Evening Star Newspaper, September 8, 1929, Page 93

growing vaster, crowding out the world, burst- ing across the beaten brain—obliterating, en- gulfing the shivering soul in its moment of supreme surrender . . . The News Weekly began with the President, Sam Browne belts and Civil Service eyes in his background. After that, a blur of racing motor cycles somewhere in the West. After that, babies in flower-decked floats at Atlantic City. “Best part of the show,” said Howard, hunch- ing himself lower in the seat. i “Hello,” he said suddenly. “Look at that— will you? These people work fast. Only hap- pened yesterday—about 5 o'clock.” Malou answered him—to her own incredu- lous ears, she answered him. “How could they get it—so soon?” “Says the photographer got there just as it happened,” said Howard. “What a mess!” What a mess—for Malou to look on. “Poor devil!” said Howard. Poor devil. That was Eddie. Somewhere— there before her eyes, under twisted agonies of fuselage and wing. A wisp of smoke wavered up into clear air. Men stood about gaping. Moved here and there—pointed. Eddie—some- where under that! Eddie's teasing smile—the sudden heart-breaking sweetness of his mouth when he left off smiling and his eyes began to shine. His splendid strong proud body . . . Eddie! “What's the matter?” asked Howard. “Don’t like to look at it? . ., . I don’t blame you— makes me a bit sick, myself!” He added pro- foundly. “I tell you-——this flying game’s not any too safe, yet!"” “Safe!” said Malou. She could speak—a thia sound, small but piercing. “You don't know what they're like,” she said, “—men that fly! They don't care about playing safe—they know better.” Howard looked vaguely startled, Was her voice as strange to him as to her? “Of coursc—gcot to have your nerve with you —at a time like that,” said Howard seriously. “When haven't you?” said Malou. “I didn't quite hear you, honey,” said How- ard. “Well—what d'ye think of that for a back-hander! Well played, feller!” AGAINST a background of well filled stands, the Army and the Argentine, at polo. Ponies with stifly wrapped tails—mallets whip- ping the air—a leaping ball, a maelstrom of horse-and-man flesh. No more broken plane, no more curious, horrified spectators—no more Eddie! Gone—like a spark up a chimney! Had she seen the thing at all? “Howard—I think I shall have to run along,” said Malou abruptly. She felt that another mo= ment of Howard's shoulder against her own, Howard's pleasant, slightly husky voice at her ear and the scream at the back of her throat would tear its way out. “This has been simply too nice,” she said, “‘but—I'm afraid I must——" Waiting for the taxi, Howard slipped his fingers around her arm. “When am I going to &ee you again?” he demanded. “Who knows?" said Malou. “I'll give you a ring, in the morning.” She nodded, smiling. She could hear the telephone calling shrilly beside her bed—calling —stopping—calling. Howard was persistent, When operator assured him the line was busy, he would merely try again 5 minutes hter: When he was told the line was out of order, he would have it reported. Eventually there would be some one at Malou's door. Howard, as well as another, “If you like!” said she to him sweetly. _As her taxi slid away from the curb, she put her ungloved fingers to her cheek. Burn- ing cheek—icy fingers. She had given the driver the name of the hotel where she was to have tea with Allan Hayward. “If you're in a hurry, lady,” said the driver, “we'd better swing over to Sixth.” “No,” said Malou, “I'd rather you took the Avenue.” Sh> and Eddie had walked miles and miles —ridden miles more—upon that avenue. She thought she'd like one more look. He had had a terrible old gray hat that he wouldn’t give up. He wore the brim pulled down over his eyes. She could see the line of the gray hat-brim, but not the eyes beneath it. Was it always like this when some one—was killed? Taken away from you—all at once? No hope—and no come-back. Did other women suffer like this, trying to tear through invisible veils to get back to where love was? Low visi- bility, Eddie would have called it. . . . Every hour of that day had hung a thicker fog be- tween them. “People,” she thought. . . . “That's what does it! Once I'm away from people—and things—utterly away from them——" She realized as she went up the steps of the high gray-stone building that her knees were shaking. She slipped into the dressing room and powdered her nose, made up her lips. In the mirrory she seemed much the same. Eyes a bit shadowy, perhaps. In a second shading, she made her lips redder. Allan was sitting in a high-backed Floren- tine chair, regarding with a thoughtful scowl a tall silver vase of roses and calla lilies. He looked handsome and sulky; he looked like the pictures of Marechal Junot. When he caught sight of Malou, he jumped to his feet. He had her hand in his—warm and hard—before she could do more than lift a questioning eyebrow. “You're late!” he said. “Four minutes and & hali.” Across the litile table where they settled down for tea, he stared at her frankly. “Look here,” said Allan, forcing her eyes with his, “I want you to tell me, Malou—aren’t you getting pretty tired of this movie thing? Aren’t you almos: ready to come back—with me?” HE didn't know her—and he did love her. That was a fire at which at least she could warm herself, whose flames at least she could see. With Eddie gone—gone so far, and so fast and so deep. . . She was alone— that’s what she was! Nobody knew—nobody saw—nobody heard. They saw a smile; they heard a voice; but it wasn’t Malou, Perhaps, if life without Eddie were going to be like that—she'd better listen to Allan. He'd never know—any moré than the rest of the world. And he might—give her peace. What else—— Over the shallow brittle sounds of teacups THE SUNDAY STAR, WASHINGTON, D. C, SEPTEMBER 8§, 1929. She sat quietly, the paper on her knees, secing nothing. and spoons and women chattering, a violin cried sharply, caressing. “Malou,” said Allan, “this is a horrible place - to say it—but, darling—aren’t you going to marry me? You know that's why I'm here.” “Yes, I know,” said Malou, “Aren’t you going to let me give you——" “Sorry,” said Malou. “Allan—I am so sorry!” She was so sorry—and then she upset her glass of water in the sudden start she gave, in- terrupting him. And that mercifully created a diversion not to be ignored. She had heard “Tristan and Isolde” once with Eddie—and at the part in which the violin had just now spoken to her. Eddie had whispered in her ear: “This Wagner guy had our number, kid.” The violin, of course, coming at that moment, made Allan quite impossible. Malou got away within a difficult quarter of an hour, and by dint of considerable insistence she got away alone. She said she was tired. He put her in a taxi and shé went home. When he said good-by he kissed her hand. His ‘lips were warm. The top of his head was dark and smooth. She forgot he was alive before the taxi had gone a block. Her soul ran ahead of her all the way home—crying. But once inside her own door—with the door locked between her apd people and things—her soul stopped crying and began to make plans, with efficiency. “After six,” it said, “and nearly dark. There’ll be nobody now—coming in.” She put away her coat and hat. She ‘pulled the dead blooms from a jar of coral and cream gladiolas which stood on a table in her lving room. She straightened books on the same table. She picked a thread off the rug before the fireplace. A “This,” she thought to herself, “is what is known as setting your house in order. Funny! Phrases like that really mean something!” She took the glass from her washstand in the bathroom and poured the 12 tablets into it—filled the glass half-full of water—set it down upon the little table beside her bed— switched on the slim-stemmed lamp with the flame-colored shade—turned down the sheets and got in between them. Tomato Canning Process IT TAKES just about fifteen minutes from the time a basket of tomatoes enters a cannery until it is about twelve cans of tomatoes. The process of canning is simple and fast, yet the results are as sanitary and as thorough as the former product of hours of labor expended by the housewife, : . When the tomatoes are received, they are placed on a conveyor which carries them through a steamer providing the necessary heat to loosen the skins. From the steamer they are placed in flat pans which are set on an endless belt passing in an oval before two lines of peelers. These peelers, women and girls, cut off the stem ends of the tomatoes and peel the skin from the rest, place them in pails, each bearing a number tag identifying the peeler. By means of the numbers, it is possible to check up on any careless work. The pails are placed upon the same con- veyor as the pans of steamed tomatoes. When they reach the filling machine, two men dump a pail on a short belt which runs to the filling hopper. As the tomatoes are spread out flat in front of them, they watch for imperfections, or skins and tops which may have been drop- ped in the pails. The filling machine has a drain provided which takes away the juices to a separate reservoir from that to which the meats are carried. Two cans at a time are passed through the filler and are fed from long carriers extending up to the second floor, where the empty cans are stored. Each can first receives a small amount of juice, just enough to provide for a liquid in which to cook the meats and then receive their quota of meats. The liquid and the pulps are both hot, driving all the cold air from the can and preventing the development of swells after the cans are capped. The capping process, like the feeding of the cans, is automatic. After the cans have been filled and capped, they run along a conveyor track until they drop on an endless belt which passes slowly through the cooker, which cooks each can for eight and a half minutes, the longest unit of time consumed in the entire process. After emerging from the cooker, the cans are car- ried along a runway to the packing rooms, where they are packed in cases, later to be re- run through a labeling machine after they have cooled. The girls working in the plant at the peeling table are paid by piece work, and because of this, the direction of the conveyor is reversed every hour. The girls naturally pick the best appearing tomatoes as the conveyor comes their way, and, in order to insure fairness, the bel$ is reversed to give both sides an even chance at first choice. There is little waste in the process of can- ning, else it would be almost impossible to sell the product at the low price at which it is offered. The peeling of the tomatoes results in little loss of meat and the tops are cut closely enough to keep the loss down to the minimum. It 1s only in the juices that much loss is sus- tained. All the excess juice over that required to cook the tomatoes is allowed to run away and even thaf is now being canned and sold as juice. Uses of Sweet Potato A CATALOGUING of the uses of the sweet potato sounds as though the writer had stolen a few of the glowing paragraphs from a patent medicine advertisement. To begin with, they are highly valuable in their regular form as human food, and the cattle will take any left over with a bovine thank you for the tasty dish. They may be made into a sirup which is said to produce a very superior taffy. When cut into small particles and properly toasted until thoroughly carameled they make a fair substitute for chocolate in the flavoring of ice cream and covering of candies. Or if you are avoiding sugars, they will produce a very fine vinegar and can be used as a source of starch. 4 % Then, leaving food for a time, they can be used to produce a number of dies and have also been found successful in the production of a roofing paint. They have even been employed to mend rubber, and have made good on the job. They will yield up to 100 bushels an acre, and at the average price of 80 cents a bushel bring in $80, which is not so bad when com- pared with corn and wheat yield. . T'rained Ones? “Where art thou going, sweet thing?"” “To the 200.” “And what for?” “My mother told me to buy some Christmas seals.” has it, Eddie?” For a moment she lay just so—with hat & arms behind her head—with her eyes shut. £° : She thought: “Today hasn't been so mfl-—- She thought: “There would be years and years of ot.ut:: days—just like it—until I'm an' old woman, maybe. Just my luck to live thal ; VE stories. down, the world lay very. still. Small sounds came up—no mofe _ at most than an inchoate grumble and sigh. 1t had been such a beautiful world—once, long ago. Now—it was dead as the moon. : She sat up in bed, pushed her hair from her eyes. Life seemed at its lowest ebb in ker, She had courage left for drinking . . . but ne more. She picked up the glass, smelled it, held it oft and looked at it. A With the rim at her lips, she remembered one thing more. *“Some focl might call me— I'll leave the receiver off.” As she touched the telephone, it rang, startling her violently. Before she thought, she spoke: “Hello?” She had to set the glass down, then, and see it out. “Hello,” she said again coldly, tired beyond any tiredness her body had ever known. “Hello,” said a man’s voice quickly. are you, Miss Carlin?” If it had only been “Is that Miss Carlin?" or “May I speak to Miss Carlin?” But, “How. are you, Miss Carlin"—she could not deny, that she was there. i Also, the habit of courtesy defeated her. ° “Who is this?” she asked involuntarily. Even to herself she did not sound too different from the Malou who habitually inquired of unex- pected voices over the telephone: "whp is this?” “This is Herbert Ajken—hope I haven’t dis- “How turbed you.” . “Not in the least, Mr. Aiken.” A touch of hysteria made spzech easy. Aiken—Herbert Aiken—she had met the man at one of How- ard’s partiss. His face flashed into her mind —dark, quiet, critical, withdrawn. He had money—he had backed one or two plays—inter- esting, but not too successful. What else had Howard told her about him? What did it matter? If he wanted her to go to dinner with him, or on a party, or any- where else at all, Malou was busy. i She thought with a tight knife-like ache in her throat: “Can't I get away—without this? I've had about enough——" Mr. Aiken was saying: “If youll dine wi‘h us, tonight—he wants very much to meet you.” He must have been talking, and she had mot heard. “I'm sorry,” said Malou. “I'm afraid——" “It is quite impossible, Miss Carlin? You see he goes back to Chicago tomorrow night.” “Who does?”’—wearily. What did she care who went back to Chicago? Then habit mel- lowed her voice, sharpened its dragging in- flections. “I'm sorry—I don't quite under- stand.” He repeatad urgently: “As I have been telling you, the author of the play goes back to Chicago —tomorrow. And I am most anxious for you to meet each other. I am absolutely certain, in my own mind, that you were made for the role. And I understand from Howard West that you'd like to go back to the stage when the picture’s finished.” He was offering her a part—he must be backing another show—he had been talking to Howard. What sort of part was it? What sort of play? Who was the author? Her mind slid into gear, working slowly but with in- creasing clearness. “you are willing—aren't you, Miss Carlin?” “Yes, I'm willing—so far as that goes.” “That's all we want to know—to begin with. Once you've read the play, we won't have to argue about it. It's the sort of part you've never yet had. You know, Miss Carlin, I've felt for. some time that all you needed was the right part. So far you've had nothing but tripe.” A sharp thrust. “That’s true!” said Malou suddenly—and - as sharply. “Well, you'd have it in this,” said Mr. Aiken, with a chuckle. He sounded excited. He sounded incontestably sincere. “It’s a war-play—war-stuff is coming back now— you wait and see! This is a girl whose lover is shot down at the front—while she’s dancing in a night club—in London—and she goes on dancing.” Malou gave a strange cry—her hand over her mouth not quite soon enough. “You see—it'd get you!” said Mr. Aiken, “It got me like a knife—when 1 first read it I thought of you at once—you've got some- thing you've never used yet, Miss Carlin. X caught glimpses of it in your two last parts; you've got a capacity for emotion—violent emo- tion—under. a light-comedy surface—that's very rare—in wcmen.” Malou said slowly, something surging up within her like an incoming tide: : “It does interest me.” She fought that tide vainly; it flooded the farthest reaches of her being, as love had fieoded her—strangely and inscrutably the same blind urge. “Don’t you think you could do that girl?* asked Mr. Aiken eagerly. “I think I could!” said Malou. “Yes, I think I could!” She said: “Where shall I meet you for dinner—and what time?” She hung up the receiver, details completed - —and dropped her head in her hands. “I've got to do it, Eddy,” she whispered huskily. “You know—don’t you? This is my chance!” She thought: “I'm b2traying him. I wasn big enough—for him.” $ But in the moment of her passionate shame and deflance—h= came back to her. His gray mocking eyes, his beloved cocky mouth—she could see him; he was hers in more than the flesh; she could hear him—as if his arms had gone about her bowed white shoulders, as if his cheek had stooped to her disheveled head . . . She heard him—the aching tenderness of his laugh. He said: “Iccp going, kid. You're not —atrey i vy o) A PN RS e ¢