Evening Star Newspaper, January 19, 1930, Page 91

- ~ Two years went by, and there was still no grandson for Judge Ahearn. He would have liked a grandson, one that he could tell stories to, stories about Fin Ma Coul and Owen Roe O'Neill and Niall of the Nine Hostages and One-eyed Terence O'Ruarc. Stories about his own father—Lord have mercy on him—driving his white horse through Broome street, hol- lering “Char-coal! Char-coal!” Stories that he could whisper, when Knox, sr., wasn't round about, “So when I was a young fellah, John Y. McKane himself walked in while I was tendin’ bar on Surf aveénue, and he says, ‘Young fellah, what's your politics?” And I says to him, ‘What's that to you?’ Because at that time I had no use for him—d'ye see?” Stories that shouldn’t be allowed to die nor be told to any one but sons or grandsons. TORIES, indeed! He began to hear some himself, stories about his son-in-law. Knox wasn't one of those who think that life stops with marriage. There was a flat in the sixties, and there was Myrtle Delraine from “Oh, Oh, Delphine.” The judge hoped the stories weren't true, and he hoped that Babe wouldn't hear them, anyway. One day, while he was in chambers reading 2 brief he never forgot in the case of Solomon vs. Corcoran and Allen, an action for eject- ment, Babe burst in upon him. She was as white as death. “Judge—Judge,” she said. “Babe, what's the matter, Babe? What's the matter?” “It’s Knox.” “Knox?” “Did you hear anything—yet?” “Why, uh——" “You know it, then, you know it.” “Know what? Know what?” “Oh, Judge, he’s taken $60,000 from the insurance company. And—and—while he was over there he was down in the vault, and—and —he had an argument with a watchman— and——" “Did he—" “No, no, the man’s in the hospital; he’s not going to die. He—— And the money’s all right, Judge. He’s been taking it—for some time. His people’ll cover it; that's all right. But the watchman-—Judge, they’ve got Knox, and the district attorney’s got hold of it, and— and—" “Well, all right. Pull yourself together.” “Judge, Judge, don't let them. This fellow won't die, Judge—— You can fix it. Youll do it, won't you?” “I will—not.” “You've got to. Ah, listen. When I found out about that woman—that was three months ago—I—I thought, ‘Now, I can’t sink any lower.” But I never said a word, not a word. But that—but that's finished—that part of it. But this. I can’t stand this. Jail. In jail Don't you let them. Don’t you let them— drag my pride in the dirt. Don’'t you let them.” “Do you love this—this—da—" “Stop. No. No. I don’t love him. No. How can I love him after what he did to me? Oh, what’s the use, Judge? Yes, I love him, and Il always love him. ‘No matter what he ad” “I—yes, I see.” v PN L ST T L LA TR, NN —_m W AW Z ‘oz \ “Judge, in a jail. A jail.” “What do you care? Huh? A jail. Ah, if I could get my hands on him once he'd never see a jail. Babe, listen. What do you care? Hold up your head and be damned to them. Say, I'm Babe Ahearn. Babe Ahearn. Cath- erine Ahearn. The greatest name in Ireland, Catherine.” “Don’t talk foolishness to me. Will you do it? Will you? Will you?” “No, Babe, I can't.” : “Do you want me onu my knees to you? To you? Always I knew, no matter what I'd done, I could come to you, and you'd take care of me. Now I'm asking you, and I haven't done anything—anything——" “Ah, Babe—I—easy now—Jimmie! Miss Moran! Miss Moran! Ah—my daughter—she’s fainted. Jimmie, hurry up, get me the Ana- wanda Club, get me the club on the phone. Get me the chief of the hall, on the other phone. Miss Moran, you run out, like a good girl, get me a taxi. I'll take care of my daughter——" NOW, two weeks after this, Supreme Court Judge Ahearn resigned. A lot of reporters were sent around, and they were met by a beau- tiful woman with sad eyes, his daughter, Mrs. Knox Drake. The judge’s health wasn't gocd, she said, and he was going to take a rest. No. He couldn't see them. One of them thought there might be a story in it, so he tried to get Mr. Knox Drake at the Salamander Insurance Company, but they said Knox had gone to Paris on business. No, they weren't sure when he'd be back. Six months, pcssibly longer, He's never been back. Won the Gentlemen’s Steeplechase af Auteuil not so long ago. But the young reporter finally did see Justice Ahearn. One nice, sunny morning he thought he saw the judge over on Whitehall street. He followed discrectly. Sure enough, it was he, and walking at a brisk pace, too, for a man in poor health. Where was he bound for, the reporter wondered. Over to Coenties Slip Park, apparently, where the old man sat down and pulled out a cigar and looked toward the river, So the reporter went up to him boldly and called him by name. “Yes,” sald the judge, as he used to say. “Clear the courtrocm.” “Mind if I sit down, judge?” “Suit yourself.” “How you been, judge?” “Better.” “That's good. Glad to see you out.” “Agh.” “Are you thinking of practicing law in the city, judge?” “What's that?” “Uh—who are you going to practice with?” “Practice what?” “L-law, judge. Aren’t you going to practice?” “No. I'll never practice law again. It's—my heart. I haven't the heart for it. You need a —=a strong—heart to practice law. A strong heart. Mine went back on me.” “That’s tough, judge. Judge—I-—you remem- ber Whitey Warren, that you sentenced?” “What's that?” “Whitey Warren.” “Yes. I—remember Whitey Warren. Yes, I remember him.” “I knew that cop, judge. You never did a better thing in your life than sending that thug up.” & “Yes. Whitey Warren—— Here, young fellah, have a cigar—— You see that water- front out there? Cleanest waterfront in the world it is. I like to sit here and look at it. It reminds me of something.” “What's that, judge? Good cigar——" “Well—well, it’s this. Did you ever hear tell of a fellah named James Lynch?” “No, judge.” © “Well, James Lynch was the Mayor of Gal- way. A waterfront tcwn, d'ye see? Of Galway, yes. Well, his son committed a murder. And they couldn’t get anybody to hang him. So James Lynch—he hung him with his own hands. And then—and then, he lifted up his hand, like this, to the people, and he kissed his dead son, and he walked into his house, and he never came out again. No. never, He lived for ——— Edward L.. McKenna years, but he never came out ¢f his house again. Hagh! There was a judge. “But he shouldn’t have had any sons—— Well, it’s very nice here. This park, now. If you could tell the things that have happened, right here, where this park is—— Well, I must be going along. Good-by, young fella. What did you say your name was? Oh, yes. A good name, too.” “Good-by, and good luck, judge. Take care of yourself.” As the judge walked away the young man looked after him. “I guess he’s going to pieces, after all,” he thought to himself. *“Gee, he was a tough old boy. Imagine he thinks this James Lynch was something like him, only not so tough. That's a funny cne. He starts to brag about the water- front, and then he gets fussed and tells me a fairy story about one James Lynch. Well, I . wouldn’t blame him for bragging. They Say. he did clean up this waterfront, him and Goff and Parkhurst and a couple more. Gee! I should havé kept him going on the waterfront! I bet I'd have got a story.” (Copyright, 1930.) City to Mourn Church Passing. Continued From Ninth Page. March 3, 1861, and it was while serving as Secretary of the Treasury, and while residing here, that he gave vent to that memorable expression: “If any man attempts to haul down the American flag, shoot him on ‘the spot.” Lincoln made him a major general, the rank he held throughout the Civil War. Subse- quently he became Governor of New York, and United States Senator from that State; Min- ister to France, and held other publie offices. On the north side of C street—from the earliest history of Washington and for a num- ber of years after the Government moved here —was what was known as the City Spring. Its location is given by Wilhelmus Bogart Bryan as being on lot 4, square 490, though Douglass Zevely in the records of the Columbia His- torical Society gives it as being on lot 3. However, the difference is trivial, since it may haye beesn close to the line, and both authors may be more or less right. Mr. Zevely's brief account of this Spring, written 28 years ago, makes very interesting reading, and feeling that the public is deeply interested in the locality that some day will be covered with municipal buildings, the writer will quote Mr. Zevely’s account of the old spring. He says: “* * * It was located on the eastern part of lot 3, lots 3 and 4 being thoss which represent the building there at present. The record of January, 1806, conveying the lot, upon which the spring was located, from William Woodward to Robert Underwood, says that the latter gave Woodward the same day a perpetual easement for the use of the spring for parts of lots 1 and 6 in the same square and to such persons or families as might be- come tenants or occupants, so the supply of water was not limited to one house. There was a stipulation, however, that those using the water should share any expense connected with the supply, and that hydrants should be supplied with spring stoppers, and outlets not exceeding one inch in diameter. “The National and Metropolitan Hotels, as far back as 1809, it is said, had their supply of water from this spring, and the corporation of the city laid wooden pipes for carrying the water to running pumps on Sixth and Seven streets, south of Pennsylvania avenue. The old establishment known as the Public Baths, about where the Government mail bag repair shop is now, had a supply of water also from this spring. It is not difficult for the older residents to recall this place as the only place of the kind in the District up to 30 or 40 years ago. A Mrs. Aiken was the proprietor back in the 20's and 30's, as well as later, and when she died her daughters continued the business.” Men Are Always to Blame. Continued From Fifth Page. Mt. Pelee. On the left wing nearby was the Grand Pyrotechnic Display, depicting the Founding of Grenford, with George Washing- ton at Yorktown on the left and Dewey Wad- ing Into Manila Bay on the right. Nobody ever found out how it happened, but it sure got touched off. Bill, marksman to the last, let go an arrow and it had bear on the end of it. Poor Bill was too good to miss! The first bomb had Buster on the jump and the invisible wire was a total loss. Undoubt- edly these two Indian guys in front had framed him—and how! All four feet left the ground at the same time—and four more in front of him left also. I'm not Charlie Paddock, but I know some- body who can tie him in a knot for 100 yards. Potomis—Potomis with the fallen arches. Fat or not, he went by me like the Spirit of St. Louls. We had to go somewhere and it was toward the Band and Great Chorus. Then all the fireworks got busy and what a display! At a snappy gallop Buster “hopped off for a tent, the dugout of the Early Dames of Grenford. And I'll say they were early. Buster just missed ’em by a paw, In five minutes the Grenford Pageant looked a lot more like the last act in the Fall of Babylon. Nobody knew where Buster was— exactly—which helped a lot. Toomey found him at last. There was a refreshment booth just outside the Pageant grounds proper and Toomey found his precious little treasure lapping up a few ice cream cones. As the fireworks had been squelched by the Fire Department there was nothing to fear, IT was Metakonet’'s duty to find his pal, Potomis. So he climbed down out of the high sycamore where he's been sighting one, two—one, two—— “Where have you been?” asks Potomis when I dug him out from the bass drum in the music stand. “Sighting all over for you, mighty hunter,” I says. “Listen. We've had enough excite- ment for one evening and there’s one entry we'd better scratch. Miss Eustis! My hunch is for these mighty Indian braves to get out of here and sudden.” “But the girls? How will they find us? Know where they are?” p “They know where the car is parked.” ‘The Missus and her pal were ahead of us. “A fine pair of Indian braves you are,” says my squaw. “Leaving us to the mercies of a wild bear. He missed me by a sneeze!” “What could we do?” I asks. “Do? Why didn’t you shoot him before he started biting at us? Seventeen of the Early Dames of Grenford fainted. And I wrecked a pair of ten-dollar stockings.” “You don’t know what trouble is,” says Bill, removing his feathered chapeau. “I lost a yew- wood bow that I wouldn't have taken a hun- dred dollars for. And say, Mrs. Ballou, the next time that sister of yours comes to our Colonial manse—I'm OUT!” “That's it. Blame it all on her when you know it was all your own fault—everything!” “Wha—wha——" “If you hadn't inveigled us all into going u' ! that silly archery picnic in the woods none of this would have happened!” And somehow I feel that way, too. As I said at the beginning, it's some little things, genelally, that starts the biggest catastrophes. (Colznl:m. 1930.) v Famous Old Theaters Continued From Fourth Page. i “deuce” spot on a bill today and he will in- voke the “artist's curse” on you, i e, the fervent hope that all your children will be acrobats. In Bijou days, however, the artist clamored for an early spot so as to dodge that comfortless hour which saw part of the audience graduating from somnolence to a fermented hilarity which blinded its eyes to art and sought only to harass the striving mime into graceless exit, if not suicide. Bijou days were workingmen's days! The Strand, originally named the Ninth Street Theater and later the Academy, has experienced every phase of show business. It has housed arty drama, comedy, music shows, vaudeville, burlesque and pictures. Its-last two years have been spotty and now it : closed save for occasional wrestling ma! ( The theater, however, is wired for sound pic- tures and will begin again as an amusement factor when its differences with the Musicians® Union are settled. The President Theater, at Eleventh street and the Avenue, was once Kernan's Lyceum and later the Capitol. While known as Kere nan’s it enjoyed’ its full measure of success. From 1920 onward it was kept open only under extreme pressure. After its abandon- ment as a burlesque house it was leased for stock by Terry Duffy, husband then of Anne Nichols, and Arthur Leslie Smith.