The Syracuse and Lake Wawasee Journal, Volume 15, Number 3, Syracuse, Kosciusko County, 18 May 1922 — Page 7

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l| E7>e || ORIOLE

H ■■ - : Q FLORENCE’S WEAPON. Synopsis—Proud possessor of a printing press and equipment, the gift of Uncle Joseph to his nephew, Herbert Illingsworth Atwater. Jr.. aged thirteen, the fortunate youth, with his chum. Henry Rooter, about the same age, begins the publication of a full-fledged newspaper, the North End Daily Oriole. Herbert's small cousin, Florence Atwater, being barred from any kind of participation in the enterprise, on account of her intense and natural feminine desire to “boss.” is frankly annoyed, and not at all backward in saying so. However, a poem she has written Is accepted for insertion in the Oriole, on a strictly commercial basis—cash in advance. The poem suffers somewhat from the inexperience of the youthful publishers In the “art preservative." Her not altogether unreasonable demand for republication of the masterpiece, with its beauty ’unmarred, is scorned, and the break between Miss Atwater and the publishers of the Oriole widens. The Sunday following, ’ Florence's particular chum, Patty Fairchild, pays her a visit. They are joined, despite Florence’s openly expressed disapproval, by Herbert and Henry. Florence will not play. Patty and the visitors indulge In a series of innocent Sunday games. Among them is one called “Truth.” the feature of which is a contract to write a question and answer, both to be kept a • profound secret. The agreement is duly carried out. Florence is told as a family secret that her beautiful aunt, Julia Atwater, has apparently become engaged to a man named Crum, altogether unknown to the Atwaters. Florence finds the notes in the "Truth” game, in which both Herbert and Henry admit that they have pretty eyes, and threatens to tell the muchfeared Wallie Torbln of the episode. J . - ."J PART ll—Continued. —9— “Oh, nothin’,” she replied, airily. Herbert began to be mistrustful of the solid earth. Somewhere there was a fearful threat to his equipoise. “What you talkin’ about?” he said, with an effort to speak scornfully; but his sensitive voice almost failed him. “Oh, nothin’,” said Florence. “Just about what pretty eyes you know you have, and Patty’s being anyway as pretty as yours—and so you’re glad maybe she thinks yours are pretty, the way you do—and everything I” Herbert visibly gulped. So Patty had betrayed him; had betrayed the sworn confidence of “Truth!” “That's all I was talkin’ about.” Florence added. “Just about how you knew you had such pretty eyes. Say | not so. Herbert I Say not so!” “Look here!” he said. “When’d you I see Patty again between this afternoon and when you came over here?” “What makes you think I saw her?” “Did you telephone her?” “What makes you think so?” Once more Herbert gulped. “Well. I guess you’re ready to believe anything anybody tells ynu," he said, with a palsied bravado. “You don’t believe everything Patty Fairchild says, do you?” “Why, Herbert! Doesn’t she always tell the Truth?” “Her? Why, half the time,” poor Herbert babbled, “you can’t tell whether she just rankin’ up what she says or not. If you’ve gone and believed everything that ole girl told you. you haven’t got even what little sense I used to think you had!” So base we are under strain, sometimes — so base when our good name is threatened with the truth of us! “I wouldn’t believe anything she said.’’ he finished. In a sickish voice, “if she told me fifty times and crossed her heartl” “Wouldn’t you if she said you wrote down how pretty you knew your eyes were. Herbert?” “What’s this about Herbert having •pretty eyes’?” Mr. Joseph Atwater inquired; and Herbert shuddered. Uncle Joseph had an unpleasant reputation as a joker* The nephew desperately fell back upon the hopeless device of attempting to drown out his opponent’s voice as she began to reply. He became vociferous with scornful laughter badly cracked in the scorn. “Florence got mad!” he shouted, mingling the purported information with loud cackling*. “She got mad because I and Henry played games"with Patty! She’s tryin’ to make up somep’m tp get even. She made it up! It’s all made up! She —” "No, no,” Mr. Atwater interrupted. “Let Florence tell us. Florence, what was If about Herbert knowing he had pretty eyes?” Herbert attempted to continue the drowning out. He bawled, “She made it up! It’s somep’m she made up herself! She —” “Herbert.” said Uncle Joseph—“if you don’t keep quiet, I’ll take back the printing press.” Herbert substituted another gulp for a continuation of his noise. “Now, Florence,” said Uncle Joseph, “tell us were saying about how Herbert knows he had such pretty eyes.” Then it seemed a miracle befell. Florence looked up, smiling modestly. “Oh. it wasn't anything. Uncle Joseph,” . she said. “I was just trying to tease Herbert any way I could think up.” “Oh, was that all?” A hopeful light faded out of Uncle Joseph’s large and inexpressive face., “I thought perhaps you’d detected him in some Indiscretion.” -Florence laughed, “I was just teasin’ him! It wasn’t anything, Uncle Joseph.” Hereupon, Herbert resumed a confused breathing. Dazed, he remained uneasy, profoundly so; and gratitude was no part of his emotion. He well understood that Florence was never

to impulses of compassion In conflicts such as these; in fact, if there was warfare between them, experience had taught him to be wariest when she seemed kindest. He moved awny from her, and went into another room where his condition was one of Increasing mental discomfort, though •he looked for a while at the pictures in hls great-uncle’s copy of “Paradise Lost.” These illustrations, by M. Gustave Dore, failed to aid in reassuring his troubled mind. When Florence left, he Impulsively accompanied her, maintaining a nervous silence as they compassed the short distance between Uncle Joseph’s front gate and her own. There, however, he spoke. “Look here! You don’t has to go and believe everything that ole girl told you, do yoq?” “No,” said Florence heartily. “I don’t has .to.” “Well, look here,” he urged, helpless but to repeat. “You don’t has to believe whatever it was she went and told you, do you?” “What was It you think she told me. Herbert?” "All that guff—you know. Well, whatever it was you said she told you.” “I didn’t,” said Florence. “I didn’t sny she told me anything at all.” “Well, she did. didn’t she?” “Why. 110,” Florence replied, lightly. “She didn’t say anything to me! Only I’m glad to have your opinion of her, how she’s such a story-teller and all —if I ever want to tell her, and everything!” But Herbert had greater alarms than this, and the greater obscured the lesser. “Look here.” he said, “if she didn’t tell you, how’d you know it, then?” “How’d I know what?’* “That —that big story abojjt ray ever sayin’ I knew I had” —he gulped again—“pretty eyes.” “Oh. about thatl” Florence said, and swung the gate shut between them. “Well, 1 guess it’s too late to tell you tonight. Herbert; but maybe if you and thdt nasty little Henry Rooter do I® ill'll IwM I Kil l 'Ww PSB] II “Oh, About That!*’ Florence Said, and Swung the Gate Shut Between Them. every single thing I tell you to, and d<> it just exackly like I tell you from this time on. why maybe—l only say ‘maybe’—well, maybe I’ll tell you some day when I feel like it.” She ran up the path, up the steps, and crossed the veranda, but paused before opening the door. Then she called back to the waiting Herbert. “The only person I’d even think of telling about it before I tell you would be a boy I know.” She coughed, and I added as by an after-thought. “He’d just love to know all about it; I know iTe would. So, when I tell anybody about it I’ll only tell just you and this other boy.” “What other boy?” Herbert demanded. - And her reply, thrilling through the darkness, left him paralytic with horror. “Wallie Torbin!” The next afternoon, about four o’clock, Herbert stood gloomily at the main entrance of Atwater & Rooter’s newspaper building, awaiting his partner. The other entrances were not only nailed fast, but massively barricaded ; and this one (consisting of the ancient carriage-house doors, opening upon a driveway through the yard) had recently been made effective as an instrument of exclusion. , A long and heavy plank leaned against the wall, near by. ready to be set in hook-shaped iron supports fastened to the inner sides of the doors; and when the doors were closed, with this great plank in place, a person inside the building might seem entitled to count upon the enjoyment of privacy, . except in case of earthquake, tornado. ■ or fire. In fact, the size of the plank and the substantial quality of thg iron fastenings, could he looked upon, from a certain viewpoint, as a heart- ■ felt compliment to the energy and persistence of Florence Atwater. > Herbert had been in no complimentary frame of mind, however, when he devised the obstructions, nor ■ was he now in such a frame of mind. He was deeply pessimistic in regard ■ to his future, and also embarrassed in I anticipation of some explanations it • .would be necessary to make to his 1 partner.. He strongly hoped that ■ Henry’s regular after-school appear-

SYRACUSE AND LAKE WAWASEE JOURNAL

'By Booth Tarkington ■ Copyright, ISBI ■ ky the BeU Syndicate, Ina ance at the newspaper building would ' precede Florence’s, because these explanations required both deliberation and tact, and lie was Convinced that It would be almost impossible to make them at all if Florence got there first. He understood that he was unfortunately within her power; and he ■ saw that it would be dangerous tG place in operation for her exclusion from the building this new mechanism contrived with such hopeful care, and at a cost of two dollars and twentyfive cents, or nine annual subscript tions to the Oriole out of a present total of thirty-two. What he wished 1 Henry to believe was that for some good reason, which Herbert had not yet been able to invent, it would be ' better to show Florence a little politeness. He had a desperate hope that he might find some diplomatic way to prevail on Henry to be as subservient to Florence as she had seemed to demand, and he was deter--1 mined to touch any extremity of un--1 veracity rather than permit the details of hls answer in “Truth” to come to his partner’s knowledge. Henry Rooter was not Wabie Torbin; but in possession of material such as this be could easily make himself intolerable. Here was a strange human thing, strange yet common to most minds brooding in fesr of puhlicitv. We seldom realize tfiat the people whose derision we fear may have been as imprudent as we have been. Therefore, It was in a flurried state of mind that Herbert waited; and when his friend appeared, over the fence, his perturbation was not de--1 creased. He even failed to notice the ■ unusual gravity of Henry’s manner. “Hello, Henry; I thought I wouldn’t start In work till you got here. I didw’t want to has to come all the way downstairs again to open the door and h’ist our good ole plank up ' again.” “I see,” said Henry, glancing nervously at their good ole plank. “Well, I guess Florence’ll never get in this good ole door —that is, if we don’t 1 let her, or something.” ' This final clause would have surprised Herbert if he had been less preoccupied with his troubles. “You bet she won’t!” he said mechanically. “She couldn’t ever get in here again—if the family didn’t go intafering around and give me the dickens and' everything, because tli?y think —they say they do, anyhow—they say they think —they think —” He paused, disguising a little choke as a cough of scorn for the family’s thinking. “What did you say your family think?” Henry asked absently. “Well, they say we ought to let her have a share in our newspaper.” Again he paused, afraid to continue lest his hypocrisy appear so barefaced i as to lead toward suspicion and dis- | covery. “Weil, inavbe we ought,” he i said, his eyes guiltily upon his toe, ■ which slowly scuffed the ground. “1 . don’t say we ought, and I don’t say we oughtn’t.” . He expected at least a burst of outraged protest from his partner, who. on the contrary, pleasantly astonished I him. “Well, that’s the way I look at I it.” Henry said. “I don’t say we ought ! and I don’t say we oughtn’t.” B And he, likewise, stared at the to< of his own right shoe, which was alse | scuffing the ground. Herbert felt a I ilttle better; this subdivision of his difficulties seemed to be working out I with surprising ease. " ' ' ' " * •" 11 "" "" - The partners feel the heavy hand of the master. .. . "■ " 7"' •TO BE CONTINUED.) I ENGINE OF PUBLIC SERVICE Newspaper Today Not, as of Old, the Mouthpiece of Any Individual or Party. Not so many years ago a newspaper was a printing press surrounded by a group of individuals chiefly Concerned in getting their own private theories or doctrines before their 1 readers. Today the newspaper is an engine ■ of public service. Its success financially and morally is measured by ‘ the degree in which it supports not a party but the people. Those today who have a Twentieth century ideal of achievement separate ' the newspaper from the individual ams ■ make it first and foremost an organ i of public service built by the people ■ for the people. The journal which most nearly fulfills its highest purpose is that which is indistinguish ' able in policy from the natural trenu of progress and march of liberty ami ■ free thought. Political prizes were the anus » the old-time editor. His policies wei based on his own party interests an he discussed every public questn.' ‘ with a ferocity aud partisansiup i>v porfionate to the reward he expeeie ■ to get out of it. The establishment of an instilut <• • a living thing, which represents U- . public interest and nothing eise--tf; should be the ideal of the editor It is this ideal which has iea<t newspapermen a priesthood and Ik> separated them —some of them—Doi politics. For this age is not ti m; terialistic age—in spite of opinion t the con^-ary. —Vancouver Sun. Franklin on Thrift A man may, if he knows .not hou . to save as he gets, keep his nose !• I the grindstone all his life and •'e i not worth a groat at last. —Benjam.n : Franklin. Why is the woman seldom sincere • who tells another woman she’s pretty 1

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