Newspaper Page Text
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4*
There Seems to Be Quite a Difference Between a Friend in Need and a Needy Friend
• GEORG
JL
Romance, Thrill, Mystery in
Zoe—7
’he Story of
Hope
less Love
Paris Supreme in Fashion
Beatrice Fairfax Writes on
Republished by Special Arrangement with HARPER’S BAZAR, the Oldest and
Greatest Woman’s Magazine.
{Copyright. AMorlattd Newspaper*. Ltd S*
rial right* in U. 8. A held by International Nawa
f.errlrr )
(By CORALIE STANTON and
HEATH HOSKEN.)
“When ran I see you —where? I
must! Don’t you understand?”
“To-night,” she said; "later on,
when he is asleep.”
“No. no,” exclaimed Crawley; "I
won’t run any such foolish risk. ’
“He would never know,” she plead
ed. “I must see you to-night. Oh,
why didn’t you let me do it? Why—
why? 1 would have been at peace
now, and ”
“You are mad! I tell you I will
not run any risk of compromising you
or myself.”
“Then to-morrow,” she said, quick
ly.
"Where?"
“I will he at Grosvenor road at 4.
We shall all be going up in the morn
ing Godfrey has an appointment in
the city in the afternoon. It will be
easy.”
Crawley hesitated.
“It is horribly dangerous.” he said.
“Can’t we meet somewhere else?
Can’t I see you here?”
“Oh, you are a coward, Noel!” Her
voice quivered with scorn
“I tell you,” he retorted, fiercely,
“one thing" I am determined on;
Brooke shall never know'.’’
“He never shall—if you do not wish
It.”
“Can't you see how horribly you
have wronged him? Can’t you see
that he loves you beyond anything on
earth, that you are h11 his world 4 .o
him? Why, if he knew, if—why,
woman alive, it would kill him!”
“Well. I believe it would kill him."
she said, solemnly “But quick. Noel,
tell me We shan't have another
chance. Shall It he 4. there, or
Hush!” She dabbed her handkerchief
to her exes and braced herself There
were footsteps in the hall. Brooke
w’as returning. Crawley looked anx
iously at the woman. “Remember.”
he whispered; “he must never know!"
"You can trust m**.’’ she answered.
"And it is 4 to-morrow?”
“Yes.” breatherd the man.
The door opened, and Brooke en
tered the drawing room.
"Hullo!” he exclaimed. In his
brusque, breezy way. “1 thought you'd
be having a drink!”
”1 have been showing Mr. Crawley
these sixteenth century Italian draw
ings I bought the other day.” said Di-
sna Brooke, bending over a port
folio. “He says he thinks that some
of them are really valuable.”
"I’m sure they are!" exclaimed
Crawley, rather wildly.
Di, little girl, I didn’t tell you, did I,
that Crawley's contemplating enter
ing upon the marriage state?”
The woman turned and gave the
I arjist a look of smiling Inquiry. That
look was a triumph of art.
“Indeed, Mr. Crawley!” she ex-
] claimed. “Who is the fortunate lady ?”
“Eva Warren.” said Brooke,
| “daughter of sir Squire Warren. Isn’t
(that so, Crawley?”
The artist bowed his assent. He
could not trust himself to speak.
“When is the happy event to take
I place?" asked Diana Brnfcke, as they
) walked across the hall to the smoking
[room; but Crawley was silent.
“It isn’t officially announced yet,”
said Brooke.
“I see." said Diana Brooke; and
Crawley detected a change in her
voice—-a hard, almost defiant note. He
gave her a furtive sidelong glance.
For a moment their eyes met. and he
saw in hers what he had seen in iha
rooms in London earlier that night,
and he heard her parting words;
“I swear by all 1 hold sacred that
on the day you marry Ev& Warren I
will kill myself!”
Mad, wild, irresponsible words of
jan overwrought and hysterical wom-
j an. but they impressed him deeply,
j He could not get them out of his*
mind.
“I shouldn't be surprised,” laughed
I Brooke, "that we shall see the en-
! gagement announoed in to-morrow's
! Times, eh, Crawley? Didn't you say
j so?”
I Crawley did not breathe freely until
after 1 o’clock the next day. when he
parted from Mr. and Mrs. Brooke on
the platform of Waterloo Station.
Brooke used his best endeavors to
persuade his friend to Join them at
lunch. They were lunching at the
Savoy; afterward Brooke had a busi
ness appointment In the city concern
ing some African gold concessions he
w'as negotiating, and then Mrs. Brooke
was going shopping. They were to
meet at Waterloo at 7 to go down to
Hatrhlngton in tifne for an 8 o’clock
dinner
But f’rawlev resisted his friend’s
invitation to lunch, pleading an Im
portant appointment at his studio. He
thanked them both warmly for th«j|r
hospitality and promised to go down
to The laurels and stay for a few'
days at an early date. He said he had
immensely enjoyed his flying visit,
and would have loved to have lunched
w’lth them, and all manner of proper
and conventional things
Is Man or Woman
More Selfish? $
<8>
From the April Number
of Harper's Bazar
Ask Yourself the Question and Draw Your Own
Conclusions.
*9-
W
v M3-
By BEATRICE FAIRFAX.
E YERY one in the world is selfish
at heart. Some of us think we
are not and others of us like to
be told we are not, but if our minds
could be diseected and read there would
be found in each case a region of gray
matter held by the ogre we call selfish-
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4^/^ OOD-RYK, my
It Brooke. “Yoi
Brooke Keeps Dilating
On His Happiness.
“Oh, well: they’re beyond me.”
laughed Brooke “I’m no artist, am I.
Crawley? Give me nature and—inci
dentally—a whlsky-and-soda. Come
on. Dl. let’s go to the smoking room
end have a nightcap.” He put his
arm around his wife’s waist. “Craw-
lev. my son,” he exclaimed, “do vou
wonder that I’m the happiest man in
all the world, eh?"
“Not a bit." paid Crawley, forcing
a smile into his face and some sort
of expression into his hollow voice,
though In his soul all the fiends of
hell made pandemonium.
“There’s nothing like marriage.
Crawley. Take my tip. By the way.
Greatest Event
In Woman’s Lite
All human experience looks back to
motherhood as the w’onder of wonders.
The patience, the fortitude, the sub
lime faith during the period of expec
tancy are second only to the mother
love bestowed upon the most helpless
but most marvelous creation—a baby.
Women are quick to learn from each
other those helpful aaencies that aid to
comfort, that conserve their nervous en
ergy and yet are perfectly safe to use
and a*mong these they recommend
“Mother's Friend."
Tt is entirely an external application,
designed to lubricate the broad, flat
muscles and skin that protect the ab
domen. Jt has been in favorable use
for nearly a half century and is known
to mothers in almost every settled com
munity in the United States, who highly
recommend it. You will it on sale
in drug stores “Mother's Friend" is ut
terly harmless, contain* no deadening
drugs, and yet its influence on the skin
and muscles beneath, as also upon the
network of nerves beneath the skin, is
very beneficial, very soothing, and a
wonderful help. The muscles expand
naturally and are not subjected to un
necessary surface strain and pain.
Get a bottle of “Mother’s Friend” to
day at any drug store and write to us
for our instructive little book to moth
ers Address Bradfleld Regulator Com
pany. 413 Lamar Building. Atlanta. Oa.
Carefully Treat
Children s Colds
Neglect of children's colds often lays
the foundation of serious lung trouble.
On the other hand, it is harmful to con
tinually dose delicate little stomachs
with internal medicines or to keep the
children always indoors.
Plenty of fresh air in the bedroom
and a good application of Vick’s “Vap-
O-Rub” Salve over the throat and chest
at the first sign of trouble will keep
the little chaps free from colds without
injuring their digestions. 26c. pOc and $1.
me tnu/Nt has this trads mark
“VSpohub”
VICK’S SSJma SALVE
son!’’ laughed
You look consid
erably better than when I
came in upon you last night. Cheer
up. old man!” He lowered his voice.
“She isn’t worth thinking about. A
woman like that will sav anything.
Put her out of your mind, and go and
sec your Eva.”
“Shut up!" said Cniwley. frowning.
“I w'ish you would keep that to your
self. Brooke I whs mad last night.
Forget all about it.”
The two men had been alone for a
few* moments. Diana Brooke was dis
patching a telegram to her dress
maker. She came up at this moment.
“So you can’t persuade him to come
with us. Godfrey?” she Inquired;
archly.
“No. my dear; he’s obdurate.”
"Well, good-bye. then. Mr. Crawley.
1 am so glad to have met you. Do
come down again soon,” she smiled,
bexvitchingly.
“Jt is awfully good of you,” the man
murmured.
“Four o’clock.” she whispered ns
they shook hands. He nodded. Brooke’s
hack was turned for the moment.
At last Grawley escaped in a taxi,
and told the cabman to drive him to
40-A Grosvenor road, and sank back
in the cab and literally gasped with
relief. The strain had been fearful.
He had barely slept an hour all last
night. Th* position had been intol
erable. The very fact of being under
Godfrey Brooke’s roof was unbeara
ble
He had sat up until about half-past
1 talking to Brooke after Diana had
left them together in the cozy smok
ing room of The Laurels, and had lis
tened to Brooke’s eulogies of his wife.
What a wonderful woman she was
in Brooke’s eyes, and what a pearl
among women! How he loved her!
How blindly he worshiped her! With
what doglike devotion he regarded
her! And. withal, with what sublime
trust! Every word and look of Brooke
concerning her went to Crawley’s
heart like a knife thrust in an old
wound. He was a man of very highly
strung imagination, and the midnigh;
talk with his old friend had caused
him almost physical pain as well as
mental torture. Brooke wfts full of
plans for the future, and in every plan
Diana had her place and share
“Ah, Craw’ley, old man," he said,
emotion trembling in his voice, "it s a
great thing to have a home. I’m a
born wanderer—a gypsy. I don’t sup
pose I shall ever settle down anywhere
for long. But. for all that, 1 like to feel
I’ve got a little place somewhere on
the face of the earth to come back
to when I’m tired
“How I used to long for it last sum
mer when I was out there in the Con
go sweltering under that precious
sun! -Yes, Crawley, there’s something
1n every man’s heart that responds to
rhe idea of home. ‘My ain fireside,’
wdth a good, pure woman waiting
there for you. That’s what’s kept me
going, and what will again, I haven’t
any doubt.”
These words repeated themselves In
Crawley’s mind with a peculiar in
sistence.
He Tries to Think
Of a Way Out.
What a hopeless muddle it all was!
All iast night he had tried to And a
way out of it—a way that was hon
orable and right. He blamed himself
far more than he blamed the woman,
and yet. at the same time, he realized
that he was not altogether fair to
himself.
How could he possibly have known?
Even now’ the thing seemed incredi
ble and unreal, and there were mo
ments when the sense of unreality
was so forcible that he expected to
awake and find himself sitting before
his fire in his Grosvenor road rooms
It was about half-past 1 when he
let himself into his flat, and Huttbn,
hi* man. met him in the hall and gave
him cc-me letters and telegrams, which
R OSES are used by Worth to give the touch of
summer to his corkscrew model of mole-colored
faille, the bands of blue velvet at the neck and wrists
supplying the color note. The straw brim of the
toque extends into a peak in the front, forming a sup
port for the soft, falling Paradise plue. m
W ORTH defines the waiseline at the natural posi
tion as in this tight-fitting bodice of gold em
broidery which he veils with chiffen. To the yoke is
attached a very full skirt of black faille striped in sat
in. There are also the inevitable organdie points.
The double brimmed hat has ostrich trimming.
he tossed onto a table, and told Hut
ton to get him something to eal. Then
he went into his study and flung him
self dejectedly into his armchair be
fore the newly lighted fire.
It was a brilliant spring day—a day
of clouds and smdipht, a day to re
joice a painter’s u art. Crawley had
much work to do; but there was to be
no painting to-day. * He had much
more serious business in hand.
He looked angrily at the clock—a
beautiful seventeenth century grand
father’s clock of exquisite manufac
ture He had only recently bought it
at Christie’s.
"Nearly two and a half hours before
she wdll he here.” he muttered to him
self. “What, in the name of goodness,
am I to do in the meantime?”
He rose impatiently and paced the
room. He stopped every now and
then at the window and lopked out
across the Thames to the great pot
tery works opposite. Then he went
into his studio. He was restless, irri
table, and altogether upset. He start
ed absently picking up sketches from
a bulky portfolio lying open on the
lounge seat in a great oav wundow at
the corner.
Nearly every other sketch was a
study of Zoe—Zoe head and shoulders:
Zoe, full length; Zoe in hat and furs;
Zoe in ball dress; Zoe’s. arms, back,
bust—Zoe in every conceivable pose
and posture Zoe draped and un
draped. Zoe as herself; Zoe as “Aph
rodite.” as “Circe;" Zoe as “Sin," as
“Madonna”—beautiful little studies,
some of them; some finished, others
but rough impressionist sketches, or
careful studies of anatomical detail.
“If Rrooke were to see those!” he
groaned
Crawley’s eye feil on a large can
vas leaning against the wall.
It was his first study in oils of his
famous "Circe.” It was a moot point
in his mind whether this one were not
indeed a superior picture of the one
Leveredge and Maberley had bought
of him for a thousand guineas down.
As he stared at it Brooke s words
rang in his ears. That was Brooke’s
wife, the idol of his heart and life—
that woman there, who sat shameless
ly surrounded by swine—the swine
that had once been men.
Garrett P. Serviss Writes on
The Romance of the
Redman ®
By GARRETT P. SERVISS.
T HE recent trouble with the In
dians in the Southwest serves to
remind us that our continent is
the scene of one of the most puzzling
racial apparitions that history records.
To-day in Europe there is a livelier cu
riosity concerning the American Indian
than concerning American inventions
They still read Cooper’s “Leatherstock
ing Tales,” which they think are closely
related to contemporary life here. The
Red Man has left an atmosphere of ro
mance hanging over the Western world
which was once his that can not be
blown away. We have conquered him,
driven him from his lands, violated his
ideals, abased his character, corraled
him on reservations, but we can not
loosen his hold on the imagination of
mankind. With the Moors of Spain, he
dwells forever in the gilded afternoon of
history.
Whence came the Indian? Who were
his ancestors? Was he an indigenous
product of American soil, or did his
forefathers emigrate from another con
tinent, as did ours?
An ethnologist would probably tell
you, now. that the place of origin of
(To Be Continued.)
Its Drawbacks.
A certain London auctioneer, in ad
dition to a fine personal appearance and
splendid elocutionary talents, is pos
sessed of considerable culture and
knowledge of human nature.
At a book sate this gentleman would
read, with exquisite teste passages from
the books he was selling, with brief
biographies and criticisms of their au
thors. reciting hexameters from Greek
and Roman classics, and rendering
passages from humorous writers with a
tone and air so ludicrous as to set the
room in a roar of laughter Thus he
often won higher prices for books than
tnose got at the shops
An amusing example of his clever
ness In extolling an estate is the lan
guage with which he once closed a
highly colored description of the prop
erty he was selling. For a few’ moments
he paused, and then said
“And now. gentlemen, having given a
truthful description of this magnificent
estate, candor compels me to admit that
it has two drawbacks—the litter of the
rose leaves and the noise of the night-
ingal s.”
the American aborigines was Eastern
Asia That is the latest opinion. It
may be correct, but, if so, it tells us
very little. It goes back beyond the
boundaries of certain history, to a far-
off. hypothetical time, xvhen there w’as
a natural bridge across the Behring
Sea.
Still a Mystery.
For our purposes it is better to begin
with things as the earliest white set
tlers found them, and try to work no
farther than the relics and monuments
left by the red men themselves will car
ry us. That is not very far; only a
few hundred years beyond the date of
the Spanish conquests and settlements.
The relation of the various native tribes
and nations to each other is still a mys
tery The Mohawk of New York had
never heard of the Aztec of Mexico.
Was there any racial connection be
tween them? The Indians found in the
Ohio Valley could tell nothing of the
builders of the strange burial mounds
that scar the face of that country w’ith
the forms of huge circles, ami ovals,
and writhing serpents. But the skele
tons in the mounds were found sitting
upright, with their weapons and bowls
about them, after the burial custom of
the Indians that William Penn met. So
Philip Freneau, in his poem on “The
Indian Burial Ground” (from which
Thomas Campbell filched its most beau
tiful line to adorn a poem of his own):
“In spitf of all the learned have said,
T still my old opinion keep.
The posture that we give the dead
Points out the soul’s eternal sleep.
“Not so the ancients of these lands.
The Indian, when from life released.
Again is seated with his friends.
And shares again the Joyous feast."
The very lack of history among the
Indians made them more interesting and
more mysterious to the white men.
Their traditions, such as that of Hia
watha, derive an epic grandeur from
their indefiniteness. Whatever the In
dian of the Western plains may have
become, his Eastern predecessors im
pressed Europeans with a deep sense of
personal gravity and dignity. His nature
was full of poetry. His language was as
imaginative as that of the Arab. He
was a natural orator No man ever
spoke more eloquently than did “Red
Jacket,'' the Iroquois chief, the friend
of Washington and Lafayette. He was
aware of his power. When he lay dying
he said:
"When 1 am dead it will be noised
abroad through the world. They will
hear it across the great waters, and
say, ‘Red Jacket, the great orator, is
dead!’ ”
Traits like this render it impossible
not to respect any man who could ex
hibit them New England history would
lose half its charm if the part played
by the red men were eliminated. Wit
ness old Samoset. with his grave and
courteous “Welcome, Englishmen." Wit
ness King Philip and his woes. Wit
ness. even, the midnight attacks on
stockade settlements, and war whoops,
the painted countenances, the toma
hawks. the scalp-locks, the long, weary
marches of captives through endless for
ests, the hairbreadth escapes, the coun
cil fires, the stake, the running of the
gantlet, the strange adoptions—these
things are the red tragic touches which
give color to history.
Let Us Be Charitable.
Let us not he hypocritical. Let us
remember that we were the • invaders!
Major Powell, who knew as much of
the nature of the IndiaJlF as any white
man could learn, said that the primi
tive savage idea that one's own tribe,
or nation, or people, is the best in the
world and superior to all others, was
deep planted in the Indian. Well, then,
what was to he expected of him' 1 Are
the hands of white men clean in that
rega rd ?
Major Powell also called attention
to the fact that the Indian tribes, when
the w’hlte man came here, were in the
main, sedentary, and not nomadic. They
were living in fixed habitations. Agri
culture was general among them, yet
not so far developed but that thev were
compelled to eke out their supplies bv
hunting in common, which, as Major
Powell remarks, encouraged the idle:
hut. on the other hand, thev gave honor
and place to the industrious. Thev did
not become nomadic until thev had been
driven to the western plains.' had been
supplied with firearms and had supplied
themselves with hovses. which thev
found running wild there
A Natural Wish.
To have ideas of your own at five is
truly prodigious, but Harry was only
four and he had more, than a few ideas
One day a rather inquisitive aunt be
gan to cross-question him.
“Are you a good child?” she asked
of him.
“H umph—yes."
“Whftt do you want to he when you
grow up?"
“Man.”
“Yes. of course. Put what sort of a
man **”
“One that isn’t always asking ailly
questions."
He would he intrenched there and
armed with arguments as elusive as
a submarine and reasons as cogent
as a seventy-five centermeter gun, al
ways ready for business, always alert
and always ingratiating.
Have you never stopped to think
what selfishness really is?
Has it never occurred to you that
what you may like to term self-sac
rifice is Selfishness dressed up in one
of his many disguises? For he is
the greatest Masquerader in the world!
Look around you and ask yourself
how many persons you know who ar£
unselfish? How many persons strive
to make others happy and do so at a
cost to themselves?
Would you consider it unselfish If
you were worth a million dollars If
you gave five dollars to a beggar?
Would you consider it unselfish if
you gave up going somewhere to please
a friend when you really did not want
to go?
Tne man who comes home because
he has nowhere else to go is not par
ticularly unselfish. The woman who
never corrects her children is not un
selfish. The child who has learned to
be automatically polite is not unselfish.
I knew a man who earned about forty
dollars a week. He had a host of
friends and he was in continual demand.
Then his wife was taken ill. He gave
up his friends to take care of her and
his children. She was in bed for years
and he had to work hard at his office.
Yet he always saw that the little boys
and girls—there were four In all—had
breakfast with him, and he saw that
they went to school promptly, and he
made it his business that they were
attentive to their mother.
That man was unselfish—he wanted
to see his friends. His wife used to
urge him to see them but he put all
that life aside. How many of us are
like that?
How many of us in a similar case
would have gone on year in and year
out with a smile and no mention of
trouble?
Selfishness knows not sex nor age nor
condition We do not have to read a
Baconian essay to recognize it, even
though it has as many varieties as the
trees of a continent
It is a universal disease with one cure.
The Golden Rule, “Do unto others as
you would have them do unto you,”
when properly applied, is a never failing
panacea for selfishness.
And the best part of it Is it is one of
the few medicines that the patient likes.
It is followed by a certain glow of sat
isfaction that makes the ogre totter in
his stronghold.
You have heard again and again the
remark that "all men ’are selfish,” but
this is a mere sounding phase, no more
true than as if you said that all women
are selfish.
The truth is that most of us have a
lot of little ways that we call tempera
ment, which are really selfishness wear
ing a mask.
You, Mr Husband, are too tired to
go to the theater with your wife, but
not too tired to play bridge with Smith
or Jones. Why? Because you perfer
bridge to the theater—you are selfish.
You. Mrs. Wife, are not too busy to
give your time to charity, but for too.
busy to walk with your own children.
You get no credit for the latter—and
much praise for the former—you are
selfish.
And so it goes—many a man and
many a woman are governed by ulterior
m9<tives in doing apparently unselfish
deeds—they act from selflEhness.
How many times have you been real
ly, truly satisfied with the knowledge
that you have given somethin* of your
self for the happiness of others—con-
terrt that no one should know?
Take the woman who expects every
thing. the woman who must have what
she things is necessary at any cost.
How about selfishness in a case like
this?
There are men working their lives
away for women who require everything
but have nothing to give in return.
They will not give even understanding,
but are content to live like parasites.
Too litle, indeed, is said of the selfish
ness of this kind which is more deadly
than the worst thoughtlessness.
There is too much complaint in this
world and too little frank understanding
among us of each other’s capabilities.
The woman who allows a man to be
really selfish because he fails her in con
stant attendance is admitting her own
fault.
Behind the Bars.
The Sunday was a wet one and <he
was allowed to accomi!>any her parents
to church.
It was her first experience of that
kind.
The minister was of the energetic,
pulpit-thumping type, and he preached
from a rostrum railed in, above the peo
ple.
He excelled himself this day In the
thumping tactics and had worked him
self up to a pitch of high excitement.
Esther vras cowering close to her
mother’s side, and when he reached a
point which he emphasized more than
all the others, she exclaimed, in a
frightened whisper;
“Ma! what would we do if he got
out?"
A Lost Mining Camp.
Silver Mountain, once a famous min
ing camp of Idaho for a few weeks, is
now deserted except for one citizen, a
forest ranger. The deserted town on
the top of Silver Mountain had a mush
roomlike growth thirty years ago. when
an English syndicate decided that the
place had a wonderful mining future.
Money was poured into the enterprise,
and a town and a quartz mill were built.
Altogether it is estimated by pioneers
that $1,500,000 in good money was sunk
in the project The mill ran just ten
days, the “mine’’ gave out. and it was
not long before the place was deserted.
All the Difference.
The wise man, who thought he had
learned all there was to know about
human nature, was airing his knowl
edge.
“Tell me what you and your friends
read,” he boasted widely, “and I will
tell you what you are.”
“Well, what about my wife?” asked
the skeptical man, whose yellow face
spoke of a troublesome digestion.
“She’s forever reading cookery books
and recipes.’’
The wise man smiled, with a look
of “how-easy-everything-is.”
“That’s simple,” he said, decidedly.
“She’s a cook.
“No," the other corrected, sadly, “she
only thinks she is!”
The Lap of Luxury.
“What is meant by the lap of lux
ury?’’ asked a teacher of a class of lit
tle girls.
“Please, ma’am. I know," exclaimed
the smallest of the lot, holding up her
hand.
“Well, what is it, dear?” Inquired
the teacher, kindly.
‘It’s when the cat steals into the
larder and licks the cream off the milk,”
responded the little one.
And the teacher, on reflection, wasn’t
quite sure that her pupil was wrong.
The Right-0
<®> Stories <u>
Broken Hearts Absurd,
* Says the Stenographer.
T
peril."
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tSHPZSIFAIR BA N K~cqmpawVI
“Cottolene makes good cooking better
>9
By DOROTHY DIX.
1E tender passion appears to
be unusually fatal this oea-
son,” observed the Stenogra
pher, giving an additional slick to hor
peeled onion effect coiffure.
“It always is,” agreed the Bookkeeper
sourly, “few that make love escape ma
trimony. It’s as dangerous as playing
with dynamite. But what’s on your
mind Just now?”
“Suicide,” replied the Stenographer*
“every paper that you pick up is full of
accounts of Romeos and Juliets who
have hiked out for the Great Beyond
over the rough-on-rats route, or the
gas express, because he or she got
turned down for some other Jammy
young thing, or love’s young dream
struck some kind of a snag.”
“Well,” exclaJmed the Bookkeeper,
“you’ll never hear of me blowing out my
alleged brains over any female lady girl
person, but all the same it does give a
fellow a grouch to part with his hard-
earned coin trotting a girl around to
theaters and dances and staking her out
to fgeeds, and then for her turn him
down for some skate who is not one-
two-three in the running.”
“Surest thing you know,” assented
the Stenographer, “but it seems to me
that under such circumstances instead
of going into the discard a man should
go out and offer up burnt offerings to
the great god Luck. For if the girl
didn’t appreciate him it shows that she
wasn't the bill of lading he thought she
was.”
“Right-d,” said the Bookkeeper, “and
it’s curious what a slump a girt’s stock
takes after you find out that she prefers
another to you. Before you can say
‘scat’ you flip over from the bull side to
the bear side of her market and wonder
what ever made you fool enough to
think that you wanted her for a perma
nent investment.”
“All that Is wanted to cure the worst
case of blighted affection is twenty-
four hours and a liver pill.” remarked
the Stenographer, “and if these Blighted
Beings would only give themselves that
kind of treatment they would be patting v
themselves on their backs as favorites of
fortune instead of hunting for the prus
sic acid bottle.
“They’d be saying, ’Oh, I’m a Saga
cious Sue. or Wise Willy, to have missed
running my neck into the matrimonial
noose witir a life partner that is such a
bonehead he or she couldn’t appreciate
a good thing like ME when he or she
saw it. Oh, I’m the great original Hon
olulu Hunch! I’m the Darling of the
Gods! You can’t fool ME!’
"Marriage is a con game any way you
look at it,” said the Bookkeeper, gloom
ily. “You never know what you are
getting until you have got It. and then
it’s too late to duck and run.
“Marriage is the great transformation
$ct of the world,” replied the Stenog
rapher. 'Tve seen it turndiving skele
tons into feather beds and roly poly
dumplings into living skeletons. I’ve
seen men who were howling swells be
fore marriage wheeling a baby carriage
after marriage. I’ve seen six-footers,
who could whip their weight in wild
cats. cower before a little two-by-four
piece of femininity to whose apron
string they w’ere tied.
"And I’ve seen a woman fish a thing
out of the gutter and marry it and make
a man of it. And as for dispositions,
nobody living is able to tell whether
matrimony is going to turn a man or
women into a manufactory of the milk
of human kindness or a vinegar fac
tory.
“That’s the reason I wouldn’t worrv
over what I didn’t get,” agreed the
Bookkeeper.
“You never hear of a broken heart
being assigned as a reason for a mar
ried man committing suicide,” said the
Stenographer.
“After a man is married he never has
time to think of his blighted affec
tions,” returned the Bookkeeper, “be
sides. it Isn’t his heart that aches and
has an empty void in it. It’s his
pocket.”
"Did you ever meet an old love whs
had given you the icy mitt in the years
gone by?” inquired the Stenographer,
sentimentally.
“One,” grinned the Bookkeeper.
“What did you do?’’ asked the Ste
nographer.
“I took her husband out and bought
him a drink.” replied the Bookkeeper,
“and then I sent an anonymous dona«
tion to the church as a thanks offering
for having been delivered from great
W:
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