Evening Star Newspaper, September 8, 1929, Page 102

..!2.‘~ - - e 8 e THE SUNDAY STAR, WASHANGTON, B. €, SEPT 8. 1929, — GULF STREAM - DOW S An Exceptional Story, Proving It P-Zlys to Believe What You Hear, and That Some- | times Things Are Exactly What They Seem. By Joseph Faus AMMY SIKES was a very discerning man. He could discern a shapely leg a block away. He averred the inter- est was purely professional—he was a hosiery saiesman. Now he was staring profassionally out of the dining room down the hallway, where at the front door two people were talking. “Sufferers of Sharecrest,” he announced to his fellow diners, “we are about to entertain another sap. It looks like Great Garbo herself, except the hose isn't chiffony enough. Listen.” And several did. . Mrs. Callahan, the fat, middle-aged propri¢- tress, was speaking in persuasive accents. “Oceanside is terribly crowded in Summer, and you come just in time. I got two ‘vacant and you can have ycur choice. See, the ocean is just a block down that way, that's why I call my place Shorecrest. I keep it spick and span; there's a private bath to every room, and I set a fine table.” “How much a week?” interrogated a timid girlish veice, clear and sweet. “Only $30,” replied the landlady. “Thirty dollars!” gasped the dulcet voice. “I'm—I'm afraid I can't afford to pay that much.” ¢ “If you want to stay all of August,” tem- porized Mrs. ban suavely, “I can make it $100, in advance.” There was a moment’s pause. Then: “I—I guess 50. I have to be back at work the 1st of September, anyway.” Five minutes later the landlady unctuously introduced the new boarder to the assembled diners. “Miss Murray,” she said, “meet Mr. Luter and his wife, Miss Marshby, Mr. Gins- barg and Mr. Sikes. Folks, meet Miss Murray. She's down from New York, like you all, to vest up and have a good time on her vaca- tion.” THR‘I all bowed politely except Sammy Sikes. He bowed gallantly. “Miss Murray,” he said, “I don’t see how Ziegfeld overlooked you. Pardon my stare, but you remind me of the one and only morning star, Mount Shasta in Winter, Tahiti Beach in Summer and cherry blossoms in Spring.” «&he new boarder—blue-eyed, demure and dainty — blushed and dimpled. “You have traveled a lot, I see, Mr. Sikes,” she said, sitting down. “So have these peas,” he rejoined. “Have some. There’s plenty more in the cans. Have you anything in particular to do tonight?” Before the beauty from The Bronx, palpably flustered, could answer, the doorbell rang and Mrs. Callahan responded to its summons. “Sufferers of Shorecrest,” announced ihe self- appointed announcer, as an ingratisting mascu- To the amazement of dignified clerks in the office Arnold pulled Evelyn gently into his lap. line voice came from the hallway, “we are _ about to entertain another sap. We——" But Mr. Luter—he was a plumbing contrac- tor—interferred, as the new girl looked up, startled. “Mr. Sikes,” he explained, “is just funning, Miss Murray. Mrs. Callahan and her boarding house are really fine. It's nice here. We are in the middle of everything.” “But nothing’s in our middle,” asserverated Sammy brightly. “He’s always hungry,” whispered Miss Marsh- by, an old maid schoolmarm, to the rather embarrassed girl. “He works—his tongue so much.” Before Mr. Sikes could work up more appe- tite, Mrs. Callahan entered, escorting a young man—tall, clear-eyed and handsome. His name was Neil P. Arnold; he was also from New York, down for a Summer’s tan. “Now,” proclaimed the proprietress, giving the newcomer a chair, “we are all one happy family. Every room is full, thank goodness.” “But not the roomers,” contended the irre- pressible hosiery clerk. “What’s for dessert, Mrs. Callahan?” THE latest arrival seemed to be favorably impressed with the next to the latest ar- rival. An aura of content settled over him and he neglected his steak surreptitiously to observe her. Miss Murray kept her lovely eyes discreetly lowered and remarked, some moments later at a query from Mr. Ginsberg, that she was sure she would like Oceanside. She said, further urged, she had never been in swimming in the ocean in all her life. She explained, flushingly, this'was due to the fact she could spare no time from her work, which was stenographic. She was, it seemed, very ambitious and studied at nights—and books cost money. The handsome young man spoke up. “Mrs, Callahan,” he stated sincerely, “if I may say so, this salad is excellent. I've never tasted better,” he added a trifle absently, “even at the Biltmore.” “You work in the Biltmore Hotel?” inquired Miss Marshby sociably. At the question Mr. Arnold exhibited sur- prise, then dismay; he colored. “Oh, no,” he replied haltingly. “I—I work in a broker's office.” Mr. Luter remarked casually, to the table at large, that he had a friend who worked in a broker’s office in Wall street and got $200 a month and had a flat in Jersey. Mr. Luter turned red as he tardily realized they might think he was left-handedly saying a fellow who worked in a broker’s office could not afford to dine at the Biltmore. He made matters worse by confusedly adding that his friend was quite thrifty. Miss Marshby tactlessly asked Miss Murray if she didn’t think young folk nowadays need- ed to learn what frugality meant. “I think,” reluctantly murmured the pretty girl, evading the eyes of Mr. Arnold, “that a person ought to save when he is young. It shows, well, character.” Speaking of showing things, cut in Sammy, he offered to show Miss Murray the moon from the beach and she, to somebody’s chagrin, gra- ciously accepted the invitation. At 11 she and Sammy returned from the luna sightseeing trip. It had evidently given Mr. Sikes an appetite, for at the door he ex- plained he might go down to the boardwalk to get a hamburger—he always like a nibble be- fore joining Morpheus. As Miss Murray started for the hall, a figure arose from a chair in the shadows and the pleasant voice of Mr. Arnold begged: “Oh, please don’t go in yet, Miss Murray. The night is so beautiful. Won't you give me the pleasure of your company for a little while?” It was a nice speech, thought the girl. It would have done justice to an Alexandre Du- mas’ hero, she decided. So she sank into a rccker he brought forward, and in the moon's beams her profile made a fascinating picture. “You remind me of a painting of a Wat- teau shepherdess,” enthused the man, “that I once saw in Paris. I almost bought it.” “You did?” responded Miss Murray a bit coldly. “I thought a Watteau canvas was priceless.” “Pardon me?” said Mr. Arnold, courteously. “Oh, pardon me!” cried she, contritely. “Forgive me! That was rude! I don't know what made me say it.” But she did know what made her say it. It was begat of her disappointment that Mr. Ar- nold, so handsome and boyish, uttered evident untruths and exaggerations. He really didn’t look like the kind of fellow who would stoop to lies to impress a girl. But if he could af- ford travel and priceless pictures, why did he spend his vacation at an average place like Mrs. Callahan’s? “LE.‘I"S change the subject,” offered Mr. Arnold. “I was just thinking of an old song, with one word transposed. ‘Down By the Old Gulf Stream, Where I First Met You, With Your Eyes So Blue,” and so forth, et cetera. Do you remember it?" “I remember all except the et cetera part,” she teased. “But which girl are you talking about?” “Which girl!” exclaimed the young man. “Which girl! Why, I haven't met any girl in Oceanside except you.” “I thought,” weakly rebutted she, “you might have been speaking of Miss Marshby.” “Little girls shouldn't tell fibs,” he scolded, and then hitched his chair closer to the lovely fibber. They became close friends, all right. In time they deserted the chairs — this was several wecks later—and moved to a settee in the cor- ner. She let him put his arm on the settee’s back. She let him, eventually, put his arm on her shoulders. And one night she let him kiss her. “It's the only time you can,” she explained, with a pathetic choke in her luscious voice. “Because we haven't much time to be together. You will go one way, and I will go another. We may never meet again.” “Who said so?” he asked indignantly im- polite, “New York is big, but taxis are fast.” “Taxis!” she ejaculated. “Oh, Neil, you will talk so expensive! I don't see why you want to be a spendthrift. A clerk in a broker's office can't afford taxis., He ought to stick to the ‘L's’ and subways.” ’I‘HEN she lectured him on deceit and econo- mics. Mrs. Luter had warned her that many young men, in vacation time, were not what they seemed. There were hundreds of John Barrymores, Scott Fitzgeralds and Cor- nelius Vanderbilts in such resorts as Oceanside, Miami and Colorado Springs—but when back of the barbet chairs and counters they were just plain Harry Smiths and Tommy Browns. Also, she was aware of the poetic fact that when a beggar’s on horseback he likes to make believe he’s a prince. Therefore, she, Miss Murray, would really think more of Mr. Ar- nold if he would stop giving people the im=- pressicn he was a big financier—she'd like him considerably better if he would admit to his 40 or 50 per week. Then, while on the subject, she might just as well say she wished he would be more sav- ing. She had refused to let him buy her that silk beach paracol because it cost entirely too much. She didn't like, moreover, for him to take her to the roof dancing places because the park-plan places along the boardwalk were much cheaper, and his dollars thus saved would come in handy some rainy day. [ ‘RAINY day!"" he repeated. “After know= ing you, honey, I'll never have a rainy day—they'll all be sunny and happy. For I'm going to be, I want to be, with you always. I love you, Evelyn! You're my dream-girl— you're beautiful, practical, ambitious, learned and sweet. I want to care for you. You'll never have to slave again—you'll want foF nothing. Will you marry me, darling?” The girl gazed at him slowly and deliber- ately. “Neil,” she said, “I do love you. No! No! Stay away! I won't marry you unless you tell the real truth about yourself.” “Nothing’s easier,” he rejoined laughingly. “My name is Neil P. Arnold. I have a broker- age business in Wall street. I'm rated a mil- lionaire. I have three cars, a yaght, a home an Riverside drive, and pretty soon I'll have the loveliest, sweetest, darlingest wife in the world.” “You are a bit premature,” wearily demurred Evelyn, arising. All too obviously she was tragically disappointed in Neil P. Amold, a gentleman, who, at such disappointment, be- came too distraught even to argue. And the evening was ended. THE next afternoon, apathetically, they went swimming. Evelyn was an eyeful in her suit—bathers ecstatically hummed, “Oh, the See, the Beautiful, Beautiful See!"—and an elderly Englishman moved closer to get two eyefuls. Observing him, Evelyn’s companion, with a glad cry, rushed forward and grasped the person by the arm. “Here, Evelyn,” he rhapsodied, “is proof— visible and indisputable! Hello, Parks, old boy! Parks has been my valet, Evelyn, for three years. Tell her, Parks!" The Englishman, however, frowningly pulled loose his arm. “Sir,” he retorted frigidly, “you have evidently made a mistake. I do not know you.” And a moment later he was lost in the throng. Evelyn locked drearily at her young man, who gnashed his molars. “As soon as I g2t on my clothes,” he pronounced, tight-lipped, “I'm going to wire for identification to my chum, at the Lotus Club, and to my banker for $100,000, and maybe that will prove I am genuine.” That evening at dinner, Mrs. Callahan wad- dled in with two telegrams for Mr. Arnold, who triumphantly handed them, unopened, to Miss Murray. The lady slit the flaps and with no surprise read: “This bank has no account in your name,” and “Telegrams from - Neil P. Arnold to Jay Desmond, Lotus Club, New York, re- fused. Oceanside office.” She returned them to Mr. Arnold, who perused them with osten- sible astonishment. His face reddened, his eyes flashed, and a grim line came to his mouth. “I hope it isn't bad news,” commiserated Mrs. Luter. “Telegrams mean death to me.” “They could be bills for his suite at the Bilt- more,” offered the hosiery salesman. “You shut up!” flared the ladylike Miss Mur- ray desperately. “It—it 'is bad news.” And she rushed, sobbing, from the room. “I can't explain it,” anguished the broker, or bum, the ensuing morning when after énuch effort he had cornered sullen Miss Murray. “I could swear I am sane. There's a ghastly mis- take somewhere. I need fresh air. Let’s go for a walk. Please!” HE looked so sad they went down to look at the sad sea waves, and they derived a sad sort of comfort from them. “Hello, Arnold!” abruptly boomed a deep bass voice back of them, and Arnold turned to meet, with incredulous joy, the jocose gaze of a stout, elderly gentleman. “It's Sloan—Jasper Sloan, head of the big investment company! Belongs to my golf club,” he whispered to Evelyn. “Now you'll be convinced!” “Hello, Arnoid,” repeated the other jovially. “Loafing as usual, I see. Say, how about that five-spot you owe me?” “Sure, Mr. Sloan, sure!” smiled the young man. “I'll give you a check.” “Check!” roared Mr. Sloan. “Your check is no good! Say, you're always broke, young man. You better start to saving. Mail me a cashier’s check Christmas,” and away he went. The following day, not especially sunshiny, was the last in August. Vacation, for two, was ended; the warm Gulf Stream, for two, had turned cold; the future, black. The prince was a pauper and the princess was terribly dis- illusioned. “Once in New York,” grimly promised Mr. Arnold, on the seat beside her in the train, Continued on Eighteenth Page | i i) | { 1