Indianapolis Times, Volume 45, Number 11, Indianapolis, Marion County, 24 May 1933 — Page 15

PAGE 15

DflßunG Tool

Rf>lN Hf.Br Tot) \ v I MpNNIK O’DARE ;w< DAS GARTH- ! oan. fiihv and handsome who ,s out wpt w!'h a nart'- of fr.andu including tho *lrn. SANDRA I.A'.VRFA’CF San*>ra, pretending to ha Mor.n a friend want* Dar. for har*f',f His ptrenu want him to msrrv Sandra and inn* down on Minnie baran-a the O'Daras ra poor. Monnie dark* in a drug •tora MISS ANSTICE TORY ionj a friend {' *ha family, Inhere - s:>o 000 and a-ks Monma to go *o V. rope with har Tha B'rl h*|t*e*. hoping for n.*- from IJar. At, last a la*tar com'*. but it 1* a <1!•ppointment. Dan * lova aam* to hava coolad Mot.:,.a piquad. accept* M.*s Cor- 'a ‘ t ‘ dav thay leave Bo.• a<*ara Dar, return* SOM DO ON WITH THK STORY CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE fContinued.) “Got everything?” This from Kay, parking and sorting the underthings Wasn't it sweet of Gertrude to bring those suede gloves?” ‘ Yes.” Mrs. O Dare sighed. “Gertrude's an awfully nice girl. I'm so fond of her” ■ Mother, you can't choose Bill’s wife for him. Don't you know that?” Kay said, smiling. “Os course she does. Hasn’t she proved it ?” Monnie gave Kay a warning glance. ‘lt is too bad about Gertrude and Bill. He used to like her a lot, and I know she still cares about him.” '.So does Angie,” said Kay. bent on mischief. 'We know that.” Her mother looked up from mending a slip of Monnies. “Angie’s a good little thing.” said Mrs. O'Dare loyally. “Only well, it can t be helped how! " “It’s the ones with the dash that succeed,'’ Kay murmured. "If Gertrude would give that mousy hair of hers a henna rinse and redden her fingernails- if she’d use eye shadow and lipstick, she’d look a lot better. She’s not bad looking, only she gets herself up to look like Jane Austen.” "You tell her that some time, Miss Smarty," said Mark, who had come in noiselessly and stood grin- . ning m the doorway. “You belong in bed, young man,” Kay told her brother loftily. "Believe I will tell her, now that you mention it.’ “Children, children!” “Aw, we weren't fighting, Mums, only Kay thinks she knows it all.” Mark put his freckled paw beside his mother's thin one. "We’d belter all get to bed,” she told her brood. "We’ve got to get up early. Monnie s train leaves at 8.30.” n n n etwhERE was a sharp rat-a-tat at X the door and Mark blundered to open it. He returned in a moment bearing a square white florist's box. Monnie’s heart gave a great leap. Her thought, as always, was that it might be from Dan—Dan who was iii far away Wyoming. "Kid Eustace's chauffeur,” grinned Mark, "brought it.” Monnie, hiding her disappointment, cut the green tape and lifted from the crinkling paper a cluster of bronze and green orchids, delicate, exotic. Charles had scrawled on the card, "To wear on your goingaway day. Good luck!” "They’re much too grand for Belvedere,” sighed Kay, enviously. “Keep them fresh till you get to New York. Charles must have wired to get them.” "They’ll be lovely with your new coat," the mother cried, touching the frail blooms with a reverent finger. Monnie didn't sleep much that night. When, toward dawn, she fell at last into a fitful slumber she was haunted by dreams in which Dan Cardigan, dressed in chaps and sheepskin, rode toward her, bearing a sheaf of giant orchids. She felt someone tugging at the bed clothes and opening her eyes. “Wake up, lazybones.” Kay was smiling. Monnie came back to life. It was the day she was to leave for New York with Miss Anstice. Tomorrow they would be sailing for England. She had to pinch herself to see if she were really alive. An hour later, flushed, starry eyed, the orchids pinned to the brown fur collar of her new hunter's green coat, she faced them all on the platform. "Oh, I can’t leave you—!” Her mother patted her shoulder. “Nonsense. We'll get along all right.” “All aboard!” The bell began to toll. Miss Anstice, nervously excited. hopped up on the platform. She saw their faces through a blur. '•Good-by, good-by!” The train was moving. “That,” said Miss Anstice a moment later, “is the down train from the city. Wonder who's on it. Her curiosity excited, she peered out. "Quite a crowd,” murmured Miss Anstice. Monnie did not hear. Nor did she know that the tall young man shouldering his way along the platform they had .lust left was Dan Cardigan. CHAPTER THIRTY IT had been raining when Dan reached Chicago. Hard. cold, unfeeling rain, beating down on streets like black glass, making dazzling reflections in all the puddles. He sat moodily in the taxi which was hurling him across town from one station to another. He'd been n fool to write that letter to Monnie. he told himself when he was in that black mood two weeks ago. His mother had been "working on him" as she often did, whispering that he was to keep up the good work, devoting himself to Sandra, because on Mr. Lawrence's approval depended all their future. After the talk with his father Dan was Inclined to take her word for it. Dan knew as well as the next fellow how precarious business conditions were. He r elt a slacker anyhow. off there enjoying himself while his father sweated at home over the bills. Well, it hadn’t been his own idea. He'd done it tq please the family. Then, all hot and bothered, discouraged, too. he had written to Monnie, telling her he thought they’d better not plan to be married In January. It was just a mood and moods pass. Person oughtn't to write letters

when he felt that way. Curious that she hadn't answered. Dan would have sworn that Monnie would give you a comeback on a letter like that. Once she would have. He wondered what could have happened. Deep down he had a sneaking suspicion that one reason he’d written it was to get Monnies answer, hurt, loving, assuring him she'd wait, asking what the trouble was. Didn’t he rare any more? But he hadn't had a line—not a word. Dan hated to write letters, himself. Somehow, he never knew quite what to say—but he'd been sure she would write him often. All this fortnight he had watched for mail, expecting every day to have a line from her. Then, when the month had been up and she had still remained silent, he had told his mother he was going to run on home ahead of the rest of them. He had been, ah of a sudden, impatient to see Monnie. Mother hadn’t wanted him to do it. had complained that Sandra would think it queer. Dan swore softly to himself. What did he care what Sandra - thought? Sure, she was good looking, smart, but she left him cold. Whereas, Monnie—and here Dan’s deep set eyes glowed—he was crazy about Monnie. There was something about her that caught at his heart, squeezed it. Maybe she was sick. Oh, no, he assured himself, lighting a cigaret in the cab's stuffy darkness, no, she was just sore. She'd been like this before about something he'd done.He might wire. He might phone her long-distance. Then he decided against that. In a small place like j Belvedere news got around so easily. No, he'd wait until he saw her and could talk to her. That was the best way. U tt tt THE big terminal seemed chilly and deserted. Dan strode along, glancing with casual interest at the little group of shawled immigrants huddled over their bags. It was a gloomy place. Gave him the shivers. Well, there wasn't long to wait. His train was already made up. The wheels beat a tune into his brain. It was a tune he had danced to that last night at the Bar-A ranch. "Isn't it romantic, da-de-dada-da-de-da-da-da.” Sandra had been humming the words, her head thrown back, those queer, heavy lidded gray eyes of hers on his face. Maybe Dan had held her a little tighter than necessary. He was, he told himself, doing 1 everything to keep everybody happy. But as the wheels ground out the i t une now he decided he wasn't going to have anything more to do with Sandra. It was the very dickens, being pulled this way and that. He liked her. She was fun to be with —but that was all. If Monnie hadn’t been around he might even have fallen in the way of being in love with Sandra. He admitted that. But as things stood —well, it was just too bad. Dan grinned in the darkness. He raised the shade and peered out into the rainy night. Nothing but blackness out there, and occasionally the blurred lights of a station as they flashed past. The train hooted eerily at a grade crossing. Dan wished he could sleep. Why was it he couldn’t? Usually, he dropped off the instant his head touched the pillow. He knew what he’d do. First thing in the morning after he'd reached home and had a bath and shave and seen Dad he’d go see Monnie at the store. He'd surprise her—not even ’phone. Maybe she could go to lunch with him. They'd drive out the Springs way. Then he'd tell her he was sorry he'd been such a elope about this trip. She'd understand, of course, and everything would be lovely. Curious he should feel rather s nervous about it all. n n tt WHEN the train slowed into Belvedere the rain had stopped. There were quite a few people getting off. A football team coming to play the “Belvedere Stars.” (To Be Continued)

7TSODK A DAL BY BRUCJs CATION

IN “Helene,” Vicki Baum gives us a novel which might almost be called a German version of "Ann Vickers." "Helene.” that is to say, like Sinclair Lewis’ latest book, treats of the trials and tribulations of the modern woman—the woman who makes her own career and fights j her own fight in a way possible only in the twentieth century. Its heroine is a young woman who studies advanced chemistry in a German university. She is going to be a scientist and nothing is to interfere with that design; but she is no more successful than was Ann Vickers in keeping love from tripping her up. In fact, the love affair in which Helene gets involved is a catastrophic affair that would end everything for the ordinary person. The young medical student with whom she is in love commits suicide, Helene is held in jail for several weeks while the inquiry into his death goes forward, then she is dismissed from the university—and. a little later, she has a baby. Penniless and alone, she has to ; support herself and her child, com- | plete her education and then find j a niche in her chosen profession. She succeeds, too. although the 1 courageous way in which she sur- , mounts all of these handicaps seems Ia little too good to be true: and the story of her adventures, if I am ; not mistaken, is going to be one of j the spring’s best sellers. Published by Doubleday, Doran & Cos., ’ Helene” sells for $2.

' OUR BOARDING HOUSE

01 I^ c LETTS J AW ,YES—"TO BE SURD, I TXD T ,/U\WW WtSfc ) ) 'PROMISE TO TELL. YOU ?-UMP-KAFF Jp THE ADS FOP. NOT \\ AWEM—WHILE LOOKING TOP { S YOUR RAMBLING J TOOLS, UNDER THE SEAT, I FOUND A J ENT FOR^O 1 ? T> JEWEL CASE —TT HAD A STRING OF L 4', SAY HAUL. J) BEADS INSIDE , WHICH I FOUND j IR NOSE DOWN f ( OUT WERE GENUINE ORIENTAL PEARLS < FORE YOU GO J \ VALUED AT # 12,000/ THEY WERE '( JDER A LOW / l STOLEN FROM A JEWELRY COMPANY J BRIDGE / j ( LAST DECEMBER —I WAS PAID A < REWARD FOR RETURNING l \ —-.THEM SO YOU WOULD )

FRECKLES AND HIS FRIENDS

COULDN'T GIVE. P jL’.fl f ( YOU'RE. GOING LIN.'/) OVER AT MRS. MONEYHEFFEEs) f 2 (7 rnMF h . fw ) HA/ \ f \ s V J j P A VTO HAVE * GOOD WVr YOU CAN MAKE ALL THE > /„—.) M ) HFDptft '-J ' Ml I Wf BETTER PERSON THAN ) r °J //.■; ( HOME, COCO KIOISE YOU WANT TO — ( HEY. j * j e SQ/g 1 S SHE WON’T HEAR YOU, / YY QX SHELL LIKE keepA < X ANYWAY / *3£j j/ e 1 * ofe/> WA&M,T ™r ) ' /Tp " V ‘V *jr - k t (~ 0 ~ ' p 7; u ~/j , ' it * pli —:—— ; v JHKI -AJ&t / L-:- W WKmm

WASHINGTON TUBBS II

ME PEAD! Didn't ALL MANUS ON DECK.*? WW EMERGE FROM IRE. ROUP. THE MATE GIVES A SNOW - TU.e; >f CAVt ... ' \

SALESMAN SAM

Aouve PULLED LoTr* yooo HOLD ON, OOSS BEFORE YaT /frje'LL (ADVERTIS&TH DANCING- EACH SALE. A ( ACTIONS S.REFK LOUDER V UFV < TU’ DUMIBTHINOS, BUT THIS J PASS JUDGMENT—OR. PASSOUT WORWS AMD PEOPLE’LL FLOCK FORCff ANCE * EYER.Y TtCffE-TH' ?OO OUoRCff CIRCUS SUiFE---; ACrAIN-LET ME EYPLAIM fffY To TH’ STORE 1 INSTEAD OF CASH —CU6.-JER. IOGP.I HOOKING-THE. UIORMS, J£'LL OJOR.HIS GO INTo THEIR. DHNCe'- r~V - —■ — " —, —' v hook N oyft* ’ \/l

BOOTS AND HER BUDDIES

r ; I —; ■* ( n—. * SOOTE PU't.lVbt LET I A 6ftME AT FiR-bT. 1 VYCj. A SPoRriN 0, xvi THING VCiA*> A NARK—A PLEASE - TOY TO ONOERSTAND 1 AtA NEVER V)ANT To j ME E*PUA\N J CHANCE! sE 1 H*T> WON. TEE REWsRP WAE ADVENTURE THAT WA<b \ NOVO , NOT AE AN EMV&6ARY SEE TOO AGAIN , l CAEVIE OV MY OWN . HMLT YOO .BOOTE \ FROM TAAT MOMENT OF THE Y\NG EOT AE> A MAN ,\N MY - > VS\TV*I NAET VANOE> AND A rtOCE FORTUNE f XNE GROWN To CARE TOR YOU MORE OWN R\6HT ANO - I'VE FAEAKT v •’ * * VIMY NOT ? —esb \ KNOW HOW TO TELE YOO EMERY SItNCAJE TH\Nie I’ME EVER.

TARZAN THE UNTAMED

UIS-nuai-TTO 3Qu£? BY CKTTO VK

With all her strength, the Red spy drove the spear deep into the panther’s savage breast. Tarzan arose from Sheeta’s lifeless body and shook himself after the manner of wild beasts. He looked at the girl', a quizzical expression upon his face.

THE INDIANAPOLIS TIMES

Tarzan of the Apes did not wish to be obligated to a Red spy! Yet in his honest heart he had to admit admiration for her courage, a trait that always impressed the ape-man most. "Here is the kill,” he said, picking up the deer's carcass.

—By Ahern

OUT OUR WAY

Hs / goodnight! Wy ‘ "WSSn j—r'l BS-Eki Pvjmsiini r\_ / VNJE.fRF. Go*vl’ V_l__ H ’ M A haffa -/ Too FAST- V rr —~ ~ Block, \miTh vouf? \ =ririwviitiii F fiTW WEp Back. ].=_ MIM , 1 rokj TANARUS; ■ \ dcmt woo / into naT ownj / pi 1 T V SvsHMCx ON HM, /“ \ PumO-IFS / ~ PL- 1 ,_r Ovtßj/ '— \. p|j, T*NE. WORRY WART *tg a..pat orr. *- V, ‘nc- 1 t .933 BY HEft SCPVICCL me. 5-2-1

f WRUL, ME HANDSOME g UTTERBOYES, ’N’ HOW f Y 6 F>LASTED ROBBERS, VE WAS THE FIE YOO ET? A TASTY MORSEL N’ TRAPPEP FIT’M PROPER. FVTTEN FER A K\MG, 7Z* c, C i< THAT PIE V*JAS POPED, YE HEAR- DOPED No DOOftT.^r— Hi SEASICK. SO'S I COOLP CATCH THE BUNKVN’y . — —— • • 1

"YOU will want to cook it, probably. Tarzan does not spoil his meat with fire." In silence they followed him to the boma. As they prepared the simple meal, the girl worked a little apart from the others. ‘‘l#n t she WONDERFUL!” murmured Roger.

—By Edgar Rice Burroughs

A low growl issued from Tarzan's clean-cut lips. "She is a Red and a spy!” he replied. The Englishman turned quickly upon him. What do you mean?” he cried. "I mean what I say,” replied thes ape-man. "She is a Red and a spy.” “I do not believe it?” exclaimed the aviator.

:MAY 24, 1933

—By Williams

—By Blosser

—By Crane

—By Small

—By Martin