Indianapolis Times, Volume 48, Number 12, Indianapolis, Marion County, 25 March 1936 — Page 19

MARCH 25, 1936.

" Today's True Story ■ TANTRUM By Jean Johnson

4 jLIURRY, Alan,” Maria urged. "It may rain any minute now.” A A “Half a mo’, honey ...” Alan Brookie’s crisn red hair was tumbled. his light trousers grease-smeared, when he rose and experimentally thumbed the patch on the old tire. “Guess that’ll hold until we reach Dennis,” he said.

The girl’s soft lips were faintly compressed when she again climbed into the open roadster. She frowned, noting how dark, racing clouds had obliterated the westering sun. “You might have changed that tire beforehand,” she criticized. “Now we won’t have time for dinner before the show.” The suggestion of tears in her voice had an exasperting effect on the already irritated young man. His Jaw hardened; his voice was brittle in retort. "Sorry I’m such a muddler, Miss PrenUce. My birthday blossoms are delayed—and I can’t even get you to a show without calling forth a blow-out and a storm. . . . Now if I were a personage like, say. Walter Colton, valued Metropole Oil efficiency expert, the nassy old weather would know better than to disbehave.” Marcia's tanned cheeks warmed, and angry fire, unknown to the primary class children who adored her, glowed in her blue eyes. "Well, you've suggested the comparison yourself. Alan.” He laughed unpleasantly. “That’s one way of stealing the jump on you. my darling.” She winced. It hurt to hear Alan call her “my darling” in that light, sardonic tone he resorted to more and more these days. Five years before, he wouldn’t have spoken like that. Since then, they had postponed their marriage several times. Their first serious quarrel had been over her stubborn refusal to break off what she regarded as an innocent friendship with Walter Colton. IT wasn’t, she reasoned, as if her former suitor were near by, calling on .her, taking her places. Poor Valter had been stationed in the Far East four years now. Years marked by the small carved stones linked on to tho friendship bracelet he had given her before sailing for Java. "Surely Alan can’t object to your wearing such an inexpensive trifle,” had been his argument when he clasped his parting gift on her w ! rist. Only one ornament had dangled from the silvery chain then—a dainty rose quartz heart. “Just a memento of another you wouldn't accept,” he added with one of thase appealing, melancholy smiles of his. She had been awfully sorry for Walter. So it had seemed a small enough concession to accept the bracelet. Afterward, though, she might have discarded it, if Alan hadn’t made such an issue of her wearing the thing. But what harm was there in keeping a gadget and receiving travelog letters from a man she might c Ce Hga in? Other stormy sessions followed. And she went on teaching in Hyannis. By now she was used to Alan’s sudden rages and repentant aftermaths. Meanwhile, three more tokens had joined the pink heart. A jade elephant from Burma. A fragile carnelian leaf. And, lastly, the tourmaline Buddha. The arrival of the Buddha, a few days before, had stirred Alan to fresh wrath. “The nerve of that guy,” he stormed. "Seems like he’s found a darned clever way of reminding you of the swell time you’ve missed by passing him up! All these touching little mementoes from places you’ve missed seeing with him. And now this Buddha thing. That’s him all right—a plump Buddha biding his time until you change your mind.” “And maybe I will yet,” she flared back. Almost, there had been no birthday celebration together this year. Desultory raindrops splattered the windshield. Alan said sullenly, “If I step on the gas we may beat this storm. Want to chance it? Or shall I put the top up?” a # 11 IGHT then Marcia didn’t care V if the rain spotted her new rose linen frock. The evening was spoiled at the outset. “No need to tear up the road,” she answered stiffly. “I'm not in a party humor. I'd rather stop and say hello to Aunt Lizbeth." “Okay,” he responded with an indifferent shrug. Marcia closed her eyes to press back a rush of hot tears. A few miles beyond, a bend in the road would reveal the row of brilliantly painted roosters that directed motorists to be on the lookout for Benjamin Prentice's roadside shop, and the quaint Cape Cod cottage beyond. Uncle Bengie's antiques were as famous to tourists as Aunt Lizbeth's patchwork counterpanes were to the members of the Prentice clan. But, upon rounding the curve, no dramatic white head was visible through the shop’s closed windows. Moreover, the wooden roosters had a neglected look, bent sidewise. “The old boy must've shut up shop early,” Alan commented as he stopped the car. Marcia looked about, perplexed. “But he makes such a point of not closing up before 7:30 while Summer people are on the roads!” She got out quickly, expecting him to follow. But he said, “I’ll put the top up and stay out here. Tell Aunt Lizbeth I'm smoking my vile old pipe.” It was understood that Lizbeth Prentice wouldn't stand for any smoking in her immaculate house. She found her great-aunt with dinner preparations. "Nice to see you, Marcy. Where’s you r young man?” “Out in the car, enjoying one of his tantrums.” Marcia tried to effect by blushing to the roots of her short brown curls. “Anything serious?" the old lady wanted to know. “Same old story.” Marcia shook a slim brown arm and the bracelet tinkled. “I looked for Uncle Bengie—” A look of concern darkened Lizbeth Prentice's face. "He's upstairs, restin’. Been took with one of his spells. In bed five days this time. That's two longer than usual. I'm kinda worried.” “Bad heart again?” the girl asked sympathetically. SHU Elizabeth prentice darted a quizzical glance at her pretty niece, and said, “Well, kind of.” She; took Marcia’s arm and ushered heri out of the kitchen into her pleas-j ant living room, where seated ini her favorite chair she continued:! “You know l don’t usually take on]

about Bengie’s quiet speels, because most times it does him good to rest his bones a few days. But this time he’s last his appetite. Just lies there mu .terin’ to hisself about j how he’s been a failure as a husband and a provider.” Marcia looked startled. “That doesn't sound like Uncle Bengie! I'm always boasting about how he went into business in his sixties instead of retiring on a pension." "Yes, Bengie’s right spry, considerin’ he’s near seventy,” his wife I agreed prldefully. “But the starch kinda went out of him this spring, right after I went up to Truro to see the new house Howard Marshall built for hisself. And a mighty drafty bam of a place it was, too. I told Bengie afterwards. A mess of old ironwork and doors sent over from Italy, mind you!” “Howard Marshall,” Marcia reflected. “Isn’t he the manufacturer who sends you those mill-end silks every year?” “There’s the last lot.” The old lady jerked her sleek head toward a pile of unopened boxes in a corner and sighed. “Seems like my acceptin’ them samples from Howard—just to show I wasn’t goin’ to let Bengie tell me what to do and what not—has caused more rumpus in our lives than the principle of the thing's been worth, i Bengie was never one to come right j out and say what bothered him. And it ain’t healthy to let poison pile up in your system. I’m just as much to fault for not lettin’ on I know why he gets dignified and silent whenever them boxes come. Marcy, if anything serious was to happen, I'd blame myself—” the old voice wavered. Marcia was stunned by this revelation. Here at last was the explanation of Uncle Bengie’s periodical retirements. He was jealous of a former rival who’d found an Irritating way of flaunting his success. Looking back to her childhood, she recalled innumerable other boxes of jewel-toned samplebrocaded taffetas, corded satins and squares of lush velvet. Many a time, as a special rainy-day treat, she’d been allowed to select pieces large enough for doll’s clothing. And at fairly regular intervals, those same silken scraps had migrated to members of the family in the form of the counterpanes Aunt Lizbeth had a genius of designing. Yet, come to think of it, not one of those quilts adorned a bed in this house.

ALOUD she asked, "Then you’ve never regretted your choice?” Her aunt’s black eyes snapped as if she'd uttered a blasphemy. "Certainly not! Bengie’s the smartest man I ever knew. Folks say he can smell early American originals a mile off. Do you ’spose I'd trade my Bengie—ornery as he is sometimes —for a fat lump of boredom who’s had to travel the world over to pick up ideas the good Lord forgot to put into his thick head? Indeed I would not!” Above the brief silence that followed, a sound other than the pattering rain issued from the region near the head of the stairs. The tell-tale creaking of a loosened board. The alert old lady cocked her head sidewise. A satisfied smile twitched her lips. “So—the old busybody’s been listenin’! Marcy,” she raised her voice a notch, “it’s a pity to throw them boxes into the trash barrel. But I’m tired of having my house cluttered up ” “I could use those silks for my sewing class,” Marcia quickly picked up her cue. "Children love bright materials.” "Then you take ’em right along, child. I’ve a mind to let up on my needlework. You tell your mother she’s to give you that quilt with the rose basket design she’s put in her guest room. It was meant for your wedding present any way —only you kept puttin’ off the day. Can't see why. I hear tell Alan’s doin’ right well with his real estate.” "Yes, business is better,” Marcia said thickly. Something caught in her aunt’s lace collar as she threw an impulsive arm about the small figure. "Aunt Lizbeth, I won’t take your pretties, unless you’ll accept this in exchange.” Hurriedly she unclasped the friendship bracelet. "Thanks. Marcy.” Lizbeth Prentice gravely accepted the gift. Again signs of life came from that dim region above stairs. A shuffle of slippers, and Benjamin Prentice coughed his usual prelude to speech. "Lizbeth, what you cookin’ that smells so good?” Wiping her hands across her eyes, his wife answered, "fish chowder, Bengie.” And to the girl: "You go tell your young man there's plenty for all of us. You say he can smoke his pipe indoors bein’ as this is a special celebration. Marcia ran out of the house and down the cockle-shell path calling, “Alan! Alan!” What if he had gone away for good! What if he were off in some God-forsaken place like Java! Which seemed a fitting place for Walter Colton to remain indefinitely. The urgency of her summons brought Alan springing up th* path. “Anything wrong, darling?” With the right inflection this time. Marcia went straight into his arms, clung to him. "Oh. Alan, I've been foolish, but I do love you. . . . And I’ve missed you!” "Then we won’t wait any longer”; he fulfilled her thought with the positivness of a mind already made up. "From now on we quarrel as man and wife. If we must quarrel.” And when he kissed her with the old fervor, Marcia blessed Lizbeth Prentice for opening her eyes. THE END. ROSICRUCIAN LECTURE SET FOR NEXT WEEK Talking Picture to Be Feature of Program March 31. Cecil A. Poole, Rosicrucim lecturer, is to speak on “Secrets of a Forgotten World,” March 31 at Temple Hall, North and Illinois-sts. The address is sponsored by local Rosicrucians. A talking picture, depicting the sinking of the ancient continent of Lemuria, is to be a highlight of the public lecture which will be preceded by a ratal mystical ceremony.

OUR BOARDING HOUSE

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FRECKLES AND HIS FRIENDS—

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WASHINGTON TUBBS II

PAPER COMES OUT WITH A STORV TWAIN AN EXTRA APPEARS 13 PUMKVMAGLEW HAS FLED TO MEXICO, —■ ■ i. i^il Desperado) |g

ALLEY OOP

BTA BREAK ! TH'GRAND ) tYnS Vy ( BO Y- WE'VE DOME \ ' KMOCKED^— —si WARE '/HE'S SIFTIN' UP/ ) GONNA / HEY, DOWN THERE* { \ y( WANT THAT FOOL T ’IM / WE'LL THROW YOU ) 1 TGIT/

BOOTS AND HER BUDDIES

pi I ooohlll\t loo\<g"

THE TARZAN TWINS

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The padlock on the village gates seemed an invincible obstacle. The nerves of the Tarzan Twins were on edge now. At any moment they might be spied by the wandering eye of one of tin* cannibal warriors. If they were captured again they would surely be killed at once.

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THE INDIANAPOLIS TIMES

In frantic haste Dick tried to pick the lock with his pocket knife, but his efforts were futile. Then suddenly Doc almost gave vent to a cry of relief. He discovered that the shiftless tribesmen had fastened the end of the chain to a post with a bit of grass rope.

—By Ahern

( W / TWO BLACK EYES, A \ /vOU ME AM T.V \ tmmm u bloody nose,a tooth / last part fer tinnirr V out, a big knot om I tvV other guy, / 111 \gl-ll YOUR DOME YOU'RE \ DON'T VOU / mGETTIN TO BE A PUG- X. ' / J \ UGLY , A BRUISER, A / V \ BRAWLER, A TOUGH / ) ■ -j-- ' V mug. A-A A '

Since a chain is no stronger than its weakest link, this proved a very weak link indeed. A single stroke of the knife severed the rope. But that very move toward freedom was also a step toward recapture, for the stout chain clattered noisily to the ground!

OUT OUR WAY

' V / HOYKAWOW - ) j / W- \ ( HOW’D HE GIT f Ot^ Nr -

- V/OONiOEte OP 1 I ’j(i L (ft)'*** T"O gOMCg. INC T. M. REC, U, S. PAT, OfF. iilH lin w

—By Ed?ar Rice Burroughs

Instantly the warriors halted their dance. "The gates!” cried the chief. Shrieking hideously and brandishing their spears, the savages swarming forward. The four fugitives flung themselvea frantically against the gates but the massive wooden portals refused to budge!

- COMIC PAOI

—By Williams

—By Blossee

—By Crane

—By Hamlin

—Bv Martin