Indianapolis Times, Volume 44, Number 303, Indianapolis, Marion County, 29 April 1933 — Page 11

APRIL' 2!>, 1933.

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begin here today MONNIE O'DARE. ho works In a BovMer* druj siorr n<l hiD to support hor small brother \ oun(r*r sister • Ofl mother is in lov with DAN CARDIOAN. whose parents are wealthy. CHARLES EUSTACE handsome newcomer In town, befriend* her and her brother BILL a sraraae. Monnle - .spells SANDRA LAWRENCE, who pretends to be her Irlend. of undermining he.- with Dan Bill plans to marry ANOIE GILLEN who works in a candv shop, as soon as she gets a divorre Dan telephones asking Monnle to see him. hot -he refjsn Monnie worries abo ;t lr-yi ar-old KAY. discontented at home Charles Eustace Invites them to a dinner party. NOW GO ON WITH IHI STORE CHAPTER EIGHT 'Continued) With resentment and anger foreign to her quiet nature, she now regarded the Cardigans. Wasn't Monnie, who was lovely and gracious enough to catch the attention of a prince, quite good enough for young Dan Cardigan? Mrs. O'Dare had lived in Belvedere all her life. She knew, with bitterness and a 1 ittle sardonic amusement, the rigid rules that govern small-town society. She knew Monnle didn’t ‘‘belong,” now that she worked in Mr. Vernon’s drug store. The Cardigans would look higher that the little cottage on Denny street when they put the accolad' l of their approval on a bride for Dan. "Just asking me to drive out with him tonight for a picnic supper,” Monnie returned in an indifferent tone. "I told him I was busy.” n a a “TtyfONNIE. I forgot (o tell you,” iV-L her mother cried with animation. "Mr. Eustace stopped in this morning to ask if you and Kay would have dinner with him tomorrow night. He included me, too, but I told him I'd rather not come You young people can have a -better time by yourselves. He said he was asking some others. I don't know who—” "That was foolish of you. He asked you because he wanted you,” Monnie fold her. Somehow, this message took the sting out of Dan’s left-handed invitation. Charles Eustace, who was cultivated and rich and handsome, didn't mind lettnig the whole world know he was friendly with the O’Dares, even if they were poor and lived in a shabby little house on the wrong side of town! "He’s nice,” Mrs. O'Dare said. "Kay will be wild with joy when I tell her. Poor child, she hasn't had much fun lately! And I keep worrying lest she get so bored with dullness that she ll join that wild crowd in town. "Mrs, Merriam was telling me they had to give the Young People’s Society down at the Fourth street church a good talking to. Some of the boys brought liquor to the last meeting. The janitor found the bottles next morning when he was sweeping up.” "Imagine not being able to be sue of those infants at a church meeting!” cried Monnie, struck. "But Kay didn't go last time. She said she was tired of all that crowd. They were too slow.” "That,” continued Mrs. O'Dare, "was the night she spent with Clarissa Briggs. Her father and mother went to High Springs. Remember?” Monnie was putting on her hat before the mirror, only half attending to the conversation. But at Clarissa's name something flashed in her brain. A scrap of gossip which had drifted to her ears in the store. Two old women, their heads together, muttering. “ that 'Rissy Briggs. She’s a trial to her parents and no two ways about it. Gallivantin' around with travelin’ men down at the hotel.” She allowed nothing of the sudden oensternation she felt to show in her face. Those terrible old tabbies talked about everybody, anyhow! It didn't mean a thing, the fact that that they gossiped about Clarissa who was roly-poly and red-haired and had a cuddy, kissable face. Only, Monnie did wish she knew more about Kay's activities outside the home. Kay was mysterious about her affairs, sullen when questioned. It was impossible for Monnie, working as she did during the day, tired at night, to keep track of her. "Let me alone, won’t you?” Kay would say, rather sullenly, when questioned. "You never want me to have any fun. Might as well be buried alive—” Monnie kissed her mother and hurried out. She looked fresh and charming in her thin yellow frock with flic brown straw hat. No one would hate guessed that she carried with her a burden of worry too great for her 20 years. "I wish,” she cried to herself passionately, hurrying down Denny street, "I wish father were here—” She wasn’t old enough or wise enough to settle all these problems. Bill, who might have helped was immersed in his own affairs. That, too, Monnie had to keep from her mother's ears. Bill, 22, the head of the family really, was in love'.with a married woman whose husband was about to get a divorce. Resolutely, she put this thought from her. nun IT was later the same day that Sandra ran in to see her, Sandra. very crisp and fresh and fragrant in embroidered batiste of sheerest white, with an ingenue hat trimmed with field flowers. Monnie was hot and tired—it was at 5 o'clock—her frock which had seemed so cool and immaculate a few hours earlier was now wilted. Sandra’s tone was light and confidential. Demanding a huge jar of the special bath salts Mr. Vernon always ordered for her. she leaned over the counter, whispering "My dear, I’ve such heaps to tell you!” Monnie pushed back the damp brown ringlets clustering around forehead and tried to smile. It was a sorry attempt. She felt out of sorts, angry, suspicious. Hadn't Sandra been playing tennis with Dan at the Country Club only a short time before; hadn’t she lunched with him? A wave of furious jealousy and resentment swept over her, but she forced her tone to be calm and dispassionate.

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! "Have you? Isn’t it a frightful day? I’m perishing ” Sandra widened her eyes and flicked her lashes downward in a way she had. "I saw—guess who?—today,” she murmured importantly. Coolly Monnie sad, “I know. Dan. He told me.” Something very like annoyance crept into Sandra's honeyed expression. With an instant flash of prescience, Monnie said to herself that Sandra has wanted to make her jealous. "She’s pretending when she says she's my friend,” thought the younger girl bitterly. The knowledge made her cold and forlorn. She hadn't many friends. She was too busy and too poor to make them—and she had counted on Sandra. Last winter, the other girl, ! rich and easy and cultivated, had ! made things pleasant for her, had ! lent her books and invited her to | Sunday night, suppers. Now every- • thing seemed changed. Sandra said importantly, "My dear, we talked about you!” j "Did you, indeed?” Monnie hated herself when that sarcastic note j crept into her voice, but she could ; not keep It out. "Danny’s such a darling,” the other continued, lowering her tone so that Miss Anstice Cory, who had come in and was pottering around among the toothbrushes, should not overhear her. “He’s honestly fond of you, Monnie,” she continued with a faint note of patronage. nun 'T'HE angry color crept into Monnie's cheek and she smiled brilliantly, without meaning. "Really! How nice of him,” she said. “Oh, now, don’t misunderstand me," Sandra drawled. “Dan’s a bit of a charmer. We both know that. I honestly feel, Monnie,” (this with another side glance at Miss Cory who was near-sighted but far from deaf) “that Dan will never tie hirnI self to one woman. He's the—the flirtatious type ” "Was that what you -wanted to tell me?” Monnie asked, amber eyes S darkening with repressed fury. "Don’t be cross,” Sandra coaxed. "What I really wanted to say. Monnie, was that I think you’re wasting your time, watching and worrying about him ” "I didn’t know I was doing that,” Monnie returned proudly. “Ah, but, my clear, those of us who know you best realize you care for Dan. Os course we do!” For an instant, Sandra slipped her white, beautifully manicured hand over the other’s and Monica was conscious of the contrast. She had help Mr. Vernon open a packing case that afternoon and had broken a nail. She felt gauche and grimy beside the other girl's perfection. "When Dan telephoned me after lunch,” she told Sandra, “and asked me to go out with him tonight I refused.” "My dear, you did?” Sandra quite glowed. “I think you were perfectly right. I think that's just the medicine he needs. He'll begin to realize how spoiled he is. You’ve been too sweet with him always—let him treat you just as he liked and then let him come around —” Sandra seemed quite excited. Her voice raced on, with heat. "Why, everyone has been talking about it. I’ve told a dozen people, myself: ‘Take my word for it, Monica O’Dare doesn't care that for Dan. She’s got heaps of young men.” (To Be Continued) A PAY SY BRUCE CAJTO H DURING the years just before the French revolution an observant and caustic Frenchman, Louis-Sebastian Mercier, wrote a vast twelve-volume work, "Le Tableau do Paris.” telling just what life in Paris was like. Now, Helen Simpson has translated and edited this work, and the result is a neaty volume, "The Waiting City,” which is both entertaining and uncommonly instructive. You can dip into this book anywhere—Mercier’s chapters are very short—and learn something surprising about the Paris of Louis XVI. The streets, in wet weather, are quagmires, Mercier complains. The eaves on the houses have spouts which pour waterfalls onto all pedestrians. Traffic is dangerous, because of the way the carriages of the nobility whirl along. Bankruptcies, he remarks, "are so frequent as to be no disgrace”; business confidence is gone and “fail and grow rich is the motto now.” He complains—away back in tha eighteenth century!—that bankers are the rulers of France and that their devious tricks are past an honest man's understanding. The Parisian barber shop he calls "the abyss of all uncleanness.” He is encouraged because he has found a dentist who can make false teeth "with which you can chew anything you fancy, no matter how tough.” He protests that women insist on being thin, and diet and drink vinegar constantly to gain that end; and he asserts that the only women in Paris who wear bloomers are actresses, and they wear them because the police require them to do so. Paris is well-policed, anyway, he says, and "dangerous rioting has become a moral impossibility”—less than a decade before the revolution! Published by Lippincott. this entertaining book sells for $3.

OUR BOARDING HOUSE

vFSf WELL, I HAVENT 60T TU' CAR BUT/DRAT n\ MARTY—^ Jl/ HERB JUST NOW, HOOPLEj MY AM I "BUYING A PASSENGER %| ; ©ROTHER-IN-LAVvf IS USIN' IT {\ CAR FROM YOU, OR A. ON A PLASTERING JOB ,TH’ OTHER At TRUCK"? BETTER m e\DE OF TOWN GETTIN' BACK I C HURRY AND GET IT BACK an' forth .y'know, an'for - ( f fromyc>ur brother-in-M j HAULIN' MATERIALS/--I'LL 'Y*LAW, BEFORE HE USES SEE HIM TONIGHT AN’ HAVE 'IbA BRING J{ ,T FOR DITCH TH' BUS OVER —HE'LUBE: , ( DREDGING/

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

Throughout the night, Tarzan led the way back to the hut in the apes' country. Soon after escaping the cannibals, Zu-tag and the other apes swung into the trees and vanished. Tarzan was disturbed. How* he was to get rid of the man and girl, he could not imagine

THE INDIANAPOLIS TIMES

A freak of fate had thrown these three radically different types together. One was a savage, almost naked beast-man, one an English army officer, and the woman was she whom the ape-man knew aAd hated as a Red spy. Through the Jungle Tarzan made his way easily.

—By Ahern

OUT OUR WAY

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More and more difficult it became for Lieutenant Cecil and Olga to keep up with him. At last, impatiently, without speaking. Tarzan picked up the girl and Cecil, astonished, saw him climb high, swing through the and disappear, leaving the white man puzzled and deserted.

—By Edgar Rice Burroughs

The night's strange happenings left Roger Cecil thoroughly mystified. In the excitement of this rescue from the cannibals, he had not seen the woman closely. * “Doubtless she belongs to this wild-man,” he thought, “and neither of them cares now what becomes of me!”

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—By Williams

—By Blossei;

—By Crane

—By Small

—By Martin