Evening Star Newspaper, January 18, 1931, Page 84

12 THE SUNDAY STAR, WAS *WON"T YOU BE WILLIAMr —7he Strange Things Happen When Dick and Sylvia Meet in the Mountains of Virginia, but Naturally All Turns Out Well in the End—All Because Aunt Jane Made a Surprise Visit on Her Way to Florida. HEY met in the woods on a hill above Silver Springs, Va., and their first "‘ meeting came perilously near to being their last. For the cause of their in- troduction was a ls-g:::gg shot.fm:i ich suddenly went bang, discharging a loa :!mblrd shot into the thicket where Dick Bal- rd was resting. l‘nYm.mg Mr. Bailard rose hastily and said in a Joud, elear voice: “What the devil are you do- oo Instantly a frightened feminine voice ex- claimed: “Oh, my soul! I thought you were & quail! Have I killed you?” «I don't think so,” said Dick. His left hand felt as if it had been stung by @ bee. He looked down and saw & thin streak of blood across the back of it. Indignantly ste] out of the thicket. m’rhe!;:p;ed found himself gazing into & pair of troubled blue eyes, and his resentment van- ished. For the girl who had almost murdered him was a very pretty girl. He put his wounded d in his ket. h.““Well, nevexl'):cnnd," he said. “I'm still alive.” “Oh, I'm so sorry!” breathed the girl s 4 mean, I'm so glad—!" “So am I,” said Dick. - “You've very nice about it.” Dick drew l;xyis cigarette case from his pocket. “I'm a nice fellow,” he said. “Will you have &——? What's the matter?” “your hand!” gasped the girl «Oh, that,” he said, and again tried to tuck his hand out of sight. But she caught his wrist and held it. “you're hurt! I did hit you! You must have it attended to at once,” she said decisively. “Come home with me—I live in one of the cottages at the Hilltop—and I'll put some anti- septic on it.” They started along the pine ridge toward the hotel. “I'm Dick Ballard,” he said. “Thought I knew everybody in the place. But I haven’t seen you before.” : “This is my first visit to Silver Springs,” said the girl. “And I don't go around much. I'm trying to finish a novel.” “Oh, so you're a writer! Do I know your name, I wonder?” “No. I'm just beginning. It's Sylvia Ham- mond.” HEY came out of the woods and walked to- ward the hotel that sprawled, with its accompanying brood of cottages, on the high, hunched shoulder of the hill. At the first of these cottages Sylvia Hammond stopped. *“You live alone here?” asked Dick. *Yes. Come in.” Dick followed her into the cabin; but it seemed that Miss Hammond was not so com- pletely alone as she had said. For on the sofa in her living room sat a large and rather alarming old lady, in a rusty black dress, whose hands were folded primly in her lap and whose steel-blue eyes looked steadily toward the door. As Dick met that challenging gaze he stopped short. As for Sylvia, she simply stood and sthred. “Aunt Jane!” she gasped, finally. ~Yes,” said the old lady. “It's your Aunt Jane, came all the way from Wisconsin to sur- prise you.” “Oh, Aunt Jane——!" cried Sylvia, and, drop- ping her shotgun, rushed across the room and flung her arms around the grim figure on the sofa. “I'm on my way to Floridy,” said Aunt Jane. “Doc Smithers thought I'd ought to go for my rheumatism. I figgered it would be a good chance to stop off and see you, Silvie.” HOh, . . . Tes . . 0L icouTEeY” “But Land o Goshen,” said Aunt Jane, *“There’s your young man standing like a bump on a log, waitin’ for you to introduce him to me. Not that I don’ know who he is.” Dick was startled. He glanced at Sylvia, and was astonished to see the look of dismay on her face. To add to his bewilderment, Aunt Jane said sharply: “Well! What's the matter with you two?” This is William, ain’t it, Bylvie?” “Yes!” said Sylvia, looking straight at Dick. *This is William. . . William, this is Aunt Jane.” “Oh!” said Dick. In the shock of learning that his name was Willlam, it was all he could think to say. . “Hmmm!"” said Aunt Jane. “Quite a strap- pin’ fellow, ain't you? You can come over here and kiss me if you've a mind to.” “Ah!” said Dick. “Ah—thanks!” And cross- ing the room, he saluted the leathery cheek presented to him. “Now,” said Aunt Jane, “we can all set down and talk.” Dick distinctly heard Sylvia gasp. “No, no!” she said. “Why not?” “Because—you see, . . . William must go to see a doctor about his hand.” “What's the matter with his hand?” *“] shot him,” said Sylvia. “Land o’ Goshen!” said Aunt Jane. “I was out hunting,” explained Sylvia, “and my gun went off, and the first thing I knew I had shot William. It's not serious, but he might get an infection.” “That's right,” said Dick. “I'd better go at once.” ’ “I'll walk out to the gate with you, William,* said Sylvia. She put a firm hand on his arm. “Be back in a moment, Aunt Jane.” She pushed Dick toward the,door. “Well!” he exclaimed, wi of the house. “WilV you William is, and why why - “I can’t tell you they were out dly tell me who William, and It's to complicated. T later.” t you tonight after Aunt bed. Say about 10 o’clock— “It's a date,” said Dick. “And I am grateful to you for playing up and pretending to be William.” “I could see you were in some kind of a jam,” he said. “Jam'’s no word for it!” said Sylvia. A'r 10 o'clock that night Dick Ballard hur- ried up the hill and entered the small lat- ticed Summer house that marked the location of the Silver Spring. A few minutes later Sylvia joined him. He drew into the shadow of the spring house. They sat down on a bench. “Now!” said Dick. “What about this mys- terious bird, William?" “I'll tell you,” Sylvia commenced abruptly. “In the first place, Aunt Jane wants me teo get married. I'm her favorite niece. My three sisters found husbands at home—we live Belvidere, Wis.—but I wasn't looking for a hus- band, so naturally I didn't find one. “I didn't want to find one. I don't now. I want to write. But Aunt Jane has old-fash- ioned notions. She's pioneer stock, you know, Ang she felt it was a disgrace that I couldnt get my man. “So she gave me a check for $5,000—she has loads of money!—and told me to strike out for myself. Her idea was that I'd stand a bet- ter chance in the more thickly populated sec- tions of the country.” “A sound idea,” said Dick. “So you came East?” Sylvia nodded. “I went first to Bar Harbor. I started my novel there, Then I moved down to Newport, then to Easthampton, then here——" ’ “But where does William come in?” asked Dick, noting that Sylvia's hair had a silver sheen in the moonlight. “William,” said Sylvia, “is a character in my novel.” “A wha ? A character in your - “Yes. Unfortunately I got to describing him in my letters to Aunt Jane.” “Ah-ha!” said Dick. “You see, she kept writing and asking me if I'd met any attractive young men and I— well—I put into my letters some of the episodes about William that I intended to use in my novel.” “And they were all pure fiction?” “Quite pure,” said Sylvia. “But finally I got to the point—I was forced to it by sheer dra- matic necessity—of telling Aunt Jane that Wil- liam was in love with me. And that's what got me into trouble. Because Aunt Jane sent me a long night letter urging me to accept William. And like an idiot I wired back that I had.” “Lucky William!” said Dick. “Don’t be silly,” said Sylvia. “If you knew how I have suffered! Why, I've been engaged to William ever since Newport. And I've ex- hausted my imagination, trying to invent rea- sons why he hasn’t married me.” “He does seem a bit backward,” said Dick. “Now if I were William——" Sylvia turned and looked at him. “I wish you were,” she said, musingly. “But don’t suppose you would be.” “Would be what?” “Oh! I know it's ridiculous. Still, Aunt Jane’s going to be here only a day or two.” “I don’t get you,” said Dick. “I was thinking,” said Sylvia, “that if she could go away still believing that you are Wil- liam, it would give me the time I need to fin- ish my novel. If I tell her the truth now, she’ll be furious. She’ll stop my allowance, and I'll have to go home just when I'm in the mood for working and—Oh, please, Mr. Ballard! You'll think I'm crazy, but—while my aunt’s here—won’t you be William?” Mr. Ballard seemed to consider this mo- mentous question. “That's funny,” he said. “I've just remem- bered that my first name is Willlam.” “It isn’t!” “It is if I choose it to be.” Bylvia laughed, excitedly. “Then youll do #? Obh, I don’t know how I ecan ever repay youl” “Oh, dear!” wailed Sylvia, “I guess I'll just have to marry you, William.” Dick drd “As a gentleman,” said Dick, looking into her eyes, “I should repudiate the idea of payment. I'm idle. rich, and a hopelessly frivolous per- son, so I'm grateful for possibilities. . . . By the way, what's this bird’s last name?” “You'll never guess,” said Sylvia. “The truth is, when Aunt Jane asked me that same ques- tion tonight, I suddenly realized I'd never men- tioned William’s full name. In fact, I'd never even invented it. So I said the first name that least knows how to die” popped into my mind, and it—oh, I hope you won't mind—it happened to be Ballard!" “My own name!” cried Dick. “Yes. I'm sorry.” “You're wonderful!” he said. “And now, I think I'd better tell you some- thing about William’s character, and sort of rehearse you in your part.” “Fine!” said Dick. “Let’s rehearse!” The rehearsal lasted till midnight. Radio in the Next Decade Continued from Fifth Page load of explosives or gas or whatever they carry by radio control, and probably return to their home base unless prevented by counter- attack planes of the enemy, all without risk to & human pilot.” Quite a number of years ago, for exhibition purposes, a baby tank was driven over various pieces of terrain by radio control from an auto- mobile which followed in the rear. Although there is little practical application of this type of radio control at present, its use in warfare is immediately evident.. What about the transmission of power by radio? Dr. Jolliffe was asked. “The transmission of power by radio has been freely predicted from time to time,” he answered, “but there are several fundamental things which have prevented its being prac- ticable. Transmission of power by radio is now possible, but it is exceedingly inefficient. If an efficient method were discovered, any conductor tuned to that frequency along the route would pick up power. Just imagine what a terrible mix-up there would be along the lines of all wire and radio controlled apparatus if unlim- ited radio power were directed over them toward some ‘distant objective.” IS it probable that our household work will be done by radio in the future? was the next question. Dr. Jolliffe laughed. “Why should it?” he countered. “You can buy stoves now which can be turned on automatically at a certain time, kept at a certain temperature and turned off at a given time by clock mecha- nism. Furnaces are now controlled by the simplest of clock mechanisms, and a number of ingenious persons have rigged up a time- controlled apparatus for closing the bed-room windows in the morning. Why resort to radio to set such things going when a simpler and less expensive apparatus will do the work as well?” One of the most comprehensive develop- ments in radio within the last few years is in the field of telephony. At the present time 86 per cent of the world's telephones are con- nected. You can sit at your own telephone and talk to persons in Europe, South America or on ships at sea, the great stretches over the ocean and over little-developed territory being bridged by radio. Most of us can remember when wireless messages were sensations. Within the last year passengers on the Leviathan, the Homeric and the Majestic have talked over a telephone to friends and family at home. Other ships are being equipped for service as rapidly as possivle. Such conversations do not tie up the ship’s radio telegraph. Transmission is on an- other frequency entirely, and one does not know that the other is operating. wrmm a few years this type of telephone = via radio service will undoubtedly be ex- tended across the Pacific and to liners in Asiatic waters. There is nothing now holding up the extension except lack of telephone serve ice in the East. It is probable that in the very near future police officials will frequently send fingerprint impressions by wire or radio in order to identify & suspect in a hurry when they have little evi- dence on which to hold him. One of the most valuable uses of radio at present is on police cars on the road. Almost before predictions concerning the future of radio can get into print they have become realities in the laboratories and are already on their way to the general public. (Copyright, 1931.) W anted Men Continued jrom Eleventh Page lius, a fugitive for 15 years, who was finally taken last April on a tip from Cheyenne, Wyo. He disappeared from Englewood, N. J.,, in July, 1915, where he had been employed for 19 years as cashier of the Citizens’ National Bank. With him went his former stenographer, Loretta Smith, and, apparently, $11,000 in currency found missing from the vault. He was 48 years old, married and had three children. The townsfolk knew him as a man of good habits, thoroughly respected and trusted at the bank, but a subsequent investigation revealed a short- age of more than $45,000. TRCULARS, queries to American and foreign police agencies, every measure to which the “national police” have resort in locating a fugitive, were utilized in the attempt to locate Kornelius during the 15-year search. At times he was reported in South America, the British West Indies, Canada and England. Finally, in April, 1930, the Department of Justice received another tip. It seemed far- fetched, but it was followed up. A woman, it was stated, by the name of Farwell was in the State Hospital at Cheyenne who might be able to throw light upon the case. Her health was said to have been broken by her efforts to sup- port an invalid husband and several children. Apparently she had no relatives. She was mys- teriously vague about her history. Investigation of this clue revealed that the woman was Loretta Smith, and that Kornelius, since her health had failed, had entered the poorhouse. Upon being approached he readily confessed his identity, waived removal proceed- ings, and returned to Newark, where he en- tered a plea of guilty. The Federal judge hear- ing the case was aware that Kornelius had suffered severely for his wrong-doings. He ex- pressed the opinion that any debt owned soclety by the defendant had 'been paid. Kornelius was given a suspended sentence of two yeass and placed on parole.