The Hardin tribune-herald. [volume], July 06, 1934, Page PAGE ELEVEN, Image 11

About The Hardin tribune-herald. [volume] (Hardin, Mont.) 1925-1973

Image provided by: Montana Historical Society; Helena, MT

                
Friday, July 6, 1934.
ORCHIDS ADRIFT By Ida M. Evans
PobUahed by Special Arrangement With The
Chicago Tribune-New York News Syndicate, Inc.
Copyright: 1934: By IDA MAY EVANS
IN TWO PARTS—PART ONE
THE ODYSSEY OF ORCHIDS—
CAST INTO THE STREET BY AN
IRATE HUSBAND—WHICH PRE
CIPITATED CRISES IN THE LIVES
OF THIRTEEN NEW YORKERS.
In offensive silence Barbara ate her
breakfast egg. Then she reminded Fred
In a voice that dripped ice that the
butcher today expected his money.
Her manner conveyed that person
ally she’d rather die than make the
reminder, but after all it is woman’s
place to suffer.
Fred Corris rattled his newspaper in
offense and snapped, “All right. I’ll fix
out a check."
Presently he flung himself out of the
apartment in the same temper in which
last night he had paid eight dollars
and sixty cents to the Maxwells be
cause Barbara bld hearts. Barbara later
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LYDIA L PINKHAM'S
VEGETABLE COMPOUND
4 of our list of popular
subjects now sold out.
29 LEFT
TO CHOOSE FROM OF THE
Pictures by
Charles M.
RUSSELL
Reproduced in
colors
50c
Postage Paid Anywhere In U. 8.
HERE IS THE LIST:
The Last of the Herd
Heads or Tails
When Horse Flesh Comes High
When Sioux and Blackfeet Met
Shooting Out the Stragglers
Jerked Down
Sage Brush Sport
Carson’s Men
The Strenuous Life
Wild Horse Hunters
Caught With the Goods
The Bolter
Ambushed
When Ignorance is Bliss
The Buffalo Hunt
A Dangerous Cripple
Cowboy Life
m the Wake of the Buffalo Hunters
A Serious Predicament
Planning the Attack
In Without Knocking
A Disputed Trail
The Wagon Boss
The Queen’s War Hounds
Single Handed
The First Wagon Tracks
The Signal Fire
At Close Quarters
The Cinch Ring
These are aD large showy print*,
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Montana Newspaper
Association
CHEAT FALLS, MONTANA
explained haughtily that it was a rash
effort to recoup their losses.
“If I’d made game you’d have been
well enough pleased.”
They had been married for seven
years. This morning In the subway
Fred was somber. They quarreled too
much, particularly since his earnings
had shrunk. Fred sold automobiles.
Matters between himself and Bar
bara were bad and getting worse. Pretty
soon they’d be talking divorce. Then
they’d be divorced. Barbara and him
self. Barbara whose rich brown hair
and gay green flecked eyes once had
put ardent wakefulness into his night
hours.
He didn’t wish to achieve a divorce
from Barbara. What to do?
The great idea came as he emerged
from the subway. Sure fire!
O, he made no flamboyant claim to
originality in the idea. It was an idea
old in story and on Broadway. Indeed,
in this last week he had read a story in
a magazine which embodied it. The
hero husband facing domestic
tragedy and looming bankruptcy, buys
an extravagant box of orchids—almost
with his last dollar, mind you—for the
embittered wife, who immediately flings
’■R
her arms about her husband’s neck,
exclaiming as she melts into sobs: “O,
what a gorgeous action! Darling!”
Fred Corris needed toothpaste and
new gloves. Barbara needed a haircut.
The gorgeous idea somehow did not
seem sensible. Still
He bought ’em. That night on his
way home. Four, silver ribboned, in a
square lavender box. Doggedly he pre
sented them to Barbara.
And Barbara, setting salad plates,
looked at them—and looked.
“You bought them?” Her voice con
tained horror. “Fred!”
“Sure. I thought ”
“You must be mad, Fred Corris! All
that money! And we’re not going any
where for weeks. I don’t like orchids
anyhow! And I need stockings—and
facial powder—and a new firescreen—
and you’re out of shaving cream—and
need shirts—and I served cold roast
sandwiches last night to the Maxwells
because I wouldn’t buy anything extra
—and 0—0!" She had her bungalow
apron to her eyes, weeping. “You did it
as a hateful and theatric gesture—to
pay me back for that heart bld, Fred
Corris. And I think I hate you ’’
He grabbed the showy lavender box
and stamped out of the apartment.
Outside he flung the box into the
street. A light snow threatened to fall.
The West Sixties were palely radiant.
Fred Corris did not return to his
home for dinner.
Naturally the first comer, who came
in about three seconds, picked up the
showy box at the curb. Albin Dodder,
stockbroker, was the lucky comer. With
incredulity he picked up the elegant, if
slightly scuffed lavender box. He lift
ed the ribboned lid. Orchids! Nobody’s
orchids.
Now, why and how did the lovely
things get lost?
Puzzled, he walked on with the box
in his hand. He was walking south to a
restaurant which he liked. It was his
before dinner constitutional. Dodder,
by the way, was middle aged and his
middle aged, somewhat faded but cher
ished wife was visiting her family in
Virginia.
Along came one of his business
friends. “Hullo! Buying flowers. Dod
der?”
There was a smirk in the query. The
lavender box was conspicuous in the
stockbroker’s hand. And Welllson knew
that Mrs. Dodder was out of town and
Dodder had neither daughter nor
daughter-in-law. Wellison laughed,
then tried to cover laugh with cough.
“I found this box on the curb.” Dod
der turned to point out the exact spot.
Then his full face absurdly got red.
Welllson’s laugh outdid any cough.
‘You found it? What’s in it? Or
chids! And you found ’em—O, that’s
rich!"
-Wellison got into a passing taxicab
which he had signaled. He was bound
for home. He repeated from the car
door: “That's rich! I never heard the
like. Dodder, it takes a young man to
lie well "
“Am!" Albin Dodder, walking on in
temper and that fear which haunts
even faithful husbands, of whom there
an to be found plenty even among
stockbrokers in New York, was aware
that he hated Wellison. And now he
THE HARDIN TRIBUNE-HERALD
felt like a fool carrying that showy
box.
Blindly he turned west, seeking a
dim block. He found one and furtively,
like a thief, dropped the box on a
second curb. He stepped briskly on.
He stepped briskly on even as Ellen
Burke swiftly rounded the corner with
her felt hat pulled low against the
slight snow.
Ellen was twenty-nine. She had been
a reporter for twelve years. The youth
ful charm of blue eyes, brown hair, and
fair skin had sharpened into a nose
for news.
She glanced differently at the showy
box. She believed it empty.
But silent in the snow it conveyed in
the manner of inanimate things that
it was not empty. Ellen investigated.
Orchids!
Purple and yellow orchids on a side
walk in New York! Nobody’s orchids.
What, when, why, where, who?
Ellen forgot that she was hungry,
tired, and nearly insomniac. She for
got that she was fed up with torch
murders, divorces, child stranglers, and
embezzling bankers.
She bore the showy box like treasure
trove to her own apartment in the next
building. There, before she took off
her felt hat, she phoned to her manag
ing editor:
“Lynn! Did any one ever find a box
of orchids in the West Fifties? On the
cur b? * I have. I bet there’s a story
“Yeah?” Voice suggested a bored
green eyeshade. “Glad you phoned.
jUHMw Illg
Veniker, the oil man, got breach of
promise papers, by plane. And this is
news because the one who sues Is John
ny Dell, the male impersonator ”
For some reason Ellen, who was un
ually well balanced, felt tired of life.
Suicidal. Now she knew why rivers
were made. For bodies.
In one bored syllable Martin Lynn
had conveyed to her that she was senti
mental, twenty-nine, approaching gray
hair and had a poor nose for news.
She glanced resentfully at the showy
box which she had placed on a chair.
She wondered how it was that Lynn, a
thin, cynical, abnormally clever man
who would have felt undressed without
a cigaret and an eyeshade, often con
trived to make her feel unattractive, of
no use, and gushy.
Well, she’d never liked orchids any
how. Beastly flowers with a half hu
man look; rather, a half snake look.
And if she’d liked ’em she was too old
I to moon over a box of flowers. She
was too old—damn it, she was too old
and tired to get hot or cold at the bored
voice of an eyeshade.
But Ellen had had an economical
home life. She could not waste things.
So presently she took the showy box
down to the next floor of the apart
ment building. Na need to let the things
die. Felicia Graham would like them.
Felicia was getting into a yellow chif
fon gown.
Felicia Graham was twenty-two. She
had taffy colored hair and violet eyes
and she drew the human form modishly
for women’s wear trade magazines. She
was good in her chosen line, but not
great.
She cried in delight at the box of
orchids.
“You found ’em! Ellen, you were bom
lucky. I never heard of any one find
ing orchids! In New York! Darling,
don’t you really want to keep them?
Hush! You're not old. You’re merely
tired. I feel that same way often
enough. O, I’m grateful for ’em, believe
me! Glen can’t quite encompass or
chids on his salary, the lamb. And
neither he nor I like to let other men
buy ’em for me.”
Ellen liked Felicia. She admired her
courage in sticking to Glen Norway,
who sold hardware and earned about
forty dollars a week.
She pictured Felicia in the yellow
chiffon with the gorgeous flowers. Glen
would be rendered amorous.
Felicia Graham in the yellow chiffon
dress pinned on her shoulder the gorg
eous flowers. Her bell rang. She open
ed the door gayly.
Glen, who was slim and dark eyed,
stared at the orchids.
“Hullo. Orchids! Where from?” A
scowl had come on him.
You’d never guess!’’
“Perhaps not,” he said unfriendly.
“Ellen Burke found the box in the
street!”
Glen Burke stared. Then he threw
back his dark head. Then he laughed.
It was as short and ugly a laugh as
ever was emitted by man or hyena.
“That’s a good one! Orchids! Found
in the street!”
“Don’t you believe me?”
Taffy haired Felicia could be furious
on short notice.
“No. i don’t believe you.”
Glen was contemptuous.
“Ask Ellen!” stormed Felicia.
“As if she’d let you down! Be your
age, Felicia, my dear!” He was white
and miserable and savage.
“Get out of my room!”
"Certainly.” He bowed. “The gentle
man who buys orchids for you can have
the space now used by my hat and
gloves.” He swept the articles up from
a table with a gesture meant to be lord
ly and indifferent. It succeeded In be
ing merely vicious and despairing.
And then he had gone.
Felicia stared at the door which had
slammed on his patent leather pumps.
Glen had gone! Their evening was off.
No dinner downtown. No dancing. No
taxi ride home. No kissing. No gay
plans for their future when Glen should
have made connections with a better
salary.
She tried to concentrate on rage at
him. But sobs burst in a hurry.
Ellen had been her friend. She’d tell
Ellen what had happened. Come to
think, Felicia herself, didn’t believe
Ellen had found the flowers. A queer
tale. Who ever had heard of orchids
being found on a New York curb?
Ellen did not answer the bell. She
heard. But she had soaked in hot
water and now in a silk wrapper was
eating an omelet and reading a maga
zine by the white sink. She didn’t know
who was at her door and she didn’t
care. She wanted to eat, read inatten
tively, and brood on why a thin mouth
and a cigaret under an eyeshade should
ruin her life.
Balked, Felicia returned to the ele
vator. Impulsively she thrust the showy
box toward the colored attendant who
was a likeable boy in red and blue
uniform.
“Oscar, here are some flowers I don’t
want. Give them to your girl or your
mother.”
' off
iwiCTiZTJi
B/i r Jrr
She was out of the door before he
could thank her.
But twenty minutes later, as soon as
Oscar was relieved at his post, he was
at her door. And he was miserable
and embarrassed and in his hands was
the showy box.
"Miss Graham, I’m terribly obliged
for them flowers. But my mother was
in the basement where she washes day
times and she is a woman of prejudice
“She thinks orchids are wicked?"
“No’m! No’m! She nevuh wants me
to come home with things tenants give,
cause she says she might not be agree
able to takin’ mah word on such trans
actions. And right now she don’t be
lieve mah story. She ’Clares I got ’em
underhanded somehow for my girl,
Ethel, who works in a hairnet factory.”
Oscar mutely showed a livid two inches
on his handsome black scalp. "Mah
mother is a powerful hard woman to
convince and she can sure use a broom
handle,”
Felicia took back the showy box. “All
right, Oscar,” drearily.
“Mah mother says now she could be
lieve a tenant gave me a half dollar.
But not a box of orchids.”
“I haven’t got a half dollar,” snap
ped Felicia.
When Oscar had gone she opened
a window. Out went the showy box.
Good riddance!
Well, the evening was early.
So early that Vito Avelli was nerv
ous as he watched the minutes flit. He
had an appointment before midnight.
The snatching game is one of America’s
greatest industries. The snatchee was
to be a wealthy Manhattan lawyer. The
last details were to be added by Vito
and three friends within an hour and
the job to be done before dawn.
Vito got out of his taxicab, expansive
coat collar turned high against the
snow. Vita’s blood was chilly. He mut
tered a word to his driver and adherent.
He crossed the strip of sod
He saw the box, blinked, bent back
warily. Planted for him?
But who had known he would take
this route? He hadn't known that him
self until five minutes before.
Excessive caution struggled with cur
iosity. The latter won.
Vita picked up the box, opened it
gingerly—orchids! And not eight days
ago Vito had looked down at the orchid
blanketed, gold plated coffin of his
cousin, Geno Marinnl, who had died
worthily on the field of dishonor un
der a machine gun shower.
It was a sign! It was a warning—or
a threat. Vito swayed on the curb,
whispering wildly after the departed
taxi. Jeeze, how to get off this damn-
ed street? Why had he come? Why'
had he trusted to gray night snow to
shield him?
He ran blindly to the comer, ran east,
crossed Fifth avenue an swift, unsteady
feet with weak knees
The box lay, bravely, showing its
handsome lid above an inch of slow fal
len snow.
Lew Hullen saw it as he tramped
hostilely and sullenly with turned up
shabby coat collar and turned down
eyes from street car line to nowhere in
particular.
Lew had not worked far eight months.
He was a mechanic. He was middle
aged, tired, thin, hungry, and discour
aged. He had a family but not the
rent.
He picked up the box eagerly. A
find. What was in it? Food?
Orchids!
"Some folks can buy orchids and
throw ’em away,” he snarled. “And
others can starve and think the East
river ” He flung the box four yards
ahead and strode on. Suddenly, great
tears rolled from his gaunt, discourag
ed eyes.
Pedestrians are averse to snow. And
Johnny Kerrwell did not like the eve
ning too well. His topcoat had recent
ly been pressed and Johnny, though a
gay soul, had a necessitous streak of
economy in his makeup.
Like Lew, he had turned up his col
lar to keep his neck dry. Unlike Lew,
he had a job. Unusually good job in
these days. Unlike Vito, Johnny was
neither craven nor superstitious.
He picked up the showy box.
“Well, well. Orchids! Some one lost
his orchids. My luck.”
Forty-five dollars weekly for account
ant assistancy does not include many
orchids. And Mary Gale, Johnny’s
heart’s core, liked to dance and she lik
ed corsages. Mary worked for the tele
phone company. She had gold brown
hair and dimples.
“A little chilled.” Johnny now mur
mured in disapproval as his forefinger
touched a regal purple throat. "Never
mind, little orchids. You'll soon be
warm, right above Mary’s heart.”
Mary had a studio apartment, too.
She had a chafing dish built for two.
She was a genius with buttered buns
and creamed meat fillings.
Johnny advanced like a king into his
kingdom when she opened the door to
him. She was all bright welcome and
creamed tuna fish scented the air.
Johny held out the box like a glad
schoolboy bringing home a report card
to mother. "Mary, look ”
Mary’s hands were on her hips.
Mary’s smile was fixed. "I’m looking.
Where did you get them, Johnny?”
"Found ’em in the street!”
“You did? In the street? How con
venient.” Then hot temper became
chilly. “You mean you broke your word
to me. You’ve gambled again ”
“Mary, I tell you I found them!”
“Last night you didn’t have eighty
cents for table d’hote for us. And to
night ”
“Tonight I’ll throw ’em right back
where I found ’em and you can go to
the devil!”
And he did—in time for Chauncey
Keeper who taught philosophy in an
upstate college to espy them.
Chauncey Keeper was in town to at
tend a pedagogic banquet which he had
anticipated with eagerness and with
reluctance. His dress suit was shabby.
And so, he felt, was his tired old mind.
And, though in the years his vanity
had worn thin like a dime, he yearned
a little for the homage of his fellow
diners. He was put down for a speech.
Absently he picked up the box which
his foot touched in the snow. Then his
mouth turned down much as had Lew
Hullen’s. Orchids! A showy flower
which Chauncey Keeper did not like.
They reminded him of this age and its
glaring faults; its showy excresences,
its cruelties, lawlessness, gangs, poverty,
riches, hospitals, jails, and breadlines.
They were soulless. Was the age?
(To Be Continued)
®
Abkhasian, a language spoken in the
Caucasus mountains of Russia, is per
haps the most difficult in the world;
it has no alphabet and no apparent re
lationship to any other tongue.
{classified
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PAGE ELEVEN
{classified!
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FOR SALE — 3280 acre ranch in the
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For price and terms write Mrs. George Mudd.
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. . ASSAYERS. CHEMISTS, ETC.
Ist. 10g N. Wyoming. BUTTE. MONT
__ OUOGOLDMARKET
«° ld °f any kind. Estimate free.
REFERENCE. Gov. licensed. U. *
Phu Ju<! 4 Mw,
, , - - -jgOjtgg TRAINING
BREAK AND
HORSES"—A book every farmer and horse
man should have. It is free: no obligations.
Simply address Beery School of Horsemanship.
Dept. 408, Pleasant HUI, Ohio. **
, _ _ BABY CHICKS
BOOTHS S. C. LEGHORN
eggen. VALLEYSIDE FARM, Edinburg,
HORSES AND MULES WANTED
lota work or rance horses, colts and mule..
How many can you ship at once? cwm
CHANDLER, Chariton. lowa,
RUBBER STAMPS, SEALS
WE MAKE STAMPS, Rubber type,
etc. HXLPtA STAMP WORKS, Helena, Mont.
M. M. A., JULY 1, UM