Evening Star Newspaper, December 15, 1929, Page 113

) ETON, D. C., DECEMRER 15, 1929, cnry Prize Stories } atting with the Queen.” going to Wipers,” I says, “to see me 'usband’s name on a memorial.” ‘That stopped her laughing, you might say. And she turned away and I didn't see her again until we got to Calais. Then she come up to me conce more. “Can I help you in any way?" she says. “No, thank you, mum,” I says. “I've got all particulars how to do everything,” I says. She was fiddling with her purse. “If you need any ** she says. But I looked at her. “I got me own money, thank you, mum,” I says. 5 A ycung girl, she was; pretty, but painted, like. I'm afraid I spoke a bit sharp to her and hurt her feelings. She just smiled at me, like; but didn’t say any more. You know, sir—1I was lost, you might say. Everybody was talking that forring language— and I had to depend on meself for everything. I kept looking for the name of the station all the time—nct being able to ask questions, see- ing there was nobody could understand me even if 1 did. I know you'll laugh, sir—but I would never ‘ave got out at Wipers at all if the guard hadn’t pushed me off the train. It was spelled funny, sir; with y's and p's in it; and they kept shouting “Eepees, eepees, eepees.” “It's Wipers I want to go to,” I says to the guard. “That's right,” ’e says. “This is Wipers.” 'E spoke with a forring accent, like. “This 1s Wipers,” e says, “so ycu're all right, madam.” So I started to walk down the street, asking nothing of nobody, but just keeping to meself, you know, sir. And people was staring at me now and then and saying things; only I didn'c take any notice of 'em. Bill, me dear 'usband, used to tell me that 'Wipers was all smashed up to nothing. But I only saw one building in ruins, sir; and that's a fact. Like it had fallen down; only they was eeping it tidy, as you might say, round the edges. Why, sir! Wipers wasn't a patch on ondon—not for ruins, it wasn't. What with em pulling down Regent street and making lterations round Picadilly circus and always pulling up the roads and digging drains and all you'd think the war had been over ‘ere, not pver there. A small place it was, sir. But I must 'ave valked miles—trying to find the memorial Mrs. [Fubbins told me about. I got a blister on me heel, sir: from walking up and down and up nd down. And then—after I had passed it wice or three times—I ’appened to notice the lace. It was a big marble archway, all in hite, sir—with the road going in between, as ou might say. Like Marble Arch, sir—only ewer. And there was wreaths lying all about And when I looked I could see the names— st as Mrs. Gubbins had said. Thousands and ousands of names, sir. And I stood there king at 'em—with me ’'eart fluttering. But it was like looking for a needle in a hay- ack to find me dead 'usband’s name. I was oking for hours, sir; hours and hours. I got ry tired, you might say. Most of 'em was too high for me to read. And walking round and round, you know, sir; till I was fair giddy and my eyes aching like they would pop out of me ‘ead. But God was kind to me, sir. I was ‘aving me last look, just before going back to the rail- way station—when, all of a sudding, I saw it. Down quite low, it was—almost at the bottom. Plain as day, it was. Me ’eart was beating—- Jjust like it used to do when ’e come on leave and I saw him walking down the Victoria plat- form. Just as if ‘e was living, sir. That’s how his name seemed to take me. Pvt. W. Blodgett —it said—Third Battalion, King's Rifles. That was his regiment, you know, sir. Yes, there was his name; under thousands and thousands of others. I got all funny, you might say—sort of see- ing him after all those years. There was a pain in me thrcat, sir. And I climbed up on a ledge and touched his name with me fingers. And it took me back to the nights in our little room—when ‘e’d had a drop too much and I used to try and ease his pain by rubbing me fingers over his forehead and them ridges ’e had. It put me in mind of it—rubbing his name with me fingers. Then a policeman came and ordered me dcwn—and I walked away. I could ‘ardly see where I was going, sir; I was that overcome, like, I ought to ’'ave took it much calmer, I know. But it was as if I'd seen him again—after all that long time. I can't explain it, sir. But it took me awful bad—it did. And I kept on walking till I come to some fields. The country was beautiful, and the corn was growing everywhere, with poppies and daisies and other flowers in it. It wasn’t a bit like what Bill had told me and written about in his letters. Not a bit, sir. I could ‘ardly believe it—to tell you the truth. It didn't seem true there had been a war there—and that Bill was scmewhere—somewhere—in the soil; like Mrs. Gubbins had said. But I was glad, in a way, sir; glad to know e was lying there amongst the corn and flowers “and Boppies. It all seemed so peaceful, like; and “'appy. Everything seemed at rest, you might say; and ’appy. And the thought came to me I'd like to stay there—where 'e was—just to look at the cornfields and be somewhere near him, like. I didn't want to go back to London— to me door-steps and brass knockers, Only I couldn’t speak their language, of course; so I couldn't very well ask anybody for a bit of work—to keep going, you kncw, sir. And I got to crying. I was tired and worn out, like; and me foot was hurting me when I walked. So I just sat down by the roadside, near that corn- field—to rest me feet a bit. And that's how I come to fall asleep, sir—and dream. H, it will make you laugh, sir—to know the dream I had. What with him calling me Lady Wipers and all, when 'e come on leave-- it was that I dreamed of. Me and me 'usband, sir. There ‘e was all dressed up in a frock- eoat and silk 'at, ordering beer for all and every- body. And rich. Plenty of money we had. 'E was Sir Willlam Wipers —and I was Lady . Wipers. And I had that Winter coat I was go- ing to buy—and that tippet—and everything. Feathers in me ’at. Oh, it would make you split your sides, sir—if I was to tell you all of it, Going to see the King, we was—the two of us. And everybody bowing to us. And me and Biil —'e looked 'andsome, sir; in his silk 'at!—driv- ing in a ccach and pair to see the King. And when we got to Buckingham Palace they had the guard out for us and all. And we walked up between ’em, sir—arm-in-arm, if you please. Oh, ’e was lovely to me—in the dream—you might say. Yes, arm-in-arm, sir. And him and the King having a glass of beer together; and me chatting with the Queen. Oh, it was a lovely dream, sor—and I was sorry they woke me up and stopped it. The policeman it was, who woke me. It was getting dark;. twilight, like. And me purse was gone—with all me money in it, and me return ticket and everything. I was frightened, sir— terribly frightened-—not being able to make 'em understand. It was a cruel awakening, as you might say—after me dream. They kept asking me questions and shouting at me and push- ing me about. And I trying to tell 'em that me purse was stole—and that somebody had took it while I was asleep. But it was no gcod, sir. And the policeman took me off to the station, and it was just as bad there. I thought sure they was going to lock me up, sir—and I can't tell you how miser- able I was. But at last they got somebody what could speak English. “I consider I've been insulted,” I says to him, “I came all the way from London to see me 'us- band’'s name on the memorial,” I says. “And I got tired and went to sleep near were ’e fell— and somebody has stole me purse. It's all I got left in the world,” I says. Oh, I was real cross with ’em, sir; on my dignity, as you might say; being an English- wceman in a forring country, I knew they'd re- spect me when they found I was English. But I was worried. I didn't know how I was ever to get back 'ome—what with me return ticket in me purse and all. “How much money did you ’ave in your purse?” he says to me. “A lJot,” I says. “About 14 shilling and 5 pence,” I says. “And just you find it for me— or I'll speak to the prime minister of England about it—and then you'll cop it. Me ‘'usband was killed fighting for you,” I says; “and ‘e always told me I owned Wipers as much as any- body-—because he paid for it with his precious blood,” I says. “So I didn't come ‘ere to be kept in a pclice station,” I says. “I come to see where me dear 'usband died.” Oh, I gave 'em a piece of me mind, sir; I can tell you. And then another man came—and ‘e was very nice to me. I think 'e was the mayor or something. Anyway, 'e was most important, like; and everybody was touching their caps to him and all that. So I told him me story— about me purse and everything. And ’e got a return ticket for me and gave me 5 pounds, sir. Oh, 'e was a splendid man for a forringer—and BY LLEWLLYN ‘e introduced me to his wife and all. And they came to the railway station to see me off. .1 could 'ave cried—’e was that kind to me. And when I got to Calais there was a reporter ccme to me. “Are you Lady Wipers?” he says. “That’s none of your business,” I says. “I beg your pardon,” he says. “Perhaps I should 'ave called you Mrs. Blodgett?” “That’'s my name,” I says. “What can I do for you?” A young man, 'e was; and a bit cheeky, like. It seems ’e wanted me to tell him why I thought I owned a bit of Wipers. So I chatted with him until the boat left, and told him about Bill and what 'e meant when ’e used to call me Lady Wipers. He seemed most interested, like. There, sir; I've finished your room—and 1 think it does look a bit better. I 'ope as how I ‘aven’t disturbed you with ycur painting? When I get started, sir—I never stop. That's the worsi of me. Oh, I'm an awful one for talking. Only it was about me getting me name in the papers that started me off, sir. You was away at the time. They was there to meet me-at Folkstone. The reporters, I mean. I didn't know what to make of it, sir. I was sick frcm crossing the Chan- nel——and very upset, you might say, leaving Bill =0 far behind, after seeing him again—touching Wis forehead with me fingers, like. But they kept at me all the time. And the same in London, the minute I arrived at Vic- toria Sta‘ion. Taking me picture and asking such a lot of fcolish questions. I was dazed, you might say; fair bewildered, I was. All sorts of ‘’em come to meet me; and several in silk ‘ts, sir. And they took me to a big hall, and made speeches and everything. It was like a dream, you might say; only I couldn’t understand what they was doing or what it was all about. You see, I wanted to get back to me room—and be alcne, with memories of Bill and the baby. But they kept me there, and asking me questions and making me stand to 'ave me picture took Me 'ead was in a whirl, sir; and suddenly I got quite giddy and fainted in the midst of 'em. Oh, they kept bothering me for days, sir. And Mrs. Gubbins come round to see me and showed me the papers—half a dozen of 'em. And there was me picture, as large as life, sir! “Lady Wipers,” I was called, everywhere. “Lady Wipers” says this; “Lady Wipers” says that. To me, sir, it was all very silly, and I got sick and tired of it. And letters and telegrams— from all over the country. Would you believe me, sir—I got hundreds of telegrams asking me UGHES to do this and thaf, And then some men come and see me—wanting me to go on the stage. Oh, it was comical, sir; fair ccmical. Over 50 pound a week, they offered me. But I wouldn'$ listen to 'em. I thought it was silly—me never having been inside a theater, much less pere ’ formed in one. So I closed me door on ‘em and told 'em to go away and mind their own business and that I wculd mind mine. Yes, the newspapers. I got some of 'em put by, sir—and I'll bring "em round to show you if you are interested. Me picture, and all. Lady Wipers, they called me. Of course, that's long ago now; over three months ago. You was away on the contenink, sir. They've stopped printing things about me now. You know how it is, sir. They like to print a lot about you one minute—and the next minute they go on to something else. That'’s only right, isn't it, sir? People get tired of read< ing about you all the time. As I was saying to my friend Mrs. Gubbins: “Fame!” I says, “is fleeting, like. First it comes ° to this one, then it goes to that one.” You know, sir, they made a lot cf fuss about this young American gentieman what flew over the ocean all by himself. Well, you don’t ’ear much about him now—do you, sir!” “Fame!” ¥ says to Mrs. Gubbins; “it don't last. It's mueh better to act natural, like—and go your own way, quiet and simple.” But I'm better off now, sir. I don't 'ave to do door-steps any more—for a living. I got gentle- men’'s flats to clean now —and I'm satisfied. You know, sir, I 'aven't gct a trouble in the world—except thinking now and then of my poor ’'usband and me baby. But there. 'E’s up in Wipers amocngst all them flowers and poppies —it’s a lovely place for him to be sleeping, sir— where ’e fought and died. So ‘'e’s 'appy, like; in a way of speaking. And I got plenty for me needs—what with his pension and all. Oh, I'm better off than thousands of ’‘em. . That's what I always say to meself. I always try to be thankful for what I've got. And if T can't get a Winter coat this year—well, I'll get it the next. Begging your parding, sir—there's just one' thing I'd like to ask you before I go. I was goe' ing to speak of it yesterday—only I didn't like to—in case you was going to use it for breakfast. It's a bit of bacon, sir—that bit you 'ave in your larder. It's going a bit bad, ycu might say. And I was wondering—if you don’t mean to make use of it, sir—if I could take it 'ome with me. (Copyright, McClure Newspaper Syndicate) Contract Bridge Pointers. Continued from Fijth Page ments. The best card minds of the country are at present occupied in an attempt to evolve a parinership code of contract bidding of such elementary structure as to meet the require- ments not only of the expert but of the aver- age player as well. “Personally, my whole endeavor toward this end has been to reduce the bidding to its few- est working parts. In this endeavor I have re- jected all abstract conventions of whatever na- ture and have accepted only those that directly evidence the quantity of tricks a player offers to deliver if the hand be played at the declara- tion named. A bid is an offer to contract to win the number of odd tricks bid. Consequent- ly a bidding code, simple and therefore logical in its structure, must be one that ties up the quantity held with the quantity bid for. Neces- sarily, such a code cannot contain a double standard, It must be strictly one of a single standard, whether the player who employs it be an expert or a novice. “NOW as to bidding not covered by any con- crete standard. Such bidding, of course, can be handled to advantage only by the ex- pert or advanced player. I must liken such bidding to the golfer who finds his ball behind a tree, directly in line with the green. If the golfer is an expert, he can play such ball with a slice, so that it will curve in its course to- ward the green—a shot wholly beyond the capabilities of any player less expert. So it is in bride. he phrase ‘card sense,’ as common- ly employed, is a misnomer. What players mean by such term is card knowledge, either intuitive or acquired by observation and ex- perience, “‘Card sense,’ in reauty, is the sensing of & situation of which you gan have no positive knowledge. The expert frequently makes a bid or a play that is soundly based on what may be called the ‘intangibles,” the adding together of which portends a favorable situation. Or the expert may refuse to make a standard bid or standard play because of sensing an unfavor- able situation. “It must not be interpreted from the forego- ing that ‘the feel of the table’ has anything to do with the factor of personal equation. While, of course, this factor is ever present, it is by no means the dominant one in close bidding or playing situations. The dominant one is made up of the dozen and one little indications that reveal a possible favorable or unfavorable situa- tion in respect to the distribution of the cards around the table or of the strength or lack of strength held by one’s partner or adversaries. “The keen player, after looking at his cards and bidding or passing as the case may be, will place them face downward on the table and ‘Stop, Look and Listen’ to what goes on around the table. Naturally, different players react differently to their cards. In this respect only has the factor of personal equation any bear- ing upon what is meant by the ‘intangibles,’ or subtle inferences to be sensed. “THE best way to understand what is actual- ly meant by ‘card sense’ is to sit back of an expert and watch what he does with his cards. The expert really plays the exception to the rules more than he does the rules. By this is meant that a player never holds the sas cards twice, or, if this be possible, that the cards outstanding are differently distributedy Hence, if the same hand or situation never pree cisely recurs, it follows that any particular hand must be either a plus or minus quantity from that given in a text book as a basic exampley “From this it becomes clear that if the pare ticular hand held be more than slightly plus or minus, it becomes more or less an exception to the rule set forth and exemplified in the text book. It is in the realization of these subtle exceptions that the expert really shines, “For instance, a woman who sat behind one of our greatest players during am evening’s play, when asked what she had learned, said she had learned how little one actually needs to hold to bid. Another player who sat behind this same expert during another session of play, when asked this same question, said that she considered the expert the most conservae tive bidder she had ever seen. The conclusion is inevitable that in the first case the expert" sensed favorable conditions, with no more than average cards, whereas in the second case he sensed unfavorable situations, with more than’ average cards.” a In minimizing the power of the big hand;” Mr. Whitehead said: “What all bridge players should know is that the outcome of the occasional big hand means’ nothing. Where the good player wins is on the average hand, and not in gambling on the overflowing ones. The thing that counts is the. rbliity to make the best of the average rum of uck.” After digesting this sagacious advice by one of the world's greatest bridge experts, how about dispensing with the post mortems and :o!l" blithely on with the game? (Copyright, 1929.) New Canning Method. COOKED food canning and oold-pac’g methods have had their day in food precers vation. Now frozen pack steps forward to make its bid for popular approval. The Federal Gov< ernment experts packed 10,000 cans of varfous fruits and vegetables in the raw stat: d the past season amd then subjected them freezing to see what, if any, effcct th: ne canning method may have on preserving t fresh fruit and vegetable flavors, The muterhl‘ packed is sealed in cans or waxed paper cone. tainers in vacuum, and then, after being sube. jected to the freezing, is placed in cold storage’ until ready for us>. EJ Freexer-Tu rnizg Banishedy HAT bano of the 1.__:2 ice ecream maker, tha. turning cf the freezer, need take no more joy from th2 froz:n dessert, if directions per=, fected by the Bureau of Home Economics are, carried out. A whole new recipe book, covering’ the manufacture of mousses and parfaits, has, been prepared for use where stirring of the. mixture is not desired. The new recipes will, work either in freezers or in mechanical refrige erators. The r:cizes are available to the publie.” W