favorite daughter alive.

PAGE 15

—Bv Williams

—By Blosser

—By Crane

—By Small

—By Martin