Indianapolis Times, Volume 44, Number 221, Indianapolis, Marion County, 24 January 1933 — Page 8

PAGE 8

SPOTOSRTW

BEGIN’ HERE TOD AT SHETt.A BHAYNB. dncfr. ! <!!*- rharefri from a nrw piay because MAHION RANDOLPH. th Mar. la Jealous of her Hhlla searches for work and finally secures a part In a IT :Mral show soon to so on tour * DICK STANLEY, rich and socially ■prominent, asks her to give up this Job >nd marry him, but Sheila refuses. Her .Tda of marriage is a home In some little town far from Broadway Sheila Is friendly ith JIM BLAINE, • nother actor In the rompanv from Which she war discharged When Jim tells her one day that he unintentionally has oflended Mss Randolph Sheila warns him he may loke his job, as •he did NOW GO ON WITH THE STORT CHAPTER EIGHTEEN (Continued) "There’s the little home Glena Grayson built for her mother to keep her out of Hollywood," Jim remarked one day, motioning toward a house not far from the road. "But mothers are in fashion In Hollywood now." ‘‘Yes, mothers of the duchess type. Gloria's mother isn't like that. We Stopped Uiere once to inquire about the road and spoke to Mrs. Grayson. Thought she was the cook! "She's a nice old lady, though. And she looked comfortable in her cotton dress and house slippers, sitting in a rocker out in the yard.” Sheila laughed. It was fun to be with Jim. It was less of a strain talking to him than to Dick. There was one subject that came between them, though. Jim was a success. Not only did he have a job, but he was receiving $250 weekly. Jim was making good and not a strugglcr like herself. ' "I want you to meet my mother some day soon,” he told her soberly. They were seated beneath a tree near Long Island sound. The plash-plash of the water reached them and they could see the creaming of the breakers. The air held a faint salty tang. ' Sheila looked dreamily toward a white sail far out on the horizon. "I'd love to,” she said. "She’d love to meet you,” Jim's voice was nonchalant. "I’ve told her about you. She is at Montauk Point just now, I wonder if you'd care to drive down with me next Sunday?’’ "That would be fine.” He looked at her steadily but Sheila, still gazing seaward, was unconscious of his scrutiny. Jim wondered if this girl knew what was in his mind—what meeting his mother meant. He wouldn’t introduce every girl to his mother. u o HE threw himself on the soft pine needles at her feet and, •raising on one elbow, refilled his pipe. . "What did you think of Tillie Lee When you dropped in on the show?" • "What could I think of her—since •she is my successor?” Sheila laughed a little unsteadily. "I think she just isn’t too good-looking to suit Marion Randolph. Oh, I don't mean I'm such a beauty! Heavens, no! "But I can dance and I can put over a song—better than Tillie Lee anyhow. Marion Randolph rather would have her in the company. She didn’t like me.” . “But, Sheila, that’s rotten luck. I think it's the limit that you have to go with a road show. Just because a catty, jealous—” Sheila held up a warning finger. She was grateful for Jim’s loyalty, but he was being reckless. , "Be careful who hears you say such things,” she cautioned. "Marion Randolph can cost you your job just as she did mine.” "What makes you think so?” "Because I know! Don't ever say anything critical of Marion in the hearing of any member of the company. In the first place, it can’t help me. In the second, whether you think so or not it can harm .you. “You never can tell what obscure chorus man is headed straight for her apartment with a lot of backstage gossip.” • “She’d better not try to monkey ■With my job.” Jim said, his eyes narrowing. "Why, only last night—” , “What about last night?” "She invited me to a party. I didn't go.” “You didn’t!” Sheila shook her head. “Oh. Jim, that was foolish! You shouldn’t have done that!” And Sheila was right. At that very moment Marion Randolph was saying to the gentleman whose money was behind the play in •which she was starred, “Get me another leading man, honey. I don’t think I like Jim Blaine.” CHAPTER NINETEEN THE gentleman whose money was backing the play in which Marion Randolph was starred was Craig Abbott. As it happened. Abbott was feeling weary. He was Weary of financial responsibilities bringing practically no returns. . He was weary, too, of Miss Randolph’s pouting and petty tyrannies. When things wont wrong—and they did frequently—Marion was quick to let every one know it. Craig Abbott had begun to think of sailing dates and ocean liners. A long leisurely cruise, alone and unhampered, to parts unknown. For an indefinite period. That would be delightful He was rather new t-o this business of "angeling” plays. He was rather young. He was unfamiliar ,with the tempestuous whims of leading Indies, but during recent weeks he had been learning rapidly. What he had learned had considerably changed his viewpoint. Abbott realized now that he had been making mistakes. Numerous mistakes. There was that girl he had seen the other evening! Clever youngster. Talented. . And he had allowed Mandrake to put her out of the show simply because Miss Randolph so desired. '.Yes, dropping Sheila Shayne from "’When Lights Are Low” had been a serious mistake. All this was in Abbott’s mind as Marion Randolph spoke. He sat on a divan in the living room of her Apartment. Marion, nearby, was standing, because the lines of her tea-time pajamas were better when she stood. ' Marion might take little thought for the morrow, but she took

CELLOPHANE

thought constantly for her appearance. ‘Blaine’s no good In that part.” she repeated. “Get rid of him, Craig, and find someone else.” Abbott looked up from the book he had been reading. He said, •Well, if you want l im fired, fire him. Why not?” She pouted. “I can’t do it, Craig. You know that. But I'm warning you right now there isn't a show in town big enough for both of us.” The man eyed her. “Then why not fire yourself for a change? You’ve already gotten rid of a good comedian, a cute little dancer and half the chorus.” He counted them off on slim fingers. “You ruined two expensive costumes for no reason at all. Spike heels,” he paused to allow his change of tone to sink in, “aren't awfully good for velvet frocks, are they?” “But I want Blaine fired!” “Darling, why didn't you say that before? I'll go and see him right av.ay. Where does he live? It would be too bad to drag him way down to the theater tonight, when he won't be needed.” a a a HE rose and was half-way to the door before Marion stopped him With a hand on his arm. ‘‘Go back and sit down,” she begged, trying to laugh. The venom had drained from her eyes and at that moment she looked innocuous. Her skin, as she well knew and frequently announced, was flawless. Her hair, without that last gold rinse, would have been lovely. Its curl was fairly natural. And the tilt of her head was superb. Even at that moment, Abbott would have agreed to all this. None of these facts, however, interested him. He was thoroughly tired of Marion and Marion's petty whims. “What is the chap’s number? We’ll get the business over,” Abbott went on. Marion named Blaine's hotel. She was looking worried. Somehow, she didn’t like this mood of Craig’s. She never had seen him quite like this before. “I’ll call him,” the man was saying, “and take him out to dinner.” “But I thought you were having dinner with me?” For answer Abbott gave the operator the number. A moment more and he was asking for Jim Blaine. There was a pause and then he said, "Blaine? This is Craig Abbott speaking. You don’t know me, but I’m interested in 'When Lights Are Low.’ Wonder if you'd dine with me this evening? I’d like to suggest a few changes.” n HE winked at Marion, who quickly recovered her composure. This was going to be all right. How Blaine would writhe! Still—hadn’t he a contract? She wrinkled her forehead a momeut over this, then decided that he probably was too new to the show business to think of a detail such as that. In that case, everything would be fine! “Well, it's settled,” Craig remarked, as he replaced the telephone. He did not return to his seat. Instead, he closed the book he had been holding and replaced it on the table. "I’ll leave this—or have you a book?” he asked dryly. “Do you know any more old jokes?” Marion retorted. But she flushed. The old story of the book and the chorus girl never had amused her. Craig smiled as he let himself out of the apartment. "And now,” he said to himself, “I wonder just what inducement I can offer to get an introduction to that little girl who looked as though she iiked red geraniums. Let's see—when was it I saw her —?” Four hours later they were seated at a dinner table. There were places for three at the table, but Jim Blaine had had to leave early to reach the theater. Abbott leaned forward, looking directly into Sheila Shayne’s eyes. (To Be Continued)

7TSGDE AM BY BRUCE CAJTON

THIS generation is used to an Africa whose map contains no more blank spaces, an Africa whose darkness has given way to pale early dawn. But the old days, when everything a few hundred miles from the coast was a profound mystery, aren’t so very far back, and they were exciting days, full of adventure for the daring. We get a glimpse at them in “Bula Matari,” by Jacob Wassermann. This book, subtitled, "Stanley— Conqueror of a Continent,” is. a biography of Henry M. Stanley, who did as much as any other man—if not more—to wrest Africa from its mysterious darkness and open it to such blessings of civilization as disease, poverty and forced labor. Stanley had quite a life. A drifting orphan, wandering from England to America, soldiering, sliding into newspaper work, roving afar as a correspondent, he was just the man for the "Find Livingstone!” order. He found the lost missionary, came home famous, returned to Africa twice more, lived through almost incredible hardships and dangers—and, at last, died peacefully. in his bed, in England. His life, says Wassermann, exemplifies perfectly the plight of the man of action; the man who must go from act to act, who lives by an unbroken succession of deeds and who, in the end, with no more worlds to conquer, must wither because no further action is possible. "Bula Matari” is a thoughtful and interesting book. Published by Liveright, it is priced at $3.

OUR BOARDING HOUSE

RDU weren't a PAL OF MINE-, BIG PIECE ildn't warn you— id just c of tropetold i OU 60 AHEAD AK PASSLE JAVCE, \ T /v\& TH' SAME: 1 OL' BEAR TRAP WHY,BUS, / / LINE ABOUT BUS, A SErD TO BE A PRO H&'LL f TO THROW A . YOU UP LIKE A JELLY ] \ SCARE IN NAE . OK AT THOSE GORILLA ARMS OF ?,> ‘ C L :.^ o^ / OW • /OULL JUST BE A HUNK. OF PUTTY J J SQUEEZE YOU f k T .NTO ABOOKENW ) \ FLATTER. *) BETTER SET ON TH C fe THMvI A STAMP?/ E? bike an BACK-PEDAL ) & Zs , I 'IJI aJI’EE SEn.ICE INC- 1 I~ t Y M .

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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TARZAN THE UNTAMED

t . * v . t 'u'. f v u. ( w Co P3 rn * ht - 19 J * by R:ce Buittuklh Ir.c ;

For awhile Olga's captors seemed to have forgotten her existence. No one came near the hut, not even to bring her food. She could hear them at the other end of the village, laughing and yelling, and knew that they were celebrating with native beer and food.

.THE INDIANAPOLIS TIMES

To be prisoner in a native village in the heart of an unexplored region of Central Africa—the only white woman among a band of drunken barbarians! The very thought appalled her! “Courage!’ she told herself.

—By Ahern

OUT OUR WAY

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AE> LOKKp ENOUGH ~M THW OF W ,CWLE POISON US DUVA9Y DAVIES >NOIM th’ M THINK NOTHIN' OF \T STYUSTS KAME T'GO 9UEF M n f tESEtt. 1 tmtK

“You have escaped from blacker outlooks than this!” she mused. Darkness had fallen and still no one came. She wondered if she dared venture forth in search of Naratu, Usanga woman, who was least cruel toward her. Cautiously she left the hut.

—By Edgar Rice Burroughs

She found her way to where the revelers made merry. She saw them performing a grotesque dance, eating greedily and drinking themselves stupid. Only Usanga was half-sober, waiting the moment when he could go alone to the captive* hut.

-JAN. 21, 1933

—By Williams

—By Blosser

—By Crane

—By Small

—By Martin