Newspaper Page Text
*ro7H£#s / Serve your children V-8 for lunch, dinner—and between meals. Every delicious glass ' contains wholesome nutrition ^ of 8 different vegetables. J CELERY LETTUCE PARSLEY CARROTS £ SPINACH TOMATOES Jj • EETS WAHRCRESsfl Sorvm V-S to lb omtiro family, It's delicious hot, loo — makes a womdmrfvl, w analog loop for mippy-doy Imcbi, smacks, t uppers. Mowers/ aotv/ny o/aoyA/er ye/syooo/aess of & i/eye/af/es <MU(XW "^k In this delicious i eosy-to-serve drink! THIS IS HOW IT HAPPEHED... ( I SUGGEST GIVING YOUR DAUGHTER N \V-8'VEGETABLE JUICES-A DELICIOUS J ( DRINK CONTAINING 600DNESS OF / V—-8 DIFFERENT \ ETABLES^ F •X+* is s trademark owned in the United States by Standard Brands Incorporated; in Canada by Standard Brands Limited | “WE GO TOGETHER” Continued from page eight be somebody his son could take there to the Scout house tonight and introduce proudly to others: “This is my dad... ” "Thank you, Mr. Olsen,” said the woman in 6C. “And now I wonder if you’d just take a look at my pilot light.” Yah, sure. Sash cords — pilot lights — this was all he knew. He’d sit there dumb tonight in his worn-out suit, while the other fathers talked of big things. They’d won der what he was doing there, the only one who amounted to nothing... “Paul, I think I’ll not go,” he said when the boy came in from play. “My head is hurting.” Paul turned so white that Mr. Olsen was frightened. "But all the fathers — I could n’t — ” he stammered, then swallowed and asked softly, “Is it very bad? Don’t you think maybe if you lay down for a while—?” Mr Ol.SF.N sidhpH within himcnlf 14o The boy laughed, and his father, a thin, brittle-looking man, leaned across him to speak to Mr. Olsen. “I’ve just been telling Jimmy that he and I will have to get out together more, play ball and everything. You only realize, when you do get together like this... Trouble is, I’m always up to my ears at the office. .. ” Mr. Olsen nodded, and applied himself to his hamburger. He ate neatly and care fully, the way he’d always done since Ilse had died, as an example to the boy. But he wasn’t thinking of eating. He was wishing all this were over and he could go back with Paul to his apartment, where he wouldn’t have to be reminded that he was nobody. Some of the fathers made speeches after dinner, and Mr. Olsen looked at Paul. Now the boy would know — now he would un derstand that never in a thousand years could his father speak like that... But Paul wasn’t listening to the speeches. He was quiet and polite, his face upturned to the speakers in an attitude of listening. Yet Mr. Olsen knew he heard not one word. There was a glazed look in his eyes that Mr. Olsen understood very well; he saw it in the eyes of the other boys too, and it made him want to chuckle. Yah, sure, he thought. Boys don’t listen to speeches. 1 he scoutmaster was talking now — had been for some time. “The world of tomorrow is in the hands of these young fellows. And, now, what all the boys have been waiting for — the awards and merit badges. Come up as I call your names, fellows.” Mr. Olsen watched the boys walk up for their badges. Some were stiff and serious, some fell over their feet a little, others pre tended it was all a silly business, to be got over quickly. Paul, when his turn came, walked quietly, his head up. Mr. Olsen’s throat choked; he wished Ilse were there. “This boy,” the scoutmaster said, “this boy, Paul Olsen, has won more badges than any first-year scout in the troop. That world of tomorrow I was talking about will be Safe in the hands of fellows like Paul.” A man murmured to Mr. Olsen: “Fine boy. Yours?” “Yah, mine.” Mr. Olsen nodded vigor ously. “My boy.” My boy, he thought, taking care of the world. Sure I’m a success. Sure I’m some body. Father of a good boy, that’s who I am. From across the floor Paul grinned at him and winked, and Mr. Olsen grinned and winked back. Then he turned to the man nearest to him and held out his hand and spoke in a loud, hearty voice. “My name is Olsen,” he said. The End a sudden sharp longing for Ilse, who could have shared this with him, told him what to do. It was important now to the boy, in his young innocence, that he should not go to the father-and-son night without a father. There was no way of making him under stand. Yet after tonight he might under stand only too well. "Okay, I go,” Mr. Olsen said, no longer able to bear that anxious face. "May be good for my head.” The color came back to Paul’s cheeks. "Oh, sure it will be. You’ll see. They’ve got the place all decorated and a swell supper planned — see, you won’t have to cook or anything, so that will help your head — ” He paused, stemming the rush of words, and said resolutely, “But if you feel too bad — ” Mr. Olsen laughed and pulled the boy to him. “We go together,” he said softly . . . They were among the first to arrive at the Scout house. Paul introduced his father to the scoutmaster, a ruddy young man with alert, friendly brown eyes that took Mr. Olsen all in. “So this is Paul’s father.” Yah, Paul’s father, thought Mr. Olsen. Not what you expect? Not the successful gentleman you think Paul’s father to be. rr.._. . m. nc uttic nuusc iuiea up rapidly, noisily, the boys all shouting and talking at once, the men hailing their friends or soon finding some common ground with strangers... “Are you Fox, the lawyer? ... Oh, insur ance, eh? ... Know Hal White down there? ... Sure — went to school together... ” Mr. Olsen lost himself among the boys, listening to accounts of the trial flights of their model planes, making suggestions, arranging for the use of his workbench the next day. With the boys, at least, he was somebody. They were too young to recog nize his failure. They did not understand that in America, where all men are created equal, it was a disgrace not to have made something of yourself... The tables were arranged in the shape of a seven, the troop’s number. Each man sat between two boys, his own and another, so Mr. Olsen was spared the need of talking to one of these educated, successful fathers. There were a few who knew him, who lived in the apartment house, but he managed to keep away from them and only nod across the room. “Isn’t it swell, Dad?” Paul, be side him, couldn’t contain his excitement. “Is your head okay?” “Sure. Fine.” The boy on his other side spoke to him: “That’s a swell inside curve you taught Paul, Mr. Olsen. None of the kids hit it.” “Yah? But I don’t teach it to him. I just stand and catch, maybe a hundred times.” * ' "Yes, that was some shot!"