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The Indianapolis times. [volume] (Indianapolis [Ind.]) 1922-1965, August 23, 1929, Home Edition, Second Section, Image 24

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PAGE 24
OUT OUR WAY
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Tk^INING-JAUENT
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CHAPTER XXXVll—(Continued)
RED drew his eyebrows together
severely.
“Now Molly,” he admonished,
“that’s no way to talk. There’s too
dam much of that sort of thing in
America. What business has any
Judge to take a child rfrom its
father, and turn it over to some
body else? No more business than
the censors had meddling with your
play. You thought they had a
nerve, didn't you, telling people
that your show wasn’t fit for them
to see? It was none of their busi
ness, the sort of show's folks went
to. Everybody minds everybody
else’s business in this blooming
country. But you’re going to mind
your own—see, sweetness? You
haven’t any more right to take Rita
away from Bob, than you have to
rb John D. Rockefeller of his most
cherished possession.”
“But Bob drinks so!’ she cried.
“Does that give you any license
to steal from him?"
“But the courts have a right to
determine whether or not a parent
is fit to have the custody of his
child. I could prove Bobe unfit.”
“You go messing around in that
sort of thing,” he threatened an
grily, “and I’m through with you,
Molly. For heaven’s sake, be con
sistent. You despise people who
sit in judgment on the morals of
others. Now, because it could serve
your own interests, you’d run to a
judge, and tell tales on Bob. You’d
ask that Bob be punished for get
ting drunk, and you be rewarded
for telling on him. And you'd put
Rita up for the prize. I’m ashamed
of you, Molly!”
"But if I could get Rita that way,”
she moaned. “You don’t know how
fnuch I want her, Red.”
“You mind your own business,” he
counseled. “If Bob was abusing his
child, or neglecting her, then it
would be another story. Do you
know what you’d be doing if you
went after Rita through the courts?
You’d be putting yourself on a par
with that girl you told me about who
was going to sue Bob for breach of
promise. You thought she was a
rotter, didn’t you? For the love of
Pete, don’t be a blackmailer!”
Molly picked up the tray Red had
left on the floor.
“Here,” she said, “plug in the
percolator. Let’s eat and stop fight
ing.”
“I wasn’t fighting.” he objected.
*“I was only telling you things. Wom
en are funny. Asa sex, Molly, you’ve
no principle at all."
“I know.” she agreed. "We’re
ruthless. We’ll do anything to at
tain our ends. I know you think I’m
utterly without character, so I might
as well admit that I propose to keep
Rita by fair means or foul. I’m a
bad woman. Red. And the che-ild
means more to me than honor. Do
you know what I’d do? I’d frame
Bob. if I knew’ how.”
Red laughed.
“Look out." he cautioned “that
fee doesn't frame you. As for you.
young woman, you be a square
shooter. Give the egg a break.”
a a a
IT was late when Red said good
night. Molly slipped her arms
about his neck, and drew his ear
to her lips.
“Do me a saver?” she coaxed.
"If you hear anything more about
Jack, will you let me know’, Red?”
“Why sure.” he promised. “They
teent over from the office for a
Rory. If they got anything. I’ll get
In touch with you.’’
After Red had gone. Molly bur
led her pride resolutely, and began
k letter to Jack. He wouldn't marry
her. But that did not mean he
didn’t love her. The more she
thought about it. the surer she be
came that it was a terrible mis
understanding. He said he couldn’t
be Mister Molly Burnham. Didn’t
that simply prove It was all a mat
ter of his idiotic pride?
There was a woman in Snodgrass
whose husband was a contractor.
One year he was laid up with rheu
matism. and she took over his
work. People liked her. and were
glad to do business with her. In
six months she made more money
than her husband cleared in a year.
Her husband got well, and took
things over again. Immediately
business began to fall off. The wife
was an energetic person, and anx
ious to carry on. But
retorted that he was going to wear
the pants in his house, and that
settled it . . .Well, Jack was exactly
like that stupid old contractor. Men
were all alike. Foolish masculine
vanity!
Molly smiled to herself. Her
darling wanted to wear the pants.
That was what It really amounted
to. Os course he wouldn’t talk 3 ike
that. Jack was never crude. But
that was it, just the same. Sex
pride.
“You’re so proud. Sweetheart,” she
whispered. “Now’ I shall be humble,
to prove how deeply I love you.”
Molly had a little pink typewriter,
in a little pink box. A tiny, noiseless
thing, that matched the colors in
her bedroom When she worked at
night, she used it, because the small
est noise some times woke Rita. She
slipped on a negligee of rose chiffon,
and lighted the pink-shaded lamps,
smiling as she completed the pic
ture. Molly loved doing things like
a girl in a book. Now the room
■was softly pink. Everything har
monized with her mood.
She would write Jack a letter that
should breathe of her love and de
votion. A gay, friendly letter that
woujd bring him happiness, and
assuage his silly fears. Sweet and
womanly, to prove that she was not
the kind of a girl who wanted to
wear pants! To show that he need
never be afraid of being Mister
Molly Burnham!
She laughed aloud, like a little
girl planning delicious mischief. She
would win her darling, with all the
wiles she knew, burying her foolish
pride. For what had pride to do
with love? •
a a a
SHE slipped a sheet of paper in
her typewriter, ant# began,
swiftly, to type. The words, in her
mad haste, fell over one another.
“. . , in the old days,” she wrote,
"I was full of pride in myself. But
now you are all that I care about
in the world” .. . She paused a
moment, thinking of Rita. But no!
Jack counted more than Rita. Bob
might take Rita away. Then what
would she do? She must have
someone then to turn to. Someone
to fill the dreadful loneliness.
“You are necessary to me,”’ she
went on. and still the words came
tumbling, flying off the keys like
magic ... I need you for my
fife . . .
“Once, my darling, you held me
in your arms as though you could
never let me go. You were sweet
to me. and tender. You were afraid
I was cold. Afraid I was tired.
Afraid I worked too hard. Afraid
I would stop loving you. Afraid I
was worried about something. You
were always afraid, darling .. .
But now it is I who is afraid. Lone
some. and frightened, and afraid.
And you are leaving me.”
Then she threw discretion to the
winds.
“I have heard that you are going
to Italy. Would you go away, my
darling, without telling me good-by?
Would you leave me. wretched and
longing? But, my darling, I am self
ish. I want you to be happy. If
you are happy, nothing else mat
ters. And you will love Italy, my
Jack . . .”
PBge "after page Molly typed In
a sort of frenzv. There was so much
to be said. So much about Italy
tha* she must tell him. And then
she must tell again of her love—
her lovely, steadfast love.
i 4 lf I knew you had forgotten,”
she wrote, “I would try to forget.
But forgetfulness could not be the
end of your love. Not of yours—
nor of mine. That is true. Jack,
is it not? Tell me. my darling, it
is true.”
Exhausted, she dropped her head
on her typewriter. It. was begin
ning to grow light. She put out
the lights, and raised her curtains.
There was only one star left. The
little, reluctant morning star. The
world was gray and cold. But soon
the sun—the great day-star—would
touch the east, and make it glow
with fire.
She leaned from the window, and
looked down the street. There was
a gray cat ambling along. Nfit
another living thing in sight. Molly
was glad she was going to see the
dawn. Lots of respectable people
probably never had seen it. And
it was lovelier even than a sunset.
There was a poem Jack particu
larly like in the book of Oscar
Wilde's they used to read together.
It was very beautiful, and was
—By Williams
largely about the sunrise. Molly
remembered thesg exquisite lines,
and said them softly to -herself,
“ ‘Then down the long and silent
street,
The dawn, on silver-sandaled feet,
Creeps like a frightened girl.’”
a a a
SHE leaned over the sill and
looked down the qujet street.
And it pleased her fancy to see a
slight figure, swathed in gray like
a pun, stealing swiftly from the
arms of night. A frightened girl,
with silver sandals on her slim,
white feet.
“That's what I get for writing love
letters,” she laughed. “I feel poetic.”
She glanced at herself in the long
mirror of her bathroom door.
“And I look,” she reflected, “like
the wrath of God —which is also
what I get for writing love letters.”
Molly was tired, but she was also
sleepless, and she felt like working.
She decided to make coffee, and
commune with her tragic lovers, un
til Rita awoke. It was a long while
since she and Rita had breakfasted
together.
She put the coffee on to boil and
curled upon her cubist sofa with
“The Lives of Antony and Cleo
patra.” She had reached the part
where Cleopatra, determined to
fascinate Antony, plans her first
dinner party. Two thousand years
ago—and the girls went at things
exactly as they do today!
By the time the coffee boiled,
Cleopatra, to impress Anthony, was
dropping her pearl earrings in a
goblet of wine. And Antony, man
like, was begging her not to be
foolish.
Molly squeeed an orange, and
brought her coffee to the drawing
room. It was nearly 8 then, and
Mary, apologetic for oversleeping,
was in the kitchen. Rita would be
awake any minute. The phone was
ringing.
“I don’t want to speak to any one
but Mr. Flynn, Mary,” she in
structed.
“Yes, Miss Burnham.”
In a moment Mary stood at the
drawing room door.
It was Mr. Flynn, Miss Burn
ham He said I was not to call you,
but to tell you that Mr. Wells sailed
on the Leviathan at midnight with
Mrs. Bulwer-Eaton. I think those
were the names. Would that be
right, Miss Burnham?”
Molly smiled palely.
“Quite right, thank you, Mary.
And Mary—will you take the letter
on the table in the hall, please, and
bring it here to me, with some
matches?”
(To Be Continued.)
TEXAS QUIZ RENEWED
Bn United Prc**
WASHINGTON, Aug. 22.—A meet
ing of the senate patronage in
vestigating the Texas situation,
vestigating committee will be called
Monday to hear evidence concern
ing the Texas situation, Chair
man Gurth W. Brookhart an
nounced today. Brookhart would
not say what witnesses he intended
to call but said he had accumulated
a mass of evidence to be presented.
TARZAN OF THE A
The apes were more than content
with Tarzan as their new king. Food
was more plentiful. He settled aH their
disputes wisely. Next he moved the
tribe inland to a place undefiled by the
foot of human being. But he spent
more and more time away from the
tribe.
. THE INDIANAPOLIS TIMES
BOOTS AND HER BUDDIES
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PES
He tired of the kingship and longed
for the little cabin and sun-kissed sea.
As he had grown older, he found his
interests were different from those of
the tribe. He now preferred the peace
and solitude of the cabin tp liis leader
ship duties among the band of wild
ap<s,
■•— ~
—By Martin
He had still one enemy. Before he re
nounced his kingship of the apes, Tar
zan wished to subdue the ugly Terkoz
without recourse to knife or arrows.
Terkoz one day offended the tribal
laws by beating an old female and
defying Tarzan’s command to stop.
So came they to that well-remembered
fight 1
OUR BOARDING HOUSE
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Never had the ape-man fought so
terrible a battle since that day when
Bolgani, the king gorilla, had so hor
ribly mangled him. But he won,
though he did not kill his enemy. This
time he spared, after forcing Terkoz
to cry: “Ka-goda,” meaning, “I sur
render!” And all the tribe heard—and
marveled.
—By Edgar Rice Burroughs
Tarptn let him up. Before darkness
settled he called the old males about
him. “Tarzan,” he said, “is going back #
to*the land of his own people. You
must choose another ruler. Tarzan
will not return.” Thus he started to
ward his goal, the finding of other
white men like himself.
.AUG. 23, 1329
—By Ahern
—By Blosser;
—By Crane
—By Small
—By Taylot

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