The Daily Worker Newspaper, June 25, 1927, Page 10

AN APPOINTMENT AT ONE (Continued from page four.) He eyed her carefully before edging close enough to speak.’ George couldn’t decide whether she was pretty or not, “passable” was his final verdict. That seemed to be about right. Her face had a faint mouselike expression which a receding chin and a prominent row of upper teeth, protruding from her mouth, made more obvious. Her cheeks were coated with a layer of powder, while a steady look, sometimes interchanging with a pathetic ap- peal radiated from her eyes. He continued his sur- veyal, at the same time his glance stripped her, he saw beyond her white dress, and felt a desire to touch her.” George was a baker’s apprentice, whose emotions commuted between “going out with the boys” and a desire to settle down. He was first drawn to Nancy by sheer physical desire, later that gave way te a regulated like. Towards the end of the evening, after they had gone the rounds on a ferris wheel and listened to the band music he was actually beginning to admire her, partly because she was not a “gold digger.” As they played, their talk ran into chan- nels of which both were ignorant but neither cared. For the most part it was confined to an accounting of their experiences. That chance meeting became Nancy’s constant thought. She dreamt, and spoke about it, always repiecing together the entire evening. She recalled how they danced in the pavilion, while thru the window she saw the swirling of a giant merry-go- round. It was the happiest day in her life. She saw themselves once more wading their way thru other couples, while their feet beat rhythmic tattoos to the wailing of a jazz band. Soda bottles, wet straws, fascinating music, hand elasps, all filtered thru her mind. She kept repeat- ing “Georgie, Georgie,” petting each syllable. “Oh you're so dffferent from any other man_ I’ve met, I could just love you to death,” she told him that once and later a million times to herself. “Kid, you're all there,” he chided back, “just nestle closer in my arms while I say I love you.” That simple phrase meant the world to her. She did not stop to question his sincerity, and allowed his hand to explore her soft flesh freely. “When can I see you again,” he whispered. She erept out of his embrace. “Are you sure you want to see me again, after the way I behaved tonight.” Her question was not intended to be convincing. “You bet I do, hon.” “Then call me up Wednesday night.” “Make it in the afternoon, Nance, I work evenings,” he broke in. She consented. “Fine, I'll have tickets for some matinee, then.” Between stifled sobs and kisses they parted. It was now Wednesday the day she was to meet him, and Nancy was at work as bus girl in a West Sist Street coffee pot. She was all upset after learning that she couldn’t take the afternoon off ‘as she planned. Her boss was emphatic. Another girl did not show up that day, and she was needed to take care of the noon day rush. She wondered what _ to do. It was nearing the hour when she should have been in front of the Hippodrome. “George promised to get tickets, I’ve got to meet him—I’ve got to meet him,” she mused as she stepped from table to table clearing off dishes. She was torn between a yearning to meet him, but that would spell the loss of her job, or keeping her job and risk losing George. Both were important to her. She sought a possible escape from this per- plexing predicament, finding none she continued leading dirty dishes into a copper tray and with a wet rag held in the other scrubbed the marble topped tables. Then glancing at a clock and seeing that it was already past one she lapsed into con- jectures, in which she pictured George waiting for her. The thought of it stabbed her, she again looked at the clock and made up her mind to meet him at all costs, ; With a boldness that comes of desperation, she brought her tray into the kitchen, and without tell- é her employer stepped into the tiny dressing room, here she discarded her work-dress for her own. ter powdering her face, she looked thru the partly pened door, and when his back was turned walked tt of the place. The restaurant keeper saw her ve. A loud “Nancy” was all he said. He had a The Foam The foam is the child of the deep rolling wave, The deep rolling wave that takes toll of the brave, 3ut, mother-like, loves ev’ry spray, ev’ry splash Of the foam that is born when waves the winds lash. The foam is as playful as boys on the shore, Who wonder and glee as the breakers come o’er, And, just as they break, with a wild whoop of joy Dash into the foam that just plays like a boy. And just as a boy spreads his spirit abroad, The foam it diffuses itself in the flood, In octopus patterns and marble, I ween, Which are slowly absorbed in sea-salty green. The foam and the boy both get tired of play, So each seeks his rest in his own little way, The boy, with legs weary, on proud mother’s knee, The foam on the breast of the wave of the sea. —DONALD McKILLOP. notion that she would do just such a thing from the way she pleaded to be let off. He shrugged his shoulders and turned his attention to several cus- tomers. Reaching the street Nancy made her way to Sixth Avenue, where she intended to board a down-town car. She moved to the center of the gutter and peered ahead. There was none in sight.’ A stream of traffic forced her back to the sidewalk. She wanted to hail a taxi, when a green painted trolley rolled down the avenue. She stepped aboard, threw a nickel in the coin box, and took a seat. The long benches were half filled with passengers. After riding sev- eral blocks the car stopped to allow cross-town traf- fic to pass, Nancy was worried lest she be late for her appointment. Seconds- stretched in her imag- ination to much longer periods. At last the con- ductor pulled at an overhead cord, and the car pro- ceeded. Nancy kept cupping her fingers until she finally alighted at 44th Street. She crossed the strect, looked around and won- dered. George was nowhere in sight. Her eyes dilated in roving circles about her. She entered the lobby, searched there and returned to the street. A languor spread over her, which soon left her chilled, and accompanying it came a faint giddiness. Meanwhile people poured in from all angles, so many that she could not watcl»them all. She posted herself near the lobby from where she had a clear view. Man after man bought tickets at the silver domed booth, and escorted their lady friends thru the glass doors. Nancy continued to peer into their faces. Several times she thought she saw George approaching, but always a look of disappointment would Sweep her face. She left the lobby and walked over to an adjoin- ing store where she looked at a clock hanging behind the panel of glass. The dials pointed to one-fifty. She sighed a regretful sob. “Geezez, almost an hour late,” she told herself. “I'll bet George left al- ready.” This idea sent a fresh chill down her back, which was augmented by a recollection that the clock where she worked was ten minutes slow. She flushed, and under the influence of this feeling, doubled her efforts to find him. Meanwhile her thoughts revolved around him, as she allowed silent whisperings to toy with ber vag- aries. “Nancy, I love you,” he was saying in her pantomime imaginings. Such thought only confused her still more. She was in a dilemma. Faces of men swept by her in continuous circles. She saw in each one George, George. Her longings were the outcrop- ping of long suppressed desires, yet she persisted to indulge in them. She continued uttering his name, at the same time experiencing a strong hate for society. Her head swirled anc she felt the side- walks slip from under her. . “Oh Georgie, why didn’t you wait, did you doubt I would be here?” she asked, and intermingled that thought with possible calamities that might have befallen him. She thought of the automobiles that may have mangled him, or of the many other acci- dents that could have occurred. “No, it was not that, he wasn’t here at all,” she finally cried. A sad premonition told her that she was fooled, tricked, betrayed once more. The thought of it lacerated her heart. : At two-thirty she decided that it was no use wait- ing any longer. With a discouraged hopelessness she began walking uptown. In a short time she stepped within sight of her place of employment. A feeling of hate gripped her and she decided not to resume work. She bore a grudge against the place, blaming that for her misery. She cast a furtive glance at the dazzling “Coffee Pot” sign, and re- tf¥aced her steps to 6th Avenue where she took an “L” train for home. : In the eating place, sitting on a high stool was a young man. He beckoned to the proprietor. “Say, how about a little service there Bill?” “I’m sorry sir, in a minute, in a minute, you see my girl left me to keep a date with her fellow and I’m short of help. : After a hasty lunch the diner slipped his hand into a pocket to extract some money. Two theatre tickets fell to the floor as-he did so. He stooped duwn, gave the grey pasteboards a curious look and tore them togbits. | HERE COMES NOTHING | We have with us today, tho most of you may not know it, a magazine that stands for nothing, believes in nothing, has no place to go and goes there. Be- cause of this aggregation of facts its has a 75,000 circulation. Ledies and gentlemen it gives me great pleasure to introduce you to our worthy eontemp(t)- orary, The Forum. : The gentleman who discovered halitosis has noth- ing on the business manager of The Forum, The Magazine Without a Mission. This is the way he starts a subscription drive: “Leach,” said the editor of a great metro- politan newspaper, in May 1923, “there is no place for The Forum. There are not ten thous- and people in this country who want to do their own thinking. People want their opinions ready- made,” “Give me five years,” the new Forum editor replied, “and I will find fifty thousand people who want to think for themselves.” It is four years since Mr. Leach became editor of The Forum, and we have found seventy-five thousand readers. Why?—because the public has been generous in welcoming a magazine which actually has no axe to grind. The intelli- gent minority is tired of propaganda, the For- ~ um holds no brief for anyone. It is neither Wet nor Dry: Radical nor Conservative; Catholic nor Protestant; pro-Labor nor pro-Capital. This is a non-partisan magazine of controversy, dedi- cated to the proposition that all sides of every question deserve a hearing. Still, people wonder what to do with second hand liberals! Ernie, the ballroom sheik must think up something new in the way of a prospectus to cap- ‘ture the affections of the superannuated flapper, He must be the Lothario without an ulterior motive, and with the gin they like to touch. The day of the purposeless pioneer has arrived. For those who be- lieve nothing, care for nothing and know nothing the millenium is here. Read the Forum ladies and gentlemen. It will not grow fuzz on an egg, but it is guaranteed not te manicure the roots of your hair,