Evening Star Newspaper, September 9, 1928, Page 86

THE SUNDAY STAR. WASHINGTON. D. €. SEPTEMBER 9. 1928—PAR1 A LOBSTERMAN IN LOVE By Royal Brown An Important Decision About Life and Its Sequel. YEBROWS can, of course, bz uset: to express all manner of emotions. So much Pat’s par- ents had discovered, even be- fore Pat returned in June from her freshman year at college. The house, Wwith the sui vigorous personality removel had proved a lonesome place after her de- rture in September, and. they had fallets, during ths Winter, into the habit of going to the movies. To learn there, inevitably. just how much emo- tion an eyebrow can express. Par- ticularly wheh it came to things bet- ter left unsaid. Such as disdain and boredom. ‘And that was what Pat's father had i’ mind when, of a night in late June, he informed Pat's mother thai he had of her ot realized they were spending two | thousand a year to transform Pat into an imitation of a motion-picture ueen, %tqhu come over her, anyway?" emanded irritably. D mr i porch of the Sum- mer cottage they had occupied for yeumrs. Pat’s mother. normally a comely, reconciled 45—both her hair and her gense of humot remained unbebbed— stirred uneastly. “It’s just a phase.” she answered. Nevertheless, she was perturbd her- self. Mors than that, she was defi- nitely worried. As he could not pos- sibly be. For he would never be so silly as to think of student suicide 1'n connection _with fl'PaLt She didn't really, herself. And vet— Tli’is fternoon she had happened on a bit of poetry, perpetrated in Pat's permanshi - Not the vigorous, im- petuous sc:2wl that Pat had taken to college wite hs» but the new, affected msflaflw wi%e Liad resorted to recently. was to Swdy this, rather than to discover what was written, that Jean Exeter had. picked the sheet up. And yead: “Prom too much love of living, From hops and fear st free. We thenk with brief thanksgiving Whatever gods may bs That no lite lives forever. *Fhat dead men. rise up never. *That even the wearicst river Winde somewhere safo to sea. A Summor ago—before Pat had left for college, to return such an utter changeling—her mother would have let it drop with a grimace over its arrant pessimism, but 1o second _disturbing: t. sbsurdly apprehensive. Pat had juch. Could it mean—-— e o n:ud come into the room. Pat of other Summers in so Lithe and slim, a]l_mosb treath-takingly lovely in gay slip-on and scant skirt. Already her bright heir was a bit burned, h revealed the start of the season’s tan. The same Pat, externaily. And Vocal in her likes and dislikes, im- n The suhe many ways. tempestuous. Too cas- pressionable and Ko thrilled by | cited, forcver &Yhel):ld that. But, at least, filled with an unquenchable zest for life. That Thiad been Pat, no longer ago than last . But now— x ’s: charming w“mfe‘\‘ia?}t\fs' vividly alive, had sugges m‘:mrmon. “i5 an intolerable bore " ,” Jean had mur&m’xredihsmg:d, ought you were off for the after- ;‘ow‘ll,‘" Theyl"l, conscious of the bit of poetry she held, m:yvflw this?" 's eyebrows had lifted expressively. + she had commented scornfull “1 only wish I could! It happens to Swinburne—the best thing he ever Jean had. bitten her lip. to me as if he needed sulphur “Oh," say, was too wise for that. Tn- stéad, “Why do you like it so much?” “Because.” Pat had answered, “it so perfectly expressss the futility of life." * ok R N Jm but she hy XN had given her daughter a startled glance. But that Pat had missed. Having spoken her mind, she haé turned to go upstairs to her room. At 3 oclock of a porfect June after- noon. with the ocesn and all outdoors calling her! Pat who, of other Sum- mers, had never spent a minute in- doors when she could possibly be out! ‘What had her year at college donc to| her, anyway? This was_her mother’s thought as she | sat beside Pat’s father. “College would change her some,” she ventured. “We expected that.” His grunt was @s expressive as Pat's eyebrows could have been. “You and I both went to college,” he réminded her pointedly. The silence that followed was broken by the ring of the telephone. That brought Jean to h-r feet. “I&'s probably Wally Durant.’ marked. “He. at least, prove Pat. Anyway—" checked herself. “Long-distanc=>" came Pat’s voice from within. “I'll hold the wire.” A moment, and then, “You're in Bos- ton!” came Pat’s voice, excited at least “Why, how gorgéous! Of course, it would be convenient—an afternoon train? There’s one at 3:10—T1l meot it Ho;‘l“ Iong can you stay? . . . = she re- ‘There she “Whom can she be talking to?" mur- miured Jean. Ths question was immediately an- swéréd by Pat herself. “Thelma Ware phoned," she an- nouricéd. “She’s coming here for a few . Shell be here tomorrow after- | nidor. “OH, how nice!” replied Jean, striv- ing to put enthusiasm into her tone. ‘This was hard, for sheé wasn't so sure it was going to be an unmitigated 4 She had yet to meet Ima, but she had heard a lot about Her daring Pat’s first months in col. . Thelma was a junior and abso- lutely the most miraculous thing. “f can't begin fo describe her to m." Pat's ecstatic pen had informed parents. “But she is tall and very dark. And she has the most thrilling véice and wears the most StUMNiNg | .tarted for the station to meet Pat's) thinge. Her folks have loads of money and she’s béen simply everywhere. “At first 1 thought her terribly cynical. About life, that is. But it is only because shé has read and thought go much that she sees life clearly. Take even things like love, for instance When you stop to think. love is nothing but vanity and selfishness and things like that.” They had been amused by that. It had sounded so like Pat. “She may serve to steady Pat 2 bit.” Pat’s mother had commented They had felt a bit fed up with Pat's fhapsodies as time went on Which was probably why Pat's father re-'s marked: “Why are we so honored? I had an idea that such a superior person could Bot be expected to mix with common clay.” “I'm glad she's coming,” announced Jeanh aoruptly. “It will give Pat some- ;- tuimg to think of besides—herself.” =3¢ Had been about to say ‘As it was, she read it again, | 4 she had added. “D'dl “Tt sounds | Of and | molasses,” was what she had ached to | ms to ap- | Oh, | in“‘cilken pajamas and a coat that was hopeless Jean had yet to discover. But so Pat, no longer bored. but with | unpretenticus Summer cottage warrant- | plicity of the life h> leads isn't th- an- | impulsively offered him her hand. im- ecd the donning of a formal evening |swer to the her voice brittle with nervous patience, informed her. “But. my dear.” protested Jean, never minded before——" | “But she is used to everything.” explained. three maids and a chauffeur. She. Pat | “Docs she think we have a_butl | threc maids and a chauffeur?” Jean suggested dryly. “No, but I don’t think si> expects | anything like this. It's—i’s almost as| bad as the slums. That moth-eaten | | 'Well, we can't be expected to dn‘ | much in the way of interior decorating | even for Thelma, at such noties.” Jean | | had replicd. ! Nevertiieloss Pat tore around and «t | the house until, at a quarter of 3. | | she departed in Jean's coupe to meel Thelma’s train. B¥ then Jean—who had heled re-| move from the walls pictures that | might offend Thelma’s esthetic taste aided in casting out ancient shells and | | other trophtes that Pat herself had | | brought into the house other Summers. {and done innumerable chores she was too wise to exoect Annie. the maid. te | | norform, 211 at the nervous temps Pav'- | blazing activity piiched her to—wanted | | mors than anything else to go to her| | room. draw_the curtains, streteh her- | | self out on her bed and rest for an con | | or_two. | | Instead, she went out into the| | kitchen and broke the news to Annie | | that she must remove but one plate at a time, serve from the left. avd—al- though she did not put it that way— | act as much like a butler and three | meids as possible. | | Then, in her own room, she ‘p]ared herselfl to receive visiting roy- alty. “I don't know whether Pat something out of ‘he social vegister, she informed her mirrer. * What I fee! | like. however, is ‘The Wrcck of the | Hesperus'. | "' Nevertheles, bathed and freshened | sho' was descending the stairs when the | whir of the coupe outside xave her | warning that Pat was back. | “And may Heaven -have mercy on my soul.” she thought. “If it were merely the Prince of Wales or some- body like that!™” From the window at the turn of the | stairs she caught her first gimpse of Thelmz. A ing glimpse, berause her attention was distracred hy Pat— | Pat who was gazing aguizedly at vhe | couve’s rear deck. Jean knew that rear dreck. The lock was temperamental. Sometim~: the key workesd, and sommtimcs it didn't. “Tt's stuck again—with Thelma’s luggage inside.” realized Jeun, with real concern, for she ‘mew thut to Pat thi would be trag=dy. Before she could move. however, & small truck whirred imwo the drive. “Prost live here?” demanded the driver. : “No, three houses down ' replied Pat automatically. And added, hastily. “Do you think you could spen ¢his for me? The lock has stuck.” From the truck’s driving compart- ment & young six-footer twisted hira- self into view. He was bareheoded and more or less rod-headed and. at th~ moment, principally 1ttired in khaki overalls. 0y “T'll take a shot at it, anyway,” he nned. grined nd later he was lifting Thel- | out. Smart l\mpfi | | me’'s luggage braring many foreign labels. It would, course. “PII carry it in for you,” Jzan heard him say. They ceme into the house. “1 want you to meet Thelmu, mother,” said Pat breathlessly. | Thelma ~ said precisely the right thing. In a lovely vo! ever so well bred. And if, in it and i her man- | ner, there was just a hint of con- | descenston, that was o be expected. | Jean reslized. g All this was but tie immression of a moment, however, for the (rio moved upstairs. | Pat was the first to - me a half dollar, 3uick! manded. s | Jean gazed uncomprehendingly for a second. Then, catching her cue, she crosseéd to. the desk, ind, discovering the required coin, slipped it into Pat’s hand just as ihe combination Good Samaritan and porter came down the appear. “Give she com- stafrs. | "“I'm much obliged.” said Pat to him, | cool and very high hat as she offered im the h B S ambed at i, plalnly surprised. | Then, “Youre weleome,” he grinned | and sitpped the coin into his pocket. | “"Tne next instant he was gone. Aad | so was Pat, leaving Jean to go about thie practieal pursuits the occasion de- | manded. She was preparing the hors- | dosuvres. unprecedented in Annie’s ex- | perience, and making sure that dinner would move decorously, if not in the style to which Thelma was accustomed. | * % % % | PRF-SENTLY Pat and her guest came downstairs. Pat in the abbrevi- | ated bathing suit she affected. Theima matched. “Gracious,” thought Jean, “that cos- t of hors may pass without com- | ment on the Lido, but it certainly is | going to give tivs neighbors something %o talk about. I womder if she really | swims." at once, for Pat and Thelma disposed | themseives on the sand. But somewhat | later Jean saw Pat disengage self trom Thelma and plunge quite alone | J¢an surveyed Thelma as she lingered | on the beach, still in pajamas. “Which. | Jean was human enough to comment. if only to herslf, “is probably the better part of valor. That Thrima's distasie for the sea | meant anything to hey personally she did not guess unti, on her return. Thelma took posssseion of the szole “Her family keeps a butier. | moment, was that, even if dinner in an |gown, neither Thelma’'s arms nor | made of them. members of ner who cooed. Evidently Pat's failler saw Thelma differently. “Oh, not at all!” he re- | plied. in a tome that suggasted that Thalma’s coomng was not as distasteful to him' as it was to Jean. ko oW 'HROUGHOUT dinne: Thelma mo- nopoitzed the conversation. Her opinions, of ‘which she obviously thought well, were generously pre- sented for the delectation of all pres- ent, presumably; but it was to Pat's And Jean did hate | father ‘hat the subtle stressing of her |of it?” voicz and what Jean characterized as were directed. And he positively ex- panded. “What can't anything feminine do to any mm thought Jean. Thelma's opinions proved in- formative in one direction at least. When dinner was finished, Jean knew just wherz Pat had derived that trick of using her eycbrows and hor re- vamped opinion of life in general. “She would laugh at ail the things we tried so hard to teach Pat,” Jean told herself. To discuss this with Pat's father would have been a relief. But that, she knew, was impossible. His ego had been subtly inflated—he would regard her views with what he would consider m_sculine tolerance for the inevitable cattishness of one woman where an- @ other was concerned. All that Jean could do was to keep silent—play the role she was plainly cast for. “A combination of Pat's mother, house mistress and—bath stewardess,” she thought wryly, remembering the bathroom. To which, the next morning, she | migitt have added “cook.” as at 10:30 |she assisted in preparing Thelma's breakfast tray, carried up, with a rose on the tray, by Pat. “She never gets up to breakfast at home,” explainzd Pat. “And does one of th~ professors carry her brzakfast up to her at college?” Jean felt like asking. The morning was hot, there was much to do. “We might have lobsters tonight,” suggested Jean to Pat. “Tll ask Thelma if she cares for them,” replied Pat. Theima did, it appeared. An toward noen Thelma—the lat- ter in a slinky, exoctic frock and floppy hat—departed in quest of the crusta- ceans, which the Summer colony bought from Thaxter, a local lobster- man. It was more than an hour later that they returned without the lobsters. “He isn’t going out to his traps until this afternoon,” explained Pat. “And ‘ThHaxter isn’t there any more. It's a new man—the one that opened the back of the coupe for me.” “Oh, you mean that nice-looking youngster,” supplemented Jean. Pat nodded. She ssemed to hesitate, Llil;ll ;d‘&ll, “Thelma thinks he’s hor- ribly faseinating Sort of primitive— and all that.” Jean glanced at her daughter, but Pat’s face told her nothing, as: “We're going out in the boat to see him pull his traps,” Pat added. “What?” gasped Jean. And feeling that her bewilderment needed explana- tion, added. “T'm suvprised that Theima would care for anything like that. Won't the boat be—messy?” “He warned h=r it wculd, and said it would smell to heaven. too,” replied Pat. But she was erazy to go, just the same.” “So it was Th-ima's suggestion.” mused Jear—and wondered what Pat had thought of that. She herself felt a premonitory satisfaction in the thought that Theima looked like a per- son who might be seasick. But when Pat and Thelma returned, it was Pat who looked sick. “pat hated the smell,” Thelma ex- pledned. _ _ “And didn't you mind it?" Jean asked. “Tt was overpowerinz at moments.’ confessed Thelma. “But the sea, thr sky—" She gestured letting it go at that. The young lobsterman’s name Was Pete, it developed. So Thelma referred to him again during dinner. & “Polstoy,” she announced, ‘“wonid have adored him. Existence presents no expressively, BY WILL ROGERS. LL I know is just what I read in ‘the papers, or what I run info as 1 prowl hither and thither. ‘Well, a week or so ago I prowl- ed thither and run into th~ awfullest mess of snakes you ever saw. All my life T have heard of the Hopi snake dance out in Arizona. Weil people and writers are such liars that I dident know but what they was load- ing us about this snake thing. So I grabbed up my two boys who had dor» a bit of snake reading, and we lit oul for the wilds of Arizona. It took place | at a place called Hotivilla, so you not‘c: that the French, and the imitatimg Americans are not the first to use th= word Villa. The Indians called it that A The question was not to be answered | | pathrocm. £he was there when Jcan father after his day in Bosion: she was still thore when Jean returned. And the ba‘hroom door remained closed. even when Annie, saturnine and mis- anthropic. said dinner was reaay. | ““What on earth is she doing?" de- ! manded Jean, of Pat. . “She’s taking a bath.” explained Pat “She's had time enough to take 20, retoriod Jean, annoyed. Before Pat could reply to that, the pathroom door opened and Thelma ap- peared. colerfully arrayed in a gorgeous negligee and—carrying a book! i To Jean that was irrifating. yet she «whooled her voice to politeness as she | d. “Dinner is ready, Miss Vare, when- | ever you are.’ “I shan’t be long," rcplied Thelma ! sweetly—and unconcernediy. | Jean moved toward the bathroom | Humid and scented with bath salts. The towels lay where Thelma had | dropped them. Jean removed them and, feeling the need of being placated her- esides | self, descended to placate Pat’s father | k morbid poetry.” but caught herself in | instead. No sense in worrying him with | that, And, as it turned out. if Pat did not display too much love of living next morning. neither was she ¢isely from hope and fear set free. The cottage was admittedly a shabby At times Jean had felt a fem- affair. inine urge to modernize it with wicker. chintz and cretonne, but she felt she | dressing Pat's father directly. Like most men, he disliked having { meals delzyed unless he happened to be ! the offender himself. He threatened to the ' become audible on that point, and so pre- Jean moved. mn her feminine, mysterious . | way, her wonders to perform. And Thelma, descending, reaped the | reward of her efforts. “I'm so sorry.” she apologized, lnfl- “I've would have Pat’s father to combat. He | kept you waiting, and that is unpardon- bad a preference for sheer comfort ‘That everything about the cottage able, of cdurs Jean's impression of Thelma, at the even hefore it was fashionable. This town is near the oldest town that kuown on this continent and that i- Arobi. That one is just a few mile: away and goes back hundreds of yeal This new village was formed by an chief who moved away from the old on. ! because he was trying to get the ehil- | dren away from the Government schol. But the school followed him up, and | Fraternities are rizh on_his heels. 171 tell you its awful hard to stay | civilized in this Country nowaday: | This old fellow thought he could do . ! with people. but NO the School teacher i and the Bootleggor was right after him, | so his young is just as liable to grow up as big a heathen as the other 110 million wi | h> did have a lot of great custor. is I [ | cars and the radio nailed him. and now | he is as unreliable as his white brother: They sure do hang on to this oid +of the sacred snake dance. You “Oh it 1= fust o | custom | will hear Americans say, | commerctal thing now.” Well I doun: now where they get the idea. I dont ‘know who makes any money out of it The fellow that runs the trading Pos: | there sold the bogs and T some canned salmon and crackers and Sardines. and oh, yes Jim. (thats the younger ele- | ment) he had about a half gallon cc: | of canned Chili Beans, and most of the | ‘other Yoicles beside us brought what thev eat. s0 the Commercial end of as far as I could see was about $1.80. As Jim finished with a whole can of peaches and 1 called it § day by mop- ping up on some canndd green gagzes which 1 hadent seen since the ola th which he has to assoclate | and some wonderful old ideas. But ike | problems to him. I wonder if the sim- uctural overloading that Galten sucgosts the race is suilering “you | shoulders warranted the display she | from.” | “I wonder,” thought Jean, “if you realize how transparent you are, my | | dear, in spite of your casual camou- flags!” Thelma either did not so realize or did | not care. For her study oi the primi- tive male was to bocome a daily af air. At luncheon the next day Jean, yet to | discover that, suggested that Pat take . | hier guest to the country club for golf. “‘Oh, be mereiful!” protested Thelma. | | “Strenucus activity never did appeal to | | me. Whenever I hear anybody say that they played a round of golf in 76. or 38, I always feel tempted to ask, “Wiat “One,” suggested Jean. striving to | the “Aren’t you wonderful!” glances, | keep her voice unedged, “might say thai about anything in life. | “Precissly,” was Thelma's cool reply. | PR | lT was after that that jean discovered Pat and Thelma again were go- | ing out to sea with Pete; later siill | it came home to her that there was never nzed to ask what ecither pianned |to do any afternoon. The answer woule | always have been the same. And it | curred to her that, for all this is an | chapercned age, shie was not without re | sponsibilities. | Finally she spoke to Pat. “I wonder he doesn't find you in th» way.” was her approach to a topic that she felt presented difficulties. “Oh, he and Thelma got along splen- idly. It struck Jean that Pat's voice was a bit flat. She glanced at her daughter. but Pat's face was a mask. Yet these trips in the lobster boat— there had now been four of them in an unbroken sequence—did puzzle her. “He doesn’t suggest Thelma's type or she his,” she ventured, feeling her way. Pat said not a word. Yet th: mas) slipped for a second, and something in her face startled Jean. The child was | jealous, terrifically jealous. Either of | Th=ima’s interest in Pete—that was “1cr | first thought—or—the second came |swiftly on its heels—Pete’s itcrest in ‘Thelma. That, though staggzering to her, wes not so imnessibie. sh> r22 o, | “I rather think I'l get maternal and | eall on the young man myself,” she de- | eided abruptly. | 'This she did after depesiting Pat's morning. }flthfl‘ at the station nes | “T'd like to drop everything and put out to sea myself—eves in a lobster | boat,” she mused ®s sh> came into | sight of the place that had been Thax- ter's. Leaving her car parked outside, she moved towerd ths door and knocked. “Geod morning.” came ar casy voice from behind. Jean turned swiftly to meet the eyes of th: youngster shs sought. And yet ne. quite so much of a youngster as she had thought. Such was h-r immediate reaction to somsthing in his eyes. Her first, impression of him had been hur- |22, "But he was infinitely older than that—even 30 perhaps. “Good morning,” she repled. Their eyes met. Then, “I have been as- sured, “Jean added impulsively, “that Tolstoy would have adored you, because you ars so unspoiled and so much the child of Nature. Somchow. I womder how anybody ever got that impression.” Hz grinn=d at her, quite unabashed by her dircctness. “And why nct?” he demanded. Jean hesitated. Then, mere a lobsterman then I am! assured him. “Oh, but you're wrong," he protested. “I haul a hundred traps a day, and on a good day I come ashore with 50 to 60 pounds. That not only rates me as a perfectly good lobsterman. but runs to jmportant money. I get anywhere from 38 to 52 cents a pound. Figure it your- “You're no sh= ' ver was good at figures—or at riddles,” Jean retorted. ‘“May I ask what you did before you took up lob- stering?” | “Yow most definitely may not,” he | replied coolly, hut his amused cyes re- | moved any siing there might be in that | “Ask me any other question.” “Well, then, why are you lobstering “Bscause I'm none too good at riddles myself,” he retorted. Jean studied him for an instant, but hi; eyes revealed nothing, nor would any amount of questioning yield her more, she realized. Philesophieally. being 45, she accepted that. She was Investigates Matter Himself, as He Doubts Accuracy of Current Reports—White Tourists Crowd Natives—Do the Reptiles Bite? Oolagah Indian Territory days. Tire | Indians could have very easily haie sold seats to the dance on the tops of their houses, for there must have be 25 hundred so-called white people ther=. But there was nothing that cost you o ~ some shda pop and thing, ~outside of ® ot peen nauled truck, the indians if see the dance them- to have it some times its to in on white man in a they ever get to selves will have e when the white folks dont know be held. as lhefiy would just move the roofs of the the Hopf's live in, and the Indians would all be fixed squatted there with th little brood to see the dai h fourists would fust move in front in such numbers that they dident have any more chance of secing what was going on in front than if they hadent been | thars, They go out in the desert days be- | fore and catch these snakes. Then on the day of the dance they bring :hem into the dancing place, a kind of 2a | square between houses on each side. T1 actual space that the white peopie leave to them s about 30 by 50 feet. There {is a little thing like a shock of corn. or a teppee made of green bows, and bushes. and into that an old Indi:n takes a couple of gunny sacks full c\ ' snakes. He stays in there and hand. em out to the dancers as they g0 by | Each dancer carries one snake aromd for three circles, then he puts it down. just turns it loose, and it makes iot the crowd. and there is three Indians that do nothing but cateh the ones | that are turned loose and they let em ' get almost in the crowd before grabbing |'em, and of all the screaming nd hol- i lering. some of these old blue racers go |into the crowd so fast that vhey are |out among the people before the catch- jer can get em. | _Then the dancer goes by fhis little Teepee, and gets another snage He takes it (generally a rattle snake. and some big ones) in his hands and they {all go through the same plan. He puts [the snake’s “neck. about four or five linches back of its head. into his own { mouth. and then he takes his two hands land holds the body of the snake kinder inul straight, he handles it exactly like a Saxaphone. His hands are on the snake in the very same position as one'’s hands on a saxaphone, only its % | fond of any of her family. ried: she had put him down as 20 or 3 little low houses lik2 | nce and the | glad she had come nevertholess and | “Donm't, please, tell either my off- spring or her guest that I've been here.” | she asked. “Particularly not my off- ity “I shan't,” he promised. giving her hand a firm pressure, “And please don't tell either vour offspring or your | guest—partieularly your guest—that | you doubt my authenticity. That would | speil everything.” | | 7“I'm tcmpted to ask why,” smiled " he replied. * o ok | ND with no more than that, Jean | returned home. She drove slowly, | thoughtfully, and arrived to_discover | Pat preparing Thelma's breakfast. Squeezing orange juice while bread | browned in the toaster. Yet not as one who performs a subtly sacred rite. | “Dern!” exclaimed Pat, as Jean en- | tered the kitchen. “That's the second plece of toast that's burned!” She (eaped for ¢he toaster, removed | the smoking slice, and all but hurled | |it toward the sink. Then she haited, ieonstdfl'ed the toast. | TN scrape it—she won't know the | difference,” she announced. There was no rose on the tray that went up to Thelma's room that morn- |irz. But there was a telegram for | Thelma. | 2 I hope it's not bad news,” commented; | Jean. “Oh, her family always wires her—i, they're too busy or lazy to write.” Yet presently there came a wail of! anguish from above. H “Her grandmother has died and she’s} got to go home to the funeral,” ex- plained Pat, reappearing. “Oh, how too bad.” commented Jean. “Was——was she very fond of her grandmother?” “She isn't She— can. “Please don't,” “No,” retorted Pat flatly. she says this world would be a much, more satisfactory place if we were all hatched from eggs and could live as we choose. She’s just sore because she’s | been vamping Pete and has got to go away, just as it's getting interesting. I know her!” “At last.” Jean might have replied, but | wiseiy forbore. | In any event, the abrupt termination 'of the visit was not sheer gain. For there was no question in Jean's mind now that Pat was jealous of Pete’s in- terest in Thelma. Having talked to Pete | herself. Jean could understand what had happened to Pat. Thelma's impending departure pro- vided diversion of sorts, however. At a little afier 11 Pat motored her friend stationward. | Presently Pat returned. She was pre- | necupied and stood with her slim back to her mother, looking at the ncean. “Are you going out with Fety today?"” asked her mother, presently. Pat turned swiftly. And, tough her face might suggest that lifz was a bur- den, it certainly did not suggest it was bore. “No?" she retorted explosively. “I— | T guess Il go for a swim!” | Jean let her go. What could she say? There were certain subjects that she knew could not be discussed with a mere parent. The morning moved on, noon passed, and Annie announced that luncheon was ready beach, but Pat was nowhere in sight. | “Oh, well, lunch would be the least | of her interesis,” assured herself. | “She probbaly has had her swim and | |gone for a long walk. |~ Nevertheless, she had little appetite | somehow. And, after lunchcon, she | found herself glancing out of the win- dow again and again, as she moved around the living room. A sheet of paper lay on the floor. she bent to retrieve iv and, glancing at it, read: “From too much love of living, From hope and fear set free—-" | Jean's first reaction was, “Well, let's | hope that phase has passed.” And then, | a'mest unconscicusly she glanced at | the clock. Half nast two! Where could Pat be Sitting sulkily, in the shade of seme sand-dune, fighting out her battle? So reason assured Jean. Yet she | felt a sickening panic. Supposing— | “She wouldn't—couldn't dream of |such a thing,” Jean assured herself. | “No nermal young person would. Don't | be_ridiculous.” Jean glanced out on the | 7. THE REST OF THE RESCUE WAS NO MORE THAN A BAD DREAM UNTIL, ABRUPTLY, SHE KNEW NOTHING. BUT PRESENTLY RE- VIVING CONSCIOUSNESS INFORMED HER THAT SHE WAS LY G ON A HARD SURFACE THAT SEEMED COMFORTING, IF NOT EX- ACTLY SOFT. giving a casual explanation for her absence— “She certainly wouldn't try to drown herself, anyway--she swims too well for that” Jean remined herself very practically. Yet to Pat, as she had swum steadily out to sea, the thought had become something to play with. Merely to cease swimming, let the sea engulf her and settle—oh, everything! It would be so easy and perhaps some people would be—sorry—— So ran Pat's thoughts—compound part of the pessimism raw youth feels when frustrated and part of the poisonous philosophy that Thelma had filled her with—while, without cessation, her competent crawl carried her further and further offshore; with never a brdckwlrd glance, never thought of the tide. The sun had passed the meridian when, finally, her hard-driven muscles made their protests felt. Pat, stopping to tread water and tighten her bathing cay, glanced shoreward. The coastline was but a dim and distant line. “Gosh!" gasped Pat, incredulous. were wiped away. “I can make it,” she told herself. seeped through her. “If I take it easy and—and don't lose my nerve.” So, setting her teeth, power now. and she had reckoned with- out the tide. At the end of 20 minutes of grim effort Pat faced the truth. She had rot a chance in the world. And, all of a sudden, the world looked ex- ceedingly good to her. “I don’t want to die,” she gasped. A little wave slapped strangled her. A * ok k% IN the living room Pat had character- ized as akin to something in the slums, Jean wes fighting what she as- sured herself was a pure case of nerves. It was nothing new, certainly, for Pat to disappear for ail afternoon. There was no sense pacing around like a cagsd animal. Determinedly. she seated herself and picked up a magazine, but the text failed to focus either her eyes or her thoughts. She no more than turned the pages, glancing at the illustrations. Then her eyes and attention focused. The page before her held half a dozen pictures of notables and amongst them—there was no question of it— was thot of Pete, the pseudo lobster- man. Its inclusion there was explained by the bit of t: t that accompanied it: “He has written two best sellers that have also won the applause of critics. It is rumored that he never plays bridge or poker or takes luncheon with the intelligentsia.” The novelist part of it did not sur- prise Jean so much, but why—why had hor face, Eventually Pat wculd return, She must. Scornful of her mother's worry, | | Peter Wainwright, the novelist, become a lobsterman? SOME OF THESE OLD BLUE RACERS GO INTO THE CROWD. the neck and not the actual nead that | is in the mouth, now we couldent teil }if any got bit or not. If they did they dident let on. { There is one man behind each snake | dancer who don't have a snake. He | looks like he is there to attract the | snakes attention in case he might wani | to bite. He himself is not near enough [ to be bit. So I guess he directs the snake where to bite the other fellow. | Each dancer must have danced viih as many as 10 snakes. ‘ There was about 20 taking part in the whole dance. At the finish they grab up all the snakes and run to th> four corneis of the compas, down over the hill, and turn the snakes loose. If | the white people keep on interfering with the dance, I think they will turn ‘em loose in their automobiles. That will take the snakes to the four corners of the earth. These men rain for this dance. and they fast for days. and then they drink some kind of a bite preventative that makes them very ill afterwards. and that supposed to discharge any poison, then they have a big feast, like our Athletes had during their stay in Amsterdan.. It Is a very impressivg thing There is nothing of the make believe or show angle to it. It is the greatest dramatic religious spectacle in this country. All the Indians are very courteous and obliging While the whites are our usual arrogant But-Inns. It makes a{ | great spectacle for there is hundreds of the Navajoes Indians there. They are the tall lanky horsement type, that live out with their stock all tne fime | and not i villages at all. The Hopi's all live together in towns. The dane> i | to get rain, and before the iast snak was caressed, why it begin to rain. I Just thought suppose our dances were made as an appeal to the divine for | something, and they got what they de- served the varsity drag would b fol- lowed by an earthquake, and the Charleston by maby a famine. (Copyright. 1923. In that second all thoughts of death | fighting off the treacherous panic that she turned |- shoreward. But her stroke had lost ! shoreword, with his back presented to explained, had he been present and In the mood to ex>lain, instead of being at that moment engaged in pulling lob- ster pots offshore. His first and second novels had scored surprisingly. It had all seemed simple. Until, that “You're a bit self-conscious—that's |all,” he had been assured. “Go away, forget about writing and sooner or later you'll feel the urge.” getting away from New York and peo- ple who asked about his next novel ap- pealed to him. A friend had jestingly spoken of Thaxter's shack, and Pete had sur- prised him by buying it without even sceing it. He had had no definite in- | tention then of actually lobstering, but that had proved something to do. He had become, as he had assured Jean, a perfectly good lobsterman. “It provides diversion if not much nourishment for another novel,” he would have admitted had she penctrated his_incognito. Yet this June afternoon as he pulled his traps something was working in him like yeasi. Thelma figured in that and |so did Pat. He felt that something could be done with them both, partic- ularly Pat. From the standpoint, that is, of a novelist s2eking material. different turn. He had glimpsed a bit of glistening orange bobbing in toward shore. He stared at it a second, and then a surprised lobster dropped over- board, to return to his family and off- spring and tell them wild tales. Then siftly Pete threw the clutch in. The boat he had purchased along with Thaxter’s was equipped with a heavy duty engine. Its staccato ex- plosions could hardly be likened to the music of the spheres. To Pat, however, the reports seemed just that. She turned, got another little lapning wave in mouth and eyes, yet managed to cry, “Help—help!” The rest of th> rescue was no more than a bad dream. until abruptly she knew nothing. But presently reviving consciousness informed her that she was lying on a hard surface that seem- ed comforting if not precisely soft. And at the same time to her nose came an unmistakable odor. She opened her eyes and blinked. Then her eyes became round with in- credulity. Having salvaged her from the sea. her rescuer was plainly going ebout his business, which, at the mo- overboard. “Well, I like that!” sh> gasped. “I almest drowned and you don't pay any more attention to me than it—" “I paid considerate attention to you for a few minutes,” he assured her in a tone that matched his hair. “Enough to get you aboard. What wers you doing so far offshore, you little idiot?” “As a matter of fact. you've been fast asleep and—snoring,” he retorted. “Ob- viously taking a sicsta after your swim “I wasn't snoring. 1 never do!" pro- tested Pat, passionately. b “Are you a qualified witness as to what you do ‘when you're asleep?” he demanded. Pat bit her lip. It wasn't just what he said, but the awful way he said it. And th: way he looked at her, too. As if he hated her. “You might.” she suggested, with all the dignity she could command, “at least, have taken me ashore.” “How did I know you wanted to go headed for?” she asked. wide-eyed. “Do you know yourself where you're headed for?” he snapped. “For all I knew you might have been trying to drown yourself. I beileve a lot of half- baked young fools go in strong for that sort of stuff nowadays.” | “If you say I'm hali-baked,” she be- | gan violently, “I'll—" “Doubtless dn_something to prove I'm right,” he conceded. “But what else are you? The trouble with you, and people like you, is that you aren't either good philosophers or good soldiers. You want life to feed your egotism. Life won't, No matter where you turn it has color and drama and movement. It's bigger than you are. You've got to ad- just yourself to it. Fight for your share in the show. You aren't willing to fight. You phrase it differently. I know, but the truth is that—you're yellow. You're He broke off abruptly as Pat made an impetuous move toward the side of the boat. “What do you think you're go- ing to do now?" he demanded, startled “Swim ashore,” Pat flung at him. “I'd much prefer to—to staying here and—and being insulted. I—" She got no further. He gripped her | ishoulders. spun her around. “You sit down there,” he commanded | savagely, and as Pat sat down, he added: “If you so much as stir before | I get you ashore Il spank you., Absolutely. That's what you need, any-| way.” ! HER shoulders tingled from the grip | of his fingers, her eyes blurred with | tears. She hated him. But she dared | not move. He would, she realized, be' just brute enough to keep his promise | The wheel spun in his hands, the boat headed ashore. He was taking her in. That was all she had asked of him And yet— “He—he just wants to be 4 of me now,” thought Pat. And certainly she had every reason to believe that Peter Wainright wanted to be rid of her, and at once. The way he took his pipe from his pocket, filled it, and puffed at it furfously, suggested a man whose patience had snapped. Not th t she had ever eredited him with much. Yet curiously enough, for all that Pete had his eyes so determinedly her, it was Pat he saw and not the shore. She was a darned little fool, he reminded himself. And yet—— At that point something in him seemed to constrict. He tus quite without egsclous volition. “Im orfy,” he began impulsively. “I “It's a long story,” Peter might have | is, he had tried to start a third novel. | This he had doubted mightily, but | Then suddenly his thoughts took a |ha ment, was letting a lobster pot splash | here did you think I was; LR \ really didn't mean half I said, you know. You see, you scared the life out of me. I thought for a moment you were a goner and—-" There he stopped short. To Pat, braced instinctively for fresh onslaught, the unexpected apology had proved the last straw. No use now to try to keep | the swift tears from blurring her vision. But she sought to absolve him from | complicity in her breakdown. “Don’t—don't mind me,” she quaver- |ed. “I'm just—a bit shaken muyself. I—I did think I was a goner, too, and— and I am half-baked. I deserved all you said. I'm—I'm just sorry I was such a bother——" She broke there, but tried desperately | to smile throvgh her tears. And that | finishedPeter. “Bother!” echoed Peter explosively— and shut off the engine. Quite without conscious volition, just what had happened to him—or when or how—he did not pause to consider. But perhaps that, too, went back to what he had said about the color, movement and drama of life. For life is Nature, and Nature, from her own ends, has made certain myste- rious forces omnipotent and inescap- . An oak can spring from t acorn's tiny heart; a colorless cocoon can blossom forth.a butterfly. Something akin to those miracles had ppened to Peter. Unmistakably, “Bother!” he repeated huskily. for: “Why—" He said no more. He merely gather- ed her into his arms while their lips met. Unpremeditated that, but as escapable, as inevitable at Nature had pianned it to be. And so, to them, time and the sun and the sea were not. Even the lobster boat was quite for gotten. It continued, nevertheless, to lay a mile offshore, rolling in a gentle sea. The operator on duty at the Radio Compass Station on th= cliff saw it so, ?;‘m picking up his marin» glass focused em. The operator was a long Texan who called all women “ma'am.” He took onz glance and then put his glasses _own, proving both his tact and innate chivalry, and his humanity as well, by swiftlv reaching for his telephone and calling Pat's mother. ‘This because, half an hour before, Jean had called him on the chance that Pat might have walked up to the cliff. “Ma’am,” he said now in his gentiest drawl, “your daughter is offshore in | that lobster chap’s boat, I reckon.” Jean, for a second, went almost sick | with relisf. Then: “Thank you so |much.” she said. “She was gone so |long I was a bit worried. Are the headed in?" | 'The long Texan hesitated. “I'm not so sure which way thoy're headed,” he admitted then, assure you, ma'am, she's w that—sh= looks downright happ: (Copyrizht. 1923.) China Painting. | JN painting, as in writing, the Japanese | artists hold the brush, which they | use for both vurposes, perpendicularly over the surface to be inscribed or | ornamented. the first and fourth fin- | gers over the two middle oncs. China painting in Japan is conducted |on the co-operative system. Each ar- | tist confines himself to one particul |part of the work. One speci sketches the figures, another the scape and a third the scrolls or ara- besques. The cup, vase, dish or what- ever it may be, is then handed over to the colorists, who also subdivide their labor. one of them doing the scarlet. another the blue and so on, until the master-worker crowns their efforts by adding the gilding either in broad lines ;n.d masses or in multitudes of tiny fots. When one reflects that every one of these touches must be repeated with the minutest accuracy from seven to nine times on the best china. one may gain some idea of the amount of skiil and attention required to produce good Kyoto ware. Then, after all, the whole of this labor may be wasted upon an grg‘cle t;x;t’ sl;ows its flaws only on eing sul tted to the thgnllutamkmw. £ Ao e Japanese artists are paid ac- cording to the class of their vg:rk the gold painter and final critic receiving most. Next ranks the designer, and lowest of all are the colorists, whose work is purely mechanical, though it ;g(;;ires a long and arduous apprentice- The final baking lasts for severa hours. The furnace is fed with lng: of a close-grained wood as hard and heavy as lignum-vitae, which burns slowly and gives a uniform and intense he: The fire is allowed to die out the furnace to cool very gradually, in order that the porcelain may be r;ogefl{y annule;j, The porcelain is ady for removal in 40 hours after has been first placed iu il \m...n 5 Story of Punctuation. IT appears that punctuation mars were first employed by Aristopaaues, the tamous Greek dramatist, who iived centuries before Christ. The system devised by him did not become gener- ally known, and it soon fell into com- )?'l:u geb‘llvlon. It was nearly’ 1.000 s before o “ifnm~ any one made a similar the times of Charles ths C:vee (Charlemagne) two distinguished schor. ars, Alcuin and Warnefrid, again intro- duced punctuation marks, but their Im’r‘; also fell into disuse, e present system of punctuation, as used in all modern lan:ungu. with insignificant variations, was iniroduced in the first half of the sixteenth cen- * tury by the Venetian printer, Aldus Manutius. He is the real father of the punctuation marks—the period, comma, colon, semicolon, exclamation and in- terrcgation marks, apostrophe and in- verted commas. Printers gradually adopted Aldys’ system, which finallv became established throughout Europe. \