The Indianapolis times. [volume], May 06, 1933, Capital Edition, Page PAGE 11, Image 11

About The Indianapolis times. [volume] (Indianapolis [Ind.]) 1922-1965

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MAY 6, 193?.
DfIRUnG. rpOL egg:
BEGIN HFKE TODAY
„ MONNIE O DARE who loves DAN
CARnIOAN rich and handsom r dis
cover* her friend SANDRA LAWRENCE.
if.iUZP* *° * ln him Dom her CHARLEf?
EUSTACE, o newromer In town Dav* a
foorf deal of attention to Monnle. and
help* her when her brother BILL Beta
Into difficulties Bill plan* to marrv
ANOIE OILLEN who works In a candv
ahop. a* soon as she sets her divorce.
. HETTY housemaid at he Lawrence
home, dislike* her mistress, suspectma
her of "vamplnc" the handsome chauf
leur JAMES Monnie starts out wl’h
Charlev to find KAY her vounßer sis
ter who has Bone awav with CHESTER
BIGELOW traveling salesman Kav.
frightened, wants to turn back from
the ad'.enture before It Is too late.
NOW GO ON WITH THE STORY
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
THE wind whipped little ringlets
of bronze hair into Monnic's
eyes. It was as if they were flying
along in the summer night.
“What a wild goose chase,” she
said, as if to herself. Waynesboro
—Miss Anstice had said that Kay
was on the way to Waynesboro, but
wasn't it quite possible that the man
had thrown that question out at the
filling station merely as a decoy?
Wasn't it Just as reasonable that
Kay was, at this moment, speeding
westward instead of taking the east
erly road Charles Eustace's car was
traveling?
Poor Kay, foolish little Kay! She
ought to have known what was go
in on—ought to have watched her
more closely. She had been, Monnie
reproached herself, too utterly ab
sorbed in her own affairs to see
where Kay, in her impatience and
discontent, was drifting.
“It’s my fault!” she broke out,
rather incoherently, to the silent
man beside her.
“That's nonsense.” His dark pro
file was grim in the faint light of
the instrument board. "And any
how, nothing's happened yet. We’ll
have her safe and sound in an hour
or two." Eustace spoke with a con
fidence he was far from feeling.
Monnie sat tense, every nerve
tingling with the excitement of the
chase. High Falls—a scattering of
lights—and then the open road
again. White arrows pointing'the
way at the crossroad—turn here for
Waynesboro—that was all right—
they had taken the right turn.
Charles slowed each time they
passed a car and Monnie stared
eagerly, expectantly, into the faces
of the occupants. The vehicles
W'ere fewer now, and farther be
tween. The main road forked at,
the Waynesboro turn. This was a
virtual detour, rutty and narrow.
It was madness—madness—the
girl told herself, to thrash about
in this way.
What they should have done—
at once—was to have given Kay’s
description to the local police. They
had a system of radio alarm that
was wonderful, she had heard. But
no—no —that would mean that
Kay’s adventure would be broad
cast to the w'aiting world!
“I couldn’t do that to her,” Mon
nie groaned inwardly.
They plunged through Newton
Center, a hamlet of some half
dozen scattered houses, Charles
lighted a cigaret without taking his
eyes from the road. Monnie, strain
ing her gaze ahead, was conscious
of a sudden spurt of energy in the
motor.
“That car ahead,” Charles told
her. "I’ve had its tail light ever
since the Falls. It’s turning into
a lane. Suppose we stop and take
a look.”
“It’s probably some farmer's
dooryard,” Monnie said despair
ingly.
V ft a
THE winking red light disap
peared for an instant, reap
peared again. Charles was slowing
his engine now, its powerful roar
muffled so that the sounds of in
sects, of whirring crickets and
croaking tree frogs could be heard.
Monnie realized the car they
were trailing had stopped. Before
she could speak, the man beside her
had put on the brakes, was sliding
out of the seat.
“You stay here,” he said in a re
assuring whisper. “I'll do the talk
ing.”
Monnie was trembling with ner
vousness now. She had to grit her
teeth together to keep them from
chattering. She watched Charles
tall figure striding purposefully
away from her. In the car ahead
she could just see the outline of two
heads. A woman’s, shawled. A
man’s.
She wanted to call out to Charles
to come back —to hurry. They must,
be on their way. It was folly to
waste even a few minutes trailing
some surly farmer who would, like
as not, resent with blows their in
terest. in him.
In the blurry mist the headlights
made, she could see Charles drap
ing himself casually over the fender
of the car. She could not hear what
he said, but presently he came back
looking rather disgusted.
“Some idiot of a drunken yokel,”
he said disgustedly. “His wife’s
asleep. I couldn’t get anything out
of her. What luck! My hunch was
a rotten one.”
Monnie was sick with disappoint
ment. She hadn't really expected
anything of this chance clew. They
were searching for a needle in a
haystack, she reminded herself. She
must keep up her courage.
“Tell you what we’ll do.” Charles
said in a hearty tone. “Weil push
on for Waynesboro and inquire at
the hotel there. If they’re stopping
any place tonight it will be there.
It's the only decent place for miles
around —”
"They wouldn't—Kay wouldn't—”
Monnie stammered.
“Kay’s going to be all right! Don’t
you worry about that,” the quiet
voice told her.
The young man beside her started
his engine, which purred dutifully,
and the car began to slew about on
the slippery road. There had been
heavy rains the night before. The
wheels whirred uselessly for a mo
ment in the mud and the brakes
groaned.
"Nasty place!”
a a a
THE engine killed, sickeningly.
Monnie felt her palms wet and
her cheeks hot. This was awful
awful —they were losing precious
time.
r^~jppp(r_
KEEPS FRESH
m-iii
INEXPENSIVE W SAT ISFYI N C
—— 11
’in the split second of silence after
the roar of the motor a girl’s clear
voice came to them.
“I want to go back—oh, I do’
Kay's voice.
Monnie was out upon that muddy
road before she knew what she was
doing, actually. Her frantic feet
were carrying her toward the red
light. She could hear the pounding
heels of her escort beside her.
She flung hrself against the door
of the little red sedan. “Kay! Kay!
It’s Monnie! I'm here, dear, Don’t
be afraid!”
Kay, with some kind of black
silk scarf wound around her bright
locks, Kay with a face stained with
tears. A sullen, young-old man at
the wheel.
“Aw, let her go. She’s a quitter,
that's what she is. She wanted to
come vyith me. It's a racket, that’s
what.”
Monnie caught the sickening
fumes of bad gin as she helped the
sobbing girl out.
“Back here, dear. Charles’ car.
You’re all right. Don't cry any
| more.”
“He—he said I'd better wrap up
irt that thing so folks wouldn’t know
, me," Kay was saying, between gasps.
“He put on a dirty old coat so that
Ihe would look different. He began
j to drink from a flask he had. I—l
got scared.
“He was only going to drive me to
| Waynesboro and then put me on
| the train there. He said he’d give
me the fare to New York. What’s
that?” she interrupted herself, put
ting her hands to her ears.
“I think,” said Monnie soberly
and with satisfaction, “that Charles
Eustace is giving that man a beat
ing.”
a a a
much later that night,
when Kay was in bed and
Monnie lay, very wide-awake and
troubled, in the cot beside her, a
voice came softly through the dark
ness.
“Monnie? You awake?”
“Yes.”
“Monnie, I feel—just terrible
about all this. You’re sure mother
needn’t know? I—honestly didn't
mean to do anything wrong, only
sometimes things just get so ter
rible. School—and being so poor—
and everything.”
“I know.” Monnie’s voice v/as
very quiet. “Don’t you suppose 1
have my moments of feeling it,
too.”
Kay turned on the bedside light.
“I can’t stand flunking again. I
can't stand going back with a
younger class. What shal I do? It
seems to me there's nothing ahead
for any of us. He—Chester said
maybe I could do something on the
stage, I think I might.”
Her voice, usually so sure and
arrogant, faltered. She looked very
young, very small and frightened.
Monnie went over and took her
hand. “Look, Kay, we have a job
to do, both of us. We can’t be quit
ters. We’re O'Dares. That used to
mean something in these parts.
We've got mother to think of.
We've got our whole lives ahead of
us.
‘‘You’re young. Some day you're
going to look back on all this trou
ble and discontent and wonder why
you weren’t more patient. Because
life is going to be wonderful for
you, Kay. Wait and see.”
“Do you really think so?” Her
eyes were wide and brilliant.
“I’m going to try to help all I
can,” Monnie promised. Long after
the younger sister fell asleep, she
lay, stark awake, worrying, plan
ning. This much was certain—she
would have to find a way out for
Kay.
(To Be Continued)’
7T6 GDK
BY BRUCE GAITON
OIR HENRY MORGAN was a
rough, tough Englishman, and
he harried the Spanish main like
a destroying angel.
He attained respectability, in the
end, and lived to be touchy about
his reputation; but aside from that
he was a very fair sample of the
successful seventeenth century pi
rate leader, and his biography, “Sir
Henry Morgan,” by W, Adolphe
Roberts, makes exciting reading.
Morgan went out to Jamaica
when the colony was young and
soon made himself a leader of the
buccaneers.
He was a free-lance for a time,
but later he sailed as a recognized
British sea captain—although his
most famous exploit, the sacking
of Panama, took place after Eng
land and Spain had signed a treaty
of peace, and Morgan seems to
have known it at the time.
Sea fights had a small part in
his program. He was a raider, in
stead, bringing landing parties
ashore to storm fortifications and
pillage cities.
He was a wild roisterer, an im
petuous fighter, a bit of a strategist
at times and a cruel cutthroat
when occasion demanded. Bloody
massacres, torturings and uncon
trolled debaucheries get plenty of
space in his life story.
The latter part of the book drags
a bit—chiefly, one suspects, because
the latter part of Morgan's life also
dragged.
He was knighted, he became
governor of Jamaica, he sued a
London publisher for libeling him
and won his case—imagine a pirate
suing for libel!—and, all in all,
things got pretty dull for him.
There was nothing left but to drink
himself to death, which he pro
ceeded to do with whole-hearted
fervor.
Published by Covici-Friede, this
book sells for $3.
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WASHINGTON TUBBS II
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BOOTS AND HER BUDDIES
TARZAN THE UNTAMED
“How long I drifted in the storm-tossed para
chute, I do not know,” said Olga. “When I re
gained consciousness, I had no idea where I was.
The country looked strange; a half-civilized mob
surrounded me. My brain slowly cleared. .. .
THE INDIANAPOLIS TIMES'
“I tried to make myself understood. It was
useless. Later, I found that chance had thrown me
into the midst of one of those tremendous migra
tion by which certain Asiatic tribes of nomads
sustain life for themselves and their herds.
—By Ahern
OUT OUR WAY
f \ ( VMELL. T/k* \/ ’THERE'S A CAbt \TH Bul.u
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\ ~~ A f Tv\.P.t \S ONLY OWE YtAY OP HOfEl
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x \ \ l 7 GOING THRU THE GOOPBY, \
OHE CREW IS IN MORTAL TERROR. OF THE /7/ , \ /- ]L
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yg V BEG. U. 5. PAT, orr. g> 1933 BY WEA SERVICE. INc A
/mti. U. 8. eT OfT.'t 1833 BY 4 j
“A vast multitude of animals and wild-looking
people were slowing moving down a mountain pass
bound for the grassy steppes to the north. They
had already been weeks on the march when I
dropped so mysteriously from the sky. . . .
—By Edgar Rice Burroughs
“I landed right among some important chief
tain’s family. From the hub-bub, I soon gathered
that this grizzled fellow was deciding whether I
should be taken along or done away with at once.
You can imagine my feelings, Roger, as I awaited
my fate.”
PAGE 11
—By Williams
—By Blossei;
—By Crane
—By Small
—By Martin