Newspaper Page Text
THE GEORGIAN'S MAGAZINE PAGE
• Broadway
Jones
Based on George M. Cohan’s Play Now
Running In New York.
By BERTRAND BABCOCK.
TODAY’S INSTALLMENT.
Her play of wit and fancy dazzled not
only Broadway, Bob and the judge, but
actually struck dumb Mrs. Spottswood and
Clara. The judge was moved to whisper
to his wife:'
“If Broadway gets that girl she’ll lead
him a merry dance. She’s got cham
pagne In her temperament. I saw a girl
once a little like her in New Britain.
But she was drunk.”
But the wife could not reply to this con
fession, it may have been, of the judge.
To Sammy, much of the value of the
scene was lost because of the beloved
banjo he had insisted upon bringing with
him.
Josie had just laughed unsteadily and
had remarked: “There’s a wealth of
meaning In lamb chops, isn’t there, Mr.
Jones?” and the ’ company, including
Broadway, were trying to puzzle out her
intent, when the quivering, shrill sounds
of a tune played upon the single string
of a banjo out of harmony, jarred it
self on their attention. *
Everybody, including Jackson and
Sammy, turned toward the small boy’ in
real relief, and the musician’s little at
tempt to entertain served to break the
spell' that had had some influence upon
each of the group. Sammy's seriousness
and his ponderous efforts were thrown
nto relief by the gay atmosphere which
tad prevailed but a moment before.
IN HIS GLORY.
Sammy finished and held the banjo
closely before his ear while he tested the
shrillness of another string, preparatory
to playing upon that one alone, too.
“That wasn’t at all bad, Sammy,” com
mended Jackson.
“No, indeed, it was very good,” added
Wallace.
"Very good,” snuffed Sammy. “I
should say it was very good. Gosh, I've
only been taking lessons for a year and
t half. Well, what are you laughing at*
I ton’t you believe me? I'll bet ’Litz’
when he was a little boy. didn’t do as
good as that. Beethoven used to make
lip tunes and play them when he was a
little boy. Now, I'll play one 1 made up
myself.”
The preparatory agonies so jarred upon
the ear of Jackson that he said in a
kindly manner to the young group of
ambitions:
“Don’t tire yourself out, Sammy.”
Wishing to be very obliging after the
Sinner that Broadway had planned and
Josie really cooked, Sammy was quick to
disclaim any fatigue.
“Oh, no,” he said. “I'd have • * prac
tice any way.”
Clara, shallower than Josie, who had :<
hind that embraced all the world, never
bowed to her small brother much va
lence. And so now she discourage*! ids
;ood intentions.
“Well, go home and practice, S ; . mmy.
die said. “We don’t want tv hear it.
Mr. Wallace is going to play the piano.”
Obediently Bob moved to tlte piano anil
began to play. But Sammy had already
• tarted upon another of his compositions
or one string of a banjo, and he was
(uick to order Wallace:
SAMMY IN A HUFF.
“Say ,* keep that piano quiet, will you*
Wallace struck another note, with his
miling eyes upon Sammy.
The boy stopped at one* and began to
lusli his banjo into its case.
"Shows how much you people know
about music,” he muttered. ”<>osh, you
can hear piano any day. I her*- ain t
ten good banjo players in Connecticut.
I ain't going to stay here and listen to
that darned old thing. I'm going to
take my banjo and go home.
Mrs. Spottswoo-i was quick to r< i rove
her son for lack of “being polite when
you are invited out to supper But the
fat little Spottswood was already on his
,'eet and half-way to the door.
“Gosh,” lie mumbled, "that s all the
thanks I get going to all the trouble of
ria,fin my instrument an' everything,
rio.ae day they'll be darned glad to hear
ne play !•, when I get It down perfect.
Sammy's mother continued the reproo*,
.ay'tie:
'.’Ain't you got any more manners chan
to go without saying good nighty 1111(3
thanking Mr. J ties for the supper.’
Almost on the verge of blubbering was
Sammy Waih *1 lie:
"Well. n.y iclin's hurt, and I'm going
home.”
“Just for this you don't get my money
to go to the circus this 'ear.” snowed
his mother.
Through the edge of his almost tears
Sammy grinned as lie retorted:
“Well, if it ain't any better than it was
iast year I don't care a darn. I m getting
tired of being bossed around, anyway.
I'll bet Edison, the inventor, didn t let
neopl? boss him around when he was a
boy. I'm goin' to take my banjo and live
: n New Haw n.”
Ami proudly Sammy strode out through
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His Heart s Gallery of Intimate Portraits * Journal-American-Examiner. By Nell Brinkley j
few ' 0»
® JI’WRcWM. Bak ’ twHaROwO
wlw<2rt/. J
SISK fi zfc'Sy
! the gate and along the road toward his
own home.
Spottswood and his wife followed in the
1 wake of Sammy, for the moment deter
, mined to overtake their son and chastise
him for his rudeness. Clara and Wallace
were immersed in themselves at the
piano, where snatches of music and
snatches of a conversation very dear to
. themselves alternated.
So, to all intents, Broadway and Josie
were left alone.
"Poor Sammy,” he said, “he but shares
the common lot in life. He wants somc-
[ thing, and can’t have it. And I want |
, something, and can’t have it.”
His eyes anil his infllection gave an un
dercurrent to his words, but the girl
shose to misunderstand him.
1 “There is little that a young man with
’ your prospects in life can not have, if you
but desire the better —the higher things,”
' she said primly enough, but there was a
' dimple in her cheek at the thought _ of
Broadway's desiring seriously for long any
| spiritual uplift.
Broadway knew perfeectly well that the
' | thing she meant was not the thing in his
1 ; own mind, but here was an ipening made
’I to his taste. Gradually all the eyening ho
had been screwing up his courage. He
would dare. He was about to tell her that
I there was one thing in ah ' e world that
I he warded and his menu: : t had al
: readyr framed the words: "I love you.”
BROADWAY REFLECTS.
But those little words. “I love you” had
I started a flood of recollections and lie- saw
i tiiei.i as they had been written in tlte
i notes he and Mrs. Gerard had exchange-1
'at that "dinner with a punch.”
i al’-. Gerard! He reflected bitterly, ttf
. | course Josie had r -ad in the newspaper-*
.i of that night of folly at Speary’s. so far
away in view of the great change that had
! come to him. Os course she knew of the
i culminating announcement of that “dinner
with a punch.” He could not speak to this
5 young girl, this woman who was above
hfm in all refinements of character and
1 fetlings. After all Ids mere refusal to go
over to th- trust had been inspired by her,
he though sadly. And he could not say
to her those words, which use by him and
Mrs. Gerard bad sullied: 1 love you.'
In acute remorse he groaned aloud:
' "There's no fool like a young fool.”
' The girl smiled her wise, mysterious
smile, with its vague quality of comfort.
Almost ii seemed in th*' bitterest of self-
1 reproacli-is sin- echoed bis words:
' "There's no fool like a young fool.”
i
Part VII.
HOW FROM A BUTLER MAY BE MADE
A SEMI-GENU'INE EARL.
<>f oiie tiling Jackson was sure: Josie
was apply ing his own words to herself,
but why? She was not engaged to Mrs.
’ Gerard! The puzzle be*dm r.g entirely
I too much for any one uoai-l *1 by woman |
j intuition. Broadway gave -: up and r- -
turned to a biiter sell-condemnation be
cause of his affair With Mrs. Gerard, while
tlie girl at his side talked quietly of com-
, monplaces.
’ Jackson was at height of his reproaches
addressed to a certain Broadway Jones,
I ! when quite by chance his eye travelled
I through the open door. Standing close to
■ the edge of the veranda was a white
faced man his own eyes rivetted upon
Jackson. A moment more Jones recog
nixed Rankin, his long absent butleer.
Plainly Rankin was making signals to
him, but whether of war or peace Broad
t way could not decide. However. Rankin
, wanted him. With an excuse of an im
portant business visitor who would detain
j shim but a moment. Broadway stepped
outside.
! “Well, where is she? he demanded in
» the butler's ear, but “sh-h” was his only
answer.
Rankin seized his sleeve and drew him
> through Hie gate of Jones Manor and even
} • walked down the road a few hundred feet.
Jackson obeyed the commanding pres-
I sure of the other's fingers without ques
tion. If Rankin used such secrecy the
need must be great.
SURPRISING NEWS.
in the dark shadow of an old elm that
Jackson’s grandfather had climbed, the
butler allowed his master to stop. Broad
way gulped down a great fear that seemed
to rise materially in Ids throat.
"Don't break It to me,” he said “Tell
me the worst at once.”
The butler smiled calmly as he an
swered:
"Surprising news, sir."
"Well, tell me—tell me: what did she
say? How did you get rid of her?” He
had taken hope from the butler’s answer.
Again Rankin smiled.
"I didn't get rid of her, sir," he caid.
"What? Where did you leave her?”
"I didn’t leave her, sir; I've been with
her ever since."
"Where is she?”
"She's here, sir.”
Jackson jumped to one side, peering
in a very real terror into the shadows.
He had had a glimpse of what life could
be made on the heights and now the
depths were returning.
“Oil, she’s not under this tree, sir”
the butler’s tone was reassuring—"but
slip’s down the road a bit. sir.”
"She came ba I- with you?” trembled
..mt Jackson.
“Yes, sir ” I
“Oil. you idiet! Wnat 'lll' you let ier
J Continued Next issue. j
•.jl i Ifcf ®
’ Mt W l i"S-
11 | g
( I oh
• t Y“,_>
He began the collection of his Heart's Gallery of Intimate Portraits long years ago. The first portrait in
it is that of the little chubby girl, with the freckled face and the funny mouth, who sat next io him at school. As
he remembers her. she always seemed to be seeing the joke in life, and it was hard to determine whether she
thought (he joke on you o~ on herself.
The next portrait he keens in his gallery is that of the high school girl v hom he took to all the class dances
and who wore his “frat” pin. She was pretty, but had no room in her head for anything hut the little festivities of
the social clique at school.
The third portrait is the girl he chose for his own out of all the realm of womankind. He wears her image
on his heart of hearts, and there is joy and happiness in thinking of the dear, wonderful days of his wooing and the
sweeter, more wonderful years of his married life.
And last, hut not least, is the portrait of his own darling, his gray-eyed baby girl. She is all the world to him.
and he sees her mother in her and sees her in her mother—the same looks, gestures and little tricks of saying and
doing things.
And happy is the man who can look at his Heart's Gallery of Intimate Port aits without regret—and thank- .
ful to life for bringing such wonderful things to him.
1
I T ." IT L JI he WiJoiv Arrives at Helen's and Hears Some Dis-
UM ling 3. lIUS Da.no agreeable Comments on Her Aged Suitoi
By VIRGINIA T. VAN DE WATER.
HELEN ROBBINS was on the ve
randa waiting to greet the pair
as they rode up to her door. Her
cottage was on the slope of one of the
many hills surrounding Pleasanton
Lake and commanded a view that was
worth the climb necessary to reach it.
And my ear took that hill on high!”
exulted Dr. Haynes, is his hostess
greeted him. “I tell you. that ma
chine’s hard to beat!”
Beatrice had a suifden impulse of im
patience, accentuated by the fact that
waeit the ear stopped all the breeze
j seemed t*> slop, too, and she felt as if
she were plunged into a steam bath.
The sensation reminded her of the “hot
room” in a Turkish bath establishment.
Glancing donn, she saw that her pretty
white shoes were gray with the dust
that had blown over them In the swift
ride across the dry country.
She would not have minded the heat
and might not have noticed the dust
if her companion had exclaimed to her
friend on the delights of the ride with
such a charming companion instead of
bursting forth into panegyrics of his
automobile. But she i hecked her irri
tation. and after a moment’s hesitation
seconded the man’s praise of fils “ma
chine."
“lit. Helen, such a drive!” she said
with Seeming enthusiasm. “And such
a driver as Dr. Haynes is! I am too
ignorant to know what it means to
have an automobile ‘take a hill on
high’ but if it means that a car al
most files, why t agro, heartily with
tiie statement.”
For the second time that day the
doctor looked at her with a pleasant
expression.
Dusty Roads.
'l’m glad you like the car and my
driving.' he said. Then he turned to
Helen. “Truth compels me to declare,"
he said ruefully, "that I never saw
much dustier roads tiian those we came
over this morning. You may know
that I like the looks of Pleasanton when
I say that now that 1 am here, I can
forgive even those miles of heat and
dirt."
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DruggUt For r
Helen laughed merrily. “Well, I re
joice that you like it out here.” she
. said, "and I’m hoping that Beatrice is
going to think it such a nice place
that she will decide to spend the rest
of the summer in the cottage I have
‘ picked out for her. It is right over
there." pointing to a bungalow nestled
against the hill a little-way beyond her
lawn. “You can see only the roof from
' here, but one can walk to tiie place in
five minutes without hurrying.”
While Beatrice was In Helen's dress
ing room removing her wrap and hat,
smoothing her liair, her hostess ex
, cused herself and went down to give
some final instructions with regard to
luncheon. The widow, thus left alone,
completed her toilet, then strolled Into
Helen's lied room, and, going to the
window, peered forth between the shut
' ters at the roof of the bungalow in
question. She wfis glad to note that
even from the upper windows of the
Robbins cottage the front door and ve
randa of her probable summer resi
i dense were not visible. She remem
, bered that it might be most inconven
’ tent for her were her neighbor able to
spy upon her and her callers.
"i do not want h*T to know everv
I »
time her uncle comes/ to see me,” she
mused. “I wonder what I am going to
do about him. anyway?”
I
( Sinking into an easy chair by tiie
, open window, she rested her head
> against the cushioned back and closed
i Iler eyes. She was glad to have a little
linn mill quiet in which to think, for
i i she found herself in a position where
! she was more uncertain about iter fu-
■ 'i lure actions than site was before 1 she
. ! left home this morning. Then she had
I thought of Dr. Hayne: as a man who
. might become a possible suitor. She
had luqied that she might interest him
i lin her sufficiently tp make it worth
, ■ while for her to defer settling the ques
. | tlon with regard to Henry Blanchard
. j until late in the summer—if she could.
. But this morning’s experience had
, proved to her that, so far. the physician
, thought of her only as the mother of
I his little patient, in whom she was
interested. Her only claim on him, up
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to date, was evidently her relationship |
to Jean. Was that the only claim she
would ever have.
She was not mistaken, for Helen
drew a chair close to her guest's, and
began, first of all, to talk of Jean’s
condition.
“I have been so sorry for you. my
dear,” she said. “I even telephoned in I
yesterday to Uncle Henry to see if he
knew how tiie little gnl was."
“Why didn't you telephone to me
instead?” a.-aed Beatrice auickiy.
"B. eaiis*-. dtar, 1 thought perhaps 1:
would annoy you to be called from
your little girl. Rut Uncle Henry said
lit did upt even know sh* was ill.”
“of course, lie didn’t,” repll*.*d Beat
rice. “How should he?”
“Well," laughed Helen, “the poor old
man talks of you so much that I thought
his fatherly interest might lead him to
call on you occasionally. I was glad to
learn, however, that he had not been
boring you with ills presence.”
The widow said nothing, and, after a
moment’s silence, Mrs. Robbins con
tinued her inquisition.
She asked the question anxiously, for
she liked this man. Perhaps his very
indifference piqued her to further ad
miration of him, for it was not an un
kindly indifference. It was simply that
she had not. as yet, appealed to him
mo)'* 1 than did scores of other women
whom lie knew. But to her he was
much more attiaetive than was Henry
Blanchard. Indeed, as sin- thought now
of her elderly suitor ami compared him
with the big. broad-shouldered, gray
haired man who had been her compan
ion this morning, sh felt toward the
slight, somewhat shrunken old bache
lor a shudder of physical repugnance.
She did not dislike him, but he was
not tiie type of husband she wanted.
And yet—he was kind, and good, ami
had money, and loved her.
Being Cautious.
The sound of Helen’s step on the
stairs made Beatrice open her eyes and
sit up. She must keep her wits about
her, for of course her friend would ask
her about her plans and would, perhaps,
try to learn the widow’s sentiments
with regard to Dr. Haynes. There
| fore, Beatrice felt she must be careful
not to show her hand
"I’m so glad,” she remarked, “that
Dr. Haynes has sense enough to ap-
I predate you, dear. Don’t you like him?"
"1 know him very slightly,” replied
I Beatrice evasively. "I called him In to
I see Jean, us my own doctor was out of
J town, ami it was because of the child’s
illnfess and the need of getting her out
of town that he suggested my coming
out witli him today. He is not inter
ested in me except as Jean’s mother.
m*i' do I know film in any capacity ex-
■pt :-s ~iy little ii: util I*" ' ■ physician!"
* "Ah,” . mllcd Helen indulgently, “tnat
Up-to-Date Jokes
"What's this?" said the editor. " 'Mr
Longbow is lying at death’s door
Make that read ’laying.’”
"What?” exclaimed the reporter in
surprise. “That's not correct.”
“No.” replied the editor; “but it’s bet
ter to make a grammatical error than
offend Longbow's relatives. His repu- ;
tation for veracity la notoriously bad." <
_ <
Ada (pensively)—l hope you’ll Invite j
me io the wedding when you get mar
ried. ' * <
Jack tboldly)- You’ll be the first i
person I shall invite, an if you don’t ac- -
cept there won’t be any wedding.
Three months later she married him.
“Willie,” said the mother, sorrow
fully. “every time you are naughty I
get another gray
"Gracious!” said Dlllie. "you must
have been a, t -rror. Look at grand
pa'l”
He—Do ymi love me, darling?
,su* —Yes, Jack, dear.
He- J.tck! You mean Harold, don’t
you ?
She—Of course! How absurd I am!
I keep thinking today's Saturday.
Minister —My dear little boy, why
I don’t you carry an uinbr- Ila when it
Is raining like this?
I Dear Little Boy-Since pa. has
I stopped going to church he never
■ brings home any mor* umbrellas.
| Elsie (aged seven I—Mr, I w ant a
| penny.
I Mother —What for, dear?
Elate- I asked Willie Jones to play I
we’re getting married, and he says he i
won’t do it unless I have a dowry.
Teacher—Now, Teddy, is "Jerusa
lem’’ a proper noun or a common
n oun ?
I Teddy ’Tain’t neither. It’s an ejac- I
ulation, mum.
is tvhat YOU say. But I know men
ami their ways well enough to know
t.h’.t fil'd he not felt more than a pass
ing interest in you he would never have
troubled himself to take a. long ride with
you. Abi-y nan does not lose a whole
day front work Just to gratify, his in
terest in a four-year-old child who Is
nothing to him.”
The wish is father to the thought
with many of us, and as her friend
spoke. Beatrice, while seeming to dis
agree with het, was impressed by her
logic, and -- ray of hope shot through
her mind, making her feel that, after
all, Helen's reasoning might bo correct.
But she only shook her head and tried
to look Incredulous and indifferent.
“You are mistaken.” she insisted. “Dr.
Haynes told me himself that he had
meant to come to lunch with you some
day, that it might as well be this day
as another, itnil that he would bring
me with him so that,l might look over
the cottage you wrote of.”
Still Helm shook her head and laugh
ed. “No no. Beatrice, ’’ she chided,
“you can't fool me in such matters.’’
At this juncture the maid, entering to
announce luncheon, made further dis
cussion impossible, and Beatrice, with
a sigh of relief, glanced into the mir
ror as sh* passed, noted that she look
ed one*' more fresh and cool, and fol
lowed her hostess dov.'nstail’s.
! . .SS .
I
I @ X v J
Him*. ■■-Lt— J |
Advice to the
Lovelorn
By BEATRICE FAIRFAX.
BOTH, OF COURSE.
Dear Miss Fairfax;
If two young men walking met
a young lady whom only one of the
young men knew, and the other did
not. is it proper for both to tip their
hats, or should only the one who
new her do so? W. F.
I confess to surprise at'your # ques
tion. A spirit of gallantry should
prompt a man to raise his hat to his
friend’s acquaintances, though he has
never read or been told that that is
what he should do.
A DIVIDED HEART.
Dear Miss Fairfax:
I have been keeping company
with a young man for three years.
We love each other very much but
he still wants to call on other girls,
especially one recently married.
• ALICE.
If he loved you as devotedly as he
should, the society of any girl but you
would bore him.
The fact that he seeks their society
shows a divided heaart. Don’t let hint
see that you care. Put him in your
place by encouraging- the attentions of
other men.
THAT DEPENDS ON YOU.
Dear Miss Fairfax:
I have known a girl three years,
half of which time I spent in Cal
ifornia. I have told her I love her,
and, after promising her I would '
stay In New York and lead a clean
life, she lias seemed to forget my
existence and goes out. with other
men. Shall 1 forget her, or be per
sistent? WALLACE.
If you really love her, you don’t want
to forget her. Perhaps your lack of
decision, which shows itself in youii
question, is responsible for her Interest
in others of your sex.
Be persistent, by al! means, if you
care for her, and if you win her oi
not, your promise to lead a clean lit*
will be a good promise to keep.
WERE YOU AT FAULT?
Dear Miss Fairfax:
I am desperately in love with
a young man two years my senior.
A few days ago, I got in a quarrel
with him and I have not spoken to
him since.
Mj parents do not object to my
going with him.
<’an you advise me what to do to
regain his love? FLORENCE.
If sou were at fault in the quarrel,
you owe him an apology, and I trust
you will be fair enough to make it.(
If he provoked tile quarrel without
reason, you can do nothing but wait till
shame drives him to take steps to ef
fect a reconciliation.
If be doesn’t love you enough to be
fair, he doesn’t love you enough to
grieve over losing him.
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Eat butter, but don’t waste it.
The right place for butter is on
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• =r ’ J ~ ~
A. ■ . ' ,
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• <Advt.>