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Rug to Crochet in
Simple Crochet Stitch
/"MIOOSE three colors or two
shades and white for this easy
shell stitch rug crocheted in sec
tions for easy handling. Use four
strands of string, candlewick or
rags.
• * •
Pattern RfiOl contains directions for mak
ing rug; illustrations of it and stitches;
materials required; color schemes. Send
order to:
Sewing Circle Nccdlccraft Dept.
82 Eighth Ave. New Vork
Enclose 15 cents In coins for Pat
tern No
Name
Address
DR. L. N. HUFF I
If it is time for your eyes to be
re-examined, you will be wise not
to neglect this important matter.
Remember—'“lt’s all in the exam
ination.” Dr. L. N. Hud, 54 Broad
Street, Atlanta—a specialist in eye
refractions for over 30 years, and
a State Board Examiner for Op
tometrists, leads the south in eye
examination. Dr. Hud is owner
and founder of the L. N. Huff Opti
cal Company, one of Georgia’s
oldest and largest optical estab
lishments. Dr. Hud has several
capable associates devoting their
entire time in making eye refrac
tions. He also has expert opticians
that carry out the filling of these
prescriptions—“a double service
for a single price.” Let Dr. Hud
take care of the only pair of eyes
you will ever have. And remem
ber—‘‘lt’s all in the examination.”
54 Broad St. Entrance, Healey
Bldg., Atlanta, Ga.—Adv.
Diverted Mind
The mind ought sometimes to he
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better to thinking.—Phaedrus.
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Men love to wonder and that is
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’Tis the will that makes the ac
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a feYsWiO iTiIHJ
I I I I ni I w S ki
The Honorable Uncle Lancy
By ETHEL HUESTON
O Bobbs-MtfHll Ca WNU
CHAPTER Xlll—Continued
—l4
The truck pulled into the camp
grounds where a space had been
reserved and roped off for it. The
girls still stared through the little
darkened windows.
“Girls,” Helen whispered sudden
ly. ‘‘Lookl It’s the wrong rally!
There’s Brother Wilkie on the plat
form. There’s Len Hardesty stand
ing on the steps.”
“Why, Ben’s brought us to the
wrong rally!” said Adele, “You’d
think he would know it by this
time!"
“He must be drunk,” said Helen.
“I’ll tell him.”
They ran to the front of the truck
and banged furiously on the small
locked doors that separated the
driver’s seat from the body. They
called, softly at first, then as loudly
as they could scream, “Beni Ben
Baldy! Oh, Ben!” Still no reply.
“Uncle Lancy’ll fire Ben Baldy
for this,” said Adele.
“Aunt Olympia’ll strangle him,”
said Limpy.
They climbed back to their nar
row perches and peered interested
ly through the small high windows
to witness the Republican rally.
Adele’s eyes clung to Len Hardes
ty’s lean face, where he stood alert
ly on the steps that led to the plat
form.
Len Hardesty had been on intent
lookout for the sound truck. There
It camel There it was! A faint sem
blance of a smile softened his set
features. A stroke of genius! It
wouldn’t win the Governor many
votes perhaps, but it would certainly
make talk, and better still, it would
create laughter. It would embarrass
Sloppy. It would show Olympia he
wasn’t to be sneezed at.
“Here’s the truck,” he wrote on
a card and passed it up to the Gov
ernor.
“Be ready with the lights,” he
said to the engineer who stood
beside him.
The Governor finished his para
graph. Then he paused dramatical
ly.
“My friends,” he bellowed sud
denly, “we have charged that your
representative in the Senate of the
United States —Alencon Delaporte
Slopshire—is a careless, indifferent,
inefficient man I Too careless, too
inefficient, to be trusted to safeguard
the rights of this sovereign state I
We have been challenged to produce
Eroof of that charge! Tonight, we
ring that proof! . . . Do you be
lieve —is any child innocent enough
to believe—that a man who cannot
protect his own property, cannot
preserve his own rights, cannot
safeguard his own interests, can be
trusted to safeguard the property,
the rights, the interests of our sov
ereign state! Ladies and gentlemen,
on this night of all nights in this
campaign, at this crucial moment,
Senator Slopshire has shown himself
so careless, so inefficient, that he
has allowed his own campaign sound
truck to be driven off under his very
nosel Ladies and gentlemen—this is
our proof! We give you the Slop
shire Sound Truck! It stands before
you!”
Immediately floodlights from all
over the park were flashed on that
silent tomb, the Senator’s sound
truck. The girls crouched down out
of sight below the small windows.
Spike O’Connor, stern, unsmiling,
accepted his honors with a stiff bow.
A roar went up from the crowd,
hand-clapping, cheers; and boos for
Slopshire.
When the applause had somewhat
subsided, the Governor went on;
“Here, my friends, you have ac
tual, physical, incontrovertible proof
of our charge of inefficiency. In the
face of this testimony, what can be
•aid of the Senator’s sagacity, his
senatorial watch-care of our state’s
rights, his guardianship of the sa
cred privilege of our common citi
eenship? Tonight—at this hour —Sen-
ator Slopshire is supposed to be
making an intensive drive for votes
In this state, addressing gathered
crowds through the microphone of
this sound truck. This is the truck
that carries his valuable papers, his
books, his files, his notes; as well
as his loud-speaking equipment. Can
you trust a man who can’t take care
of his own property, to take care of
yours?
“Ah, ladies and gentlemen, in the
Holy Book of our Fathers, in Divine
Scripture, what is declared to be the
fate of those wicked and slothful
servants, who, not being faithful in
•mall things, cannot be trusted with
greater things? Is it to him these
words were spoken, ‘Well done, thou
good and faithful servant; thou hast
been faithful over a few things, I
will make thee ruler over many
things?’ Ah, no! That wicked and
slothful servant, careless, ineffi
cient, faithless in small things, is to
be cast into the outer darkness and
there shall be weeping and gnashing
of teeth.
“But this Good Book of Guidance
offers counsel and advice for all;
yea, even to the wicked and sloth
ful servant, faithless in small things!
Come back with me to Proverbs,
and read this admonition. ‘Go to
the ant, thou sluggard; consider her
ways and be wise.’ . . . Go to the
ant, Senator Slopshire, consider her
ways, and be wise.”
Limpy could stand no more,
“diva me that mikal” alia said paa
HOUSTON HOME JOURNAL. PERRY, OEORUIA
sionately. “I’ll tell them a thing or
two.”
And as the roar of applause died
down, suddenly the tomb of ineffi
ciency found voice and spoke. Lim
py, standing tense and rigid between
the cabinets, bawled bravely into
the microphone.
“Ladies and gentlemen! Listen
to me a minute! It’s the most out
rageous lie I ever heard!”
Startled silence gripped the
crowd. Was this a plant? At any
rate, it was dramatic. All eyes
were riveted to the truck.
“I'm Limpy Rutherford, and Sen
ator Slopshire’s my uncle and there
never lived a better uncle than my
Uncle Lancy, This is the most des
picable outrage I ever heard of!”
Len Hardesty collapsed on the bot
tom step. “Oh, my God, he swiped
the kid with it!” he groaned.
“My Uncle Lancy is the most hon
orable, most gentlemanly, most—
conscientious person that ever lived.
I’ve lived with him a year and I
ought to know. And he’s efficient,
too. He’s terribly efficient. I know
his car hasn’t run out of gas since
we’ve been here, and that’s effi
cient.
“And he’s a good Senator, too.
Everybody in the Senate just loves
Uncle Lancy; even Republicans love
him—all the important ones, that
amount to anything. McNary just
dotes on him, he said so himself.
And Vandenberg thinks everything
in the world of Uncle Lancy. He
told me if Uncle Lancy was a Re
publican he’d be presidential tim
ber. And Uncle Lancy’s a good
Christian, too, I don’t care if he is
a senator!
“I know all about the Scripture!
I was brought up on the Bible; the
real Bible. Would my Uncle Lancy
stoop to stealing Brother Wilkie’s
sound truck—and commit thievery
—just to win a few votes? Certain
ly not! He wouldn’t think of it!
Do you think for one minute my
Uncle Lancy would steal Brother
Wilkie’s brats?”
“Oh, Limpy, don’t say brats!”
moaned Helen.
“I mean children,” Limpy correct
ed herself hastily. “He wouldn’t do
it, anyhow. He wouldn’t soil his
fingers with them! He’s too much of
a gentleman and too much of a
Christian and too good a senator.
And even though I’m a Republican
myself, if I had a vote, do you
know who I’d vote for? I’d vote for
Uncle Lancy—that’s who! I’d vote
for him a thousand times if I could
and go to jail for it, and it would
be worth it, too. I’d be glad to go
to jail for Uncle Lancy. He—he’s a
—swell—guy.”
Tears began welling to Limpy’s
eyes. A lump rose in her throat.
She struggled on. “My Uncle Lan
cy is—just—swell.”
Limpy collapsed in a passion of
tears on the floor of the truck. Helen
grabbed Limpy. Adele grabbed the
microphone.
Suddenly her low, even voice
swept over the crowd, still gripped
in awed, electrical silence.
“My sister is perfectly right.
Every word she said is the gospel
truth. I’m Adele.”
“Oh, my God, he got them all!”
gasped Len Hardesty, and started
for the truck.
“I have never been so shocked
in my life,” continued Adele. Our
preachers in lowa wouldn’t do it!
That’s not the kind of preachers we
have. And if Brother Wilkie is so
fond of the Scripture, he’d better
read up on that handwriting on the
wall business; if he doesn’t see
handwriting tonight, he will next
Tuesday!”
“Play, you idiots!” roared Broth
er Wilkie, and the band swept, too
late, into the cheerful strains of
“Don’t you weep for me.”
But already the crowd had moved
away from the platform and was
massing around the sound truck,
once more standing silent, grim and
tomblike. Reporters nosed closer,
closer. Cameras turned on it from
every direction. Light bulbs ex
ploded. Len Hardesty pushed his
way through. He beat on the door
of the truck.
“Adele! Open this door! Come out
of that truck!”
Adele opened the door. Light
flashed about her, cameras clicked,
the crowd roared. Adele, wide-eyed,
damp curls clustering about her
pale face, slim bare legs shivering
beneath the short damp cape, stood
clearly revealed. Helen, with the
weeping Limpy in her arms, was
behind her.
Len took one look. “Adele!” he
roared. “Get back in that truck
and put on your clothes.”
“We haven’t any clothes,” said
Adele pathetically. “They stole our
clothes, too.” Her teeth chattered
nervously. “We’re half-frozen.”
And she slammed the door.
Len Hardesty flung himself
against it, facing the cheering,
laughing crowd. He was haggard
and wild-eyed.
The crowd, too, was beginning to
mutter, almost menacingly. This,
definitely, was carrying things too
far, even in a mud-slinging cam
paign.
And then, from the distance, came
the roar of approaching motors, the
shriek of sirens, the scream of po
lice whistles. Nearer, nearer!
“Oh, my God, it’s the police!”
groaned Len Hardesty. “Well,
they’ll get into this truck over my
dead body!”
And he planted himself more firm
ly against the door of the truck,
both arms outstretched, a figure of
grim defiance.
CHAPTER XIV
It was the police—a thoroughly
outraged and vengeful police escort,
reinforced by a dozen or more ad
ditional officers from Uncle Lancy’s
big rally. The escort was offended
to the depths of its being. It is
true, it had not been in the imme
diate vicinity of the commission of
this crime against law and order.
Still, it had been detailed to the
Senator for the campaign, and to
have three girls and a sound truck
kidnaped from under its nose, as it
were, was certainly going to make
talk. It might even instigate an In
vestigation.
The roaring onsweep of motors
was the noisy approach of the Sen
ator and Aunt Olympia, in pursuit
of their children.
Aunt Olympia never forgave her
subconscious for not affording her
some premonition of what was to
happen that fateful night.
A beaming Madonna with a clear
conscience and red face, she had ac
companied the Senator on his last
trek; received with him the plaud
its of the crowds, accepted bouquets,
and at Millsville dimpled rosily over
the handsome evening bag present
y ‘ 1
r
Aunt Olympia
ed with a good deal of ceremony.
She listened attentively to the Sena
tor’s speeches, applauding good
points, the incarnation of devoted
wifeliness and temporary mother
hood.
Eventually they arrived at the
last round-up, Trentfare. There she
received her fourth bouquet, the oth
ers being left out of sight on the
floor of the automobile. She didn’t
mind at all because the girls were
late.
“God knows they need a rest from
all the speech-making,” she thought
leniently. “They’ll get here in time
for the wind-up—in those costumes
—looking like angels. They’ll be a
sensation. They’ll cinch every float
er for miles around.”
She smiled, she shook hands, she
acknowledged introductions and took
bows, and then fluttered down in
her chair with modest decorum. But
she couldn’t help keeping watch for
the girls. Her fond eyes yearned for
the blessed sight of them, in those
works of art.
Just as the Senator was getting
well launched in what was to be
the climactic closing speech of the
campaign, suddenly the haggard
face of Ben Baldy appeared at the
side door of the platform. He waved
grimy hands toward Aunt Olympia,
he shook his head, he scowled.
Someone seated near the door whis
pered to him. A message trickled
along the front row until it reached
Aunt Olympia.
“He wants to speak to you.”
Even then Aunt Olympia was not
startled. It was the girls, of course;
probably wanting to know whether
they should come right on or wait
until the Senator had finished. She
rose, carrying the huge bouquet,
and tiptoed over the feet of the front
row honor guests on the platform,
whispering apologies, until she
reached the door.
With a big, soiled finger Ben mo
tioned her to come a little farther.
“Mis’ Slopshire,” he whispered
tersely. “They swiped our girls.”
Olympia drew herself together into
her familiar posture of hauteur.
“Baldy, have you been drinking?”
“I wish to God I had been,” he
answered, in a voice both evasive
and devout. “Brother Wilkie done
it. They swiped the sound truck
and the girls along with it while I
was snatching a bite. A cop
brought me in a side car.” >
“Brother Wilkie—swiped—” she
said quaveringly, her knees going
week.
“Republicans, anyhow. And
rushed ’em off seventy miles an
hour—to the other rally.”
“Where axe the girls, Bea, where
are my girls?” she demanded, het
voice going swiftly crescendo.
“They’re swiped.”
“But where are they now? What’s
happened to them?”
“They’re still swiped.”
Aunt Olympia was game to the
depths of her being. Even to this
catastrophe, she arose with rampant
resourcefulness.
“We must head off the Senator,”
she said. 4 ‘Pie’ 11 kill Brother Wilkia
for this! . . . Wait here, Baldy. I’ll
go down front and catch his eye.”
The Senator, working up to one of
his best points, was a good deal
surprised to see a pale and grim
lipped Olympia appear before him
below the speaker’s stand. Her
rightful place was in a good posi
tion on the platform. But even a
pale Olympia gave him courage.
Not a bad idea, getting down there
where he could catch her glare.
Olympia, who had a stimulating ef
fect on perfect strangers, was al
most intoxicating to the Senator.
( He went on, with greater elo
quence. In the burst of applause
that followed the paragraph, he
glanced complacently down for a
beam of approval. Imagine his
amazement to see Olympia silent
ly weeping, swabbing at her under
chin. The Senator tried desperate
ly to recall if he had said anything
of a pathetic nature to arouse her
emotions, but there had been no
pathos in this speech; this was a
fighting speech and Olympia never
cried over fights. He gazed at her
distractedly. Falteringly he took up
the next paragraph, but he couldn’t
get his mind off Olympia, sobbing
silently almost beneath his feet.
“Clap, boys,” he whispered to
those behind him on the packed plat
form.
Accepting the cue, they broke into
hearty applause, and the audience
joined willingly enough. Taking ad
vantage of this interval, the Sena
tor leaned over the rostrum.
“What’s the matter?”
“The Republicans stole the chil
dren. Kidnaped them. They’ve got
the children.”
“What!”
She nodded her head, tears
streaming down a face in which the
last vestige of rose had faded, even
to her lips. “Stole them. Got them.
All of them.”
The Senator rose to dramatic
heights of which even Olympia had
never dreamed he was capable. He
towered to a height which was real
ly impressive for his somewhat
slight stature. He raised his hand
for silence. He leaned forward
again.
“What did you say, my dear?”
he asked, clearly.
“Brother Wilkie stole our truck
and kidnaped our children. They
took them to the other rally.”
The Senator raised both arm*.
Mild though he was supposed to be,
the united Opposition would have
quailed before his look at that mo
ment.
“My friends,” he said, and there
was the venom of murder in hii
voice. As for the sweating throngs
this being a decided innovation in r
campaign which had not been dull
an almost unearthly silence gripped
it.
“My friends, I came here tonigh
prepared to answer briefly, decisive
ly, every issue that has been raised
in this campaign. But my campaigi
is ended at this moment. I shall
not continue my sipeech. I am
obliged to leave you. I have jus
learned that the Opposition, reduced
in their extremity to dastardly
deeds of violence, have stolen those |
three children who are dearer to
my wife and me than our very lives.
They have taken our children. La
dies and gentlemen, I relinquish the
campaign; I leave it in your hands.
For myself, I go to rescue our girls
from this act of wanton depravity.
Let your votes fall where they
may.”
He leaped nimbly down from the
platform and put his arm around
Olympia. The audience waited in
taut silence, anticipating some fur
ther, exciting denouement. But Jim
Allen, the state chairman, did not
wait. He, too, leaped from the plat
form and caught the Senator by the
arm.
“Senator, for God’s sake, you
can’t do that!” he said. 44 You can’t
walk out on us! You’ll offend every
Democrat in the state. The kids will
be all right. Nobody’ll hurt ’em.
But we’ve got every county chair
man in the state here; we’ve got
committees from every club; they’ll
never forgive you.”
The Senator drew himself up.
“Unhand me, Jim,” he said thick
ly-
“ You can’t go, Senator; I won’t
permit it; I’ve worked too hard on
this!”
The Senator let go of Olympia.
He took his glasses carefully in his
left hand. He doubled his right fist,
rose toweringly on his toes—Jim
was a tall man—and delivered a
surprisingly straight, clean upper
cut to Jim Allen’s face. Jim Allen,
felled more by surprise than by the
force of the blow, sank to the floor.
“Come, Olympia!” said the Sena
tor, gently, replacing his glasses.
Olympia, even in this crisis, did
not forget that she was a lady. As
she stepped, carefully, though blind
ed with weeping, over the prostrate
form of Jim Allen, she hesitated
long enough to murmur, “So sor
ry, Jim!” And the Senator led her
away.
The crowd waited . . . There
would be another act, of course . . .
On the whole, it was well-pleased.
The constituents had had three
months of speechmaking and band
music and handshaking. A kidnap
ing was something new. So th«j
waited.
(TO BE CONTINUES#
I"I I "T I
Me Another
• A General Q U i z
The Questions
1. What city is thought to be
the oldest in the world that is still
inhabited?
2. What American statesman
was known as “the Great Pacifi
cator”?
3. Buonarotti is the surname of
what great Italian artist?
4. What is meant by the French
phrase “Je suis pret”?
5. With what is the science of
metrology concerned weather
rocks and their formation, or
weights and measures?
6. What is an eon?
7. What is meant by the Penta
teuch?
8. Which of these colors has
the highest light-reflecting quality:
canary yellow, silver gray or
white?
9. Who were Aramis, Porthos
and Athos?
10. In speaking of a woman in
charge of a post office, which is
the correct title to use, “postmis*
tress” or “postmaster”?
The Answers
1. Damascus.
2. Henry Clay was known as
t Great Pacificator.”
3. Michelangelo.
4. I am ready.
5. Weights and measures.
6. An immeasurable period of
time.
7. The first five books of the Old
Testament.
8. White.
9. The Three Musketeers in Du
mas’ novel “The Three Musket
eers.”
10. Either is correct, but “post
mistress” is not official. The post
office department recognizes only
one title—postmaster.
To Check Constipation
Get at Its Cause!
If constipation has you down so
you feel heavy, tired and dopey,
it’s time you did something about
it. And something more than just
taking a physic! You should get
at the cause of the trouble.
If you eat the super-refined
food most people eat, the chances
are the difficulty is simple-you
don’t get enough “bulk.” And
“bulk” doesn’t mean heavy food.
It’s a kind of food that isn’t con
sumed in the body, but leaves a
soft “bulky ” mass in the intestines.
If this common form of con
stipation is your trouble, eat
Kellogg’s All-Bran regularly, and
drink plenty of water. All-Bran
isn’t a medicine—it’s a crunchy,
toasted cereal. And it will help
you not only to get regular but to
keep regular. Made by Kellogg’s
in Battle Creek. If your condition
is chronic, it is wise to consult
physician.
The Low-Down
Stingo—l fell off a 32-foot ladder
yesterday.
Bingo—And you were not killed?
Stingo—l fell off the third step.
if RHEUMATIC PAIN
iff MUC6IST
Our Patience
How patiently you hear him
groan, how glad the case is not
your own.
TO CHECK Ik Ql A
i |N 7° ays
f*j,666
” LIQUID OR TABLETS
Refuge in Foe
When fails our dearest friend,
there may be refuge with our dir
est foe.
j S P E CIaX
bargains]
WHEN you see the specials of
our merchants announced
in the columns of this paper
you can depend on them. They
mean bargains for you.
• They are offered by merchants
who are not afraid to announce
their prices or the quality
of the merchandise they offer.
