Indianapolis Times, Volume 45, Number 21, Indianapolis, Marion County, 5 June 1933 — Page 13

JUNE 5, 1933

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hf.oin hkrf todav MONNIE O DARE VCUTIR and benutlful. *a:l* for Europe a.' th companion of MIRH ANSTirr COREY ar. o.d Jncnd. Monni* U trying to forg*’ DAN CARDIO AN ha’.,<- ng he has lilted her for SANDRA LAWRENCE Sandra. pretending to b* Monnie - triend. ha.' darn trying lo win him from her. Dan* parar.t* who look down upon Monnn ber!iw the ODirn are poor favor the mntrh with Sandra In London ARTHUR MACKENZIE. Tlch. middle-aged New Yorker, ask.s Monme to marrv him. Before *he has given her ati'wer *he receive* a letter from Dan eepialning hi* neglect and begging her to forgrr him Monnie decide* to re'urn home, taking the first boat. Ms (enn who has been called back to N*w York on bislne**. ail* at the same time Meanwhile In Belvedere. Monnie* ho- e *own it is reported that Sandra 11.1 Dan are engaged NOW (.O ON WITH THE STORY CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE (Continued! “Her father's been helpin’ old man Cardigan ever since the market took that, dip,” observed Lance disappointedly, and Charles reflected that it was a disadvantage In many ways to live in a town where every one else knew your business. He had heard the gossip, too, and felt, rather sorry her Dan, even though he disliked him. The fellow had charm of a sort. He could quite understand what Monnie saw in him. Dan was what most girls called “frightfully handsome.” Yes, there was something about him. But what a bounder —to pass up a chance at a girl like Monnie because he wanted money. Or was he judging Dan unfairly. You could never be sure. Charles was bored, wanting to go home, but too kind-hearted to offend his hostess by so doing. Everything palled on him nowadays especially these parties, where there was a noisy band and every one shouting above it. Those picnics with Monnie and her family last summer he had enjoyed those. He had been really happy then. Happier than he'd ever been before. nut) HE could not have told when he . noticed something was in the air, something quite obviously apart from the party itself. There were whispers in little groups. Something electric imparted itself to the. gathering. Charles was mildly puzzled and amused, too. The party was evidently turning into a gossip-fest. It was very late, and he was just About to make his departure when he found himself, without rhyme or reason, dancing with Dan s sister. Geraldine, usually cool and distant, peemeri fairly crackling with excitement. “Such doings!” She was pretending to be scandalized. “What is it all about?” Charles asked lazily, without any real curiosity. She giggled. “You are a detached person! Haven’t you noticed who’s among the missing?” He looked about him. There were some thirty or more at the dance, so it was not easy to tell at a single glance. Besides, he was sure several guests had long since withdrawn. “Couldn’t possibly guess,” he told her. Then, after a moment, ‘‘Oh, I don’t see Sandra Lawrence or your brother.” She smiled again, meaningly. ”1 see nothing to get excited about m that.” “Oh, don't you?” Geraldine mimicked his bored tone exactly. ”1 suppose you'd think an engagement wasn’t news?” Charles whistled softly. He hadn’t really thought it would come so soon 4 “Interesting,” he drawled, “if true.” Geraldine tossed her head. “Os course it’s true,” she said with some heat. “He's my brother and I think I ought to know.” CHAPTER FORTY z'P'HE train slowed. Monnie, marshaling her forces and making certain her bags were all in order, felt a curious surge of excitement. She was home! Home at last after the long ocean voyage, the dash across New York to make the morning train to Belvedere. Arthur Mackenzie had been everything that was kind and thoughtful. Monnie had felt, on leaving him, a pang of compunction. It seemed unfair that she should be able to give him nothing in return. "Write me,” he had said, holding her hand, on parting. "If anything goes wrong—if things don't fall out you expect.” And Monnie had promised lightly. Why should anything go wrong now ? She and Dan would be reconciled. They would be married directly after Christmas when his uncle’s legacy set him free. She had no fears now. All the way seemed to be clear for her. The trip already seemed like an agreeable dream. No one knew she was coming. She had not wired —she had thought she would surprise them all. It was strange, arriving on the platform with no one to greet her. Strange and exciting, too. Old Marley Brockway. who drove the “Rapid Fire Taxi” took her bags, looking at her a bit curiously, she thought. "B-'cn away, I see." That was old Marley. always. As if you’d be getting of! the train otherwise. Monnie said yes. “Folks know you was cornin'?” She shook her head. The ancient automobile rattled along Main street. Monnie felt self? conscious. riding alone. How strange to see the town exactly as she had left it five weeks ago! Nothing liad changed. What should she say to her mother—to Kay—about her sudden return. They would think it extremely odd. Well, she was in for that now. for all the explanations. They would be glad to see her, and so perhaps would not ask too many questions. After she had satisfied them she would let Dan know she was back. Dan! Every man on the street, walking in her direction, might be Dan! u n OLD Marley seemed inclined to gossip. Driving cautiously along, he threw comments over his shoulder.

Ia WRIGLEY'S mmw W NOW EVEN BETTER

I “Big excitement in town last j uight." There was?” Monnie wasn't i really listening. She knew Marley and his "big excitements." Probi ably a dog fight. ■ Yes. sir! Accident on the river road. People all bunged up.” Mar--1 ley chuckled dolefully. •Really.'’ Mopnie was thinking 1 of her mother—what she would say to her. “Took ’em to the hospital,” the | cabman related with relish. “Hurt i bad, I guess.” She listened, with her thoughts far away. Once; as the car took a corner cautiously, she thought she saw a little group staring at her curiously. It was the usual crowd of ne'er-do-wells who hang around the fire engine house. Monnie shrugged her shoulders. The news of her return would soon be all about town. “Mebbe you know ’em. Fact is, I’m sure you do,” old Marley was droning on. “They was—” Who the victims of the accident were, the girl, was destined not to know just then, as a milk wagon, drawn by a nervous horse, dashed across the path of the cab and Marley was too upset by the incident to chatter further. In another minute Monnie alighted at her own door. She tried the knob, found the door locked and used the knocker vigorously. After an instant, steps sounded and her mother appeared. Her eyes widened. “Monnie! What on earth—? You're not sick?” “Never that,” Monnie embraced the small figure with vigor. “I’m fine and I’ve had a wonderful time! But I thought I'd loafed long enough—” “But, Miss Anstice?” Mrs. O’Dare s brow wrinkled anxiously. “She found those old friends of hers in London and is going to see lots of them. She didn’t mind.” It wasn’t many mothers, Monnie reflected, who would ask so few questions as hers. Mrs. O'Dare appeared satisfied with the vague explanation, though no doubt she was thinking her own thoughts. “We’ve got a pick-up supper.” she worried. “Nothing like w’hat I would have had if I’d known you were coming.” n tt a 'T'HE girl laughed joyously. This was getting home having mother worry about what you ate and how you looked. She had missed it! The shabby little house, warm and cozy, the deep chairs, the books under the lamp. How familiar and yet how strange it all looked after the sglons and cases! Monnie wondered fleetingly what Arthur Mackenzie would have thought of her home. Then she tossed her head! “Kay will be here soon,” Mrs. O’Dare told her. “Mark’s working at the Boston store. I told you that when I wrote, didn't I? He runs errands after school. He's saving his money for Christmas.” “And Bill?” Monnie was almost afraid to ask about Bill. Maybe he had gone off and married Angie while she'd been away. “Bill is like a different person these days,” said Monnie’s mother. Her face lightened. “He’s—Monnie, I must tell you! It’s all off between him and Angie.” “Not really?” Monnie was incredulous. The mother nodded. “Yes. Angie went back to her husband two weeks ago. She'd been acting rather queerly lately. When Bill called her she • was never in. Do you know, Monnie, I really think she cared about Bill and that she decided this w T as the best way out for them all? “She knows Stan—that’s her husband’s name—has a vicious temper and that he’d make trouble for her. He never wanted to let her go, really, and had threaterfed Bill. You don't know how relieved I am about it all. although I’m sorry for the pqcr liltie thing! Angie really has some fine qualities.’ (To Be Continued)

7TSODK A fW BY BRUCE CATTON

A J. BRONIN. that Scottish covered that he had been born to be a story-teller, has written another novel. “Grand Canary;" and. like his previous books, it is an interesting story, told with warmth and sympathetic understanding. Its central character is a London doctor—an intense, earnest chap who is disgraced when something goes wrong with his efforts to devise anew serum to cure meningitis. He gets blamed, unjustly, for the deaths of three patients, and his career tumbles down about his ears. Trying to get his feet back on the ground again, he takes a dejected vacation trip to the Canary Islands. There two things happen to him; he falls in love, for the first time in his life, and he runs smack into an epidemic of yellow fever. And the upshot of it all is that at last he is able to go back to London. triumph over his disgrace and resume his career once more. There is more to all of this than the conventional happy ending. For this doctor gets back on the right path not merely because external circumstances suddenly become favorable. He undergoes an inner change which is vastly more important. He learns to drop his coldly scientific attitude, to develop a genuine sympathy fo r human suffering. He discovers. in short—and I hope you don't object to the expression—that he has a soul. Considered coldly, “Grand Canary" isn't as good a book as “Hatter's Castle" was; but somehow it is better reading. Little. Brown and Cos. is publishing it at $2.50.

OUR BOARDING HOUSE

\F ANYBODY AGKS ME, ILL SAY SVAt SUPE CAN YOU RE AG SQUIRRFLLY AS AN OAK J- L > "PULL I H LFAVtS FQREGT GOING AROUND,RIGGED \ / \ \ f UP ,N SEA TOGS, BECAUSE you ARE 77 \ ARTICHOKE P i THINKING OP RENTING A BOAT TOR J \ V HE \ THE SUMMER f—IF YOU WERE GOING J SPUT-T- CHEST FULL > TO GET A CAMEL,I SUPPOSE YOUD , l OH BOTHEP-j / OF MEDALS ( DECK YOURSELF UP LIKE AN ARAB / —WHY /V TO OTHERS, T TAKE THAI REGALIA OFF, AND </ ARGUE i fr t "don't be so silly you don't ] with a~J yH V 7 KNOW ANYMORE ABOUT "BOATS THAN I WOMAN C / | f BUTTON TO , ~, p. . ... p, p■ ■

FRECKLES AND HIS FRIENDS

WELL, OSCAR /.. YOU LOOK ) YEAH-I GOT TH‘ BLUES... 7 C e>Elk)G POOR ISN'T A 7 MEBBE 80, BUT ) ,*YOU DON'T WAKTt) ("7 LIKE YOU'VE LOST YOUR >4 GEE, WERE POOR AO® J DISGRACE, 0551 E.... JUST THE SAME, < MUCH—WHAT If P” / I'D BUY ME V'jK LAOT FRIEND GOGH f I > CHURCH MICE, AN’ I j POOR PEOPLE ARE I WISH I HAD A J WOULD YOU DO | WHAT WOULD hg| ( GOME CHICKENS A \C. CAN'T IMAGINE ANYONE \> NEVER HAVE A LOT HAPPIER THAN s MILLION V WITH A MILLION S IDO WITH Art) AND MAKE < BEING DOWN !N THE DUMPS ) l ANYTHING ! J ! vM I MOST RICH FOLKS ! }\ DOLLARS? DOLLARS? ) MILLION 1 \ MYSELF SOME )'* \ pp ' I'.'iL-L _ p j _~_ , ~ ' , —i ( ■ p

WASHINGTON TUBBS II

BOLD, BUNOiKY, ANb AAXSERABUE:, THF Issi S\T ALU MVGVVT gFSIPE THE j ;j||| ; .

SALESMAN SAM

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BOOTS AND HER BUDDIES

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TARZAN THE UNTAMED

Without a word of explanation, a number of Usanga's warriors seized the young officer and threw him face downward. Three others went directly to the girl. Roger struggled uselessly while he was being bound. He saw Olga had been similarly trussed. Also that Usanga was talking to her and she was angry.

THE INDIANAPOLIS TINES

‘What is he saying?” called the Englishman ‘‘That he is going to take me far inland." she called back. “There, he says he will be King and I am to be one of his wives!” Then to Roger's astonishment, she smiled and continued: “There is no danger if he can get the plane under way. Then we shall both be dead.’*

—By Ahern

OUT OUR WAY

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“Promise him anything money can buy,” Roger. “That is useless,” replied Olga. “It is better thus. I am only sorry you can not go with us. for my death will be much easier than that which probably awaits you.” Usanga demanded she translate the talk. “He is wishing me farewell,” she replied.

—By Edgar Rice Burroughs

“Grant the white man his life and I will go willingly with you," she begged. 'You'll go anyway, willingly or not,” growled Usanga. They carried her to the airplane where Usanga seated himself ahead of her. Her wrists were then unbound. Pale, but smiling bravely, she looked toward Reger and cned; “Good-bye.” i

PAGE 13

—By Williams

—By Blosser

—By Crane

—By Small

—By Martin