Evening Star Newspaper, May 17, 1931, Page 88

YOU A Sparkling Story of Youth and L ove. BY RUTH BURR SANBORN llustrated by Hubert Mathicu. R. JARED WILLOUGHBY was not a man who said “No” right out. When h: meant “No,” he said “Mayoe,” or “We'll wait and see,” or “Come in again . later,” or “I'll think it over.” He said all these things now to Patrick Cancn, who was standing before him on the offics rug with his feet well apart and his head well up. and when he had finished, Patrick Canon grinned at him companionably and said, “While you're thinking it over, I suppose I might as well be working.” his was a preity pass. But when things eame to a pretty pass, then there was Tidweiler. idweiler was esp:cially employed at the Wil- Joughby Optical Manufacturing Co. to do the dirty work. Every day he made a tour of the plant and stuck his little, sniffish nose into everything. He said the advertising depart- ment was using teo many paper clips. He said the girls in the transcribing room must not eat chocolate because it took time; they got crumbs on the floor, and the crumbs called mice, and mice were caught by janitors, and that took time, too. He inaugurated the docking system; an hour off if you werz 15 minutes late; after that, a whole day. Among cther things, Tidweiler had a system for discouraging young men so that they with- drew from the company of their own accord, without waiting to be fired. It was a useful system with undesirable applicants. Jared Willoughby considered Patrick Canon & most undesirable applicant indeed. He was the son of an unsuccessful friend, and Mr. Willoughby did not like the sons of unsuccessful friends. He was just out of college, and Mr. Willoughby did not like young men just out of college. More particularly he did not like Patrick Canon because he had seen him looking at Stacia in the car that morning. Stacia was Mr. Willoughby's niece. He did not intend her to mariy. because she managed his house so smocthly. TRICK CANON had the broad-shouldered, high-headed, easy-moving kind of good looks that cause even quite homely men to be spoken of as handsome. Patrick was really homely. His hair was much too red, and it had a cowlick on top, defying brush and comb and water and lie-flat lotion, so that he always #ooked like a bolling volcano. He now grinned again at Mr. Willoughby, and said, “Well, how about it?” He had a nice grin, as wide and guileless as his wide apd guilel2ss blue eyes. Mr. Willoughby put his thumb down hard on @& button. Tidweiler came promptly. He was & thin, dried crisp of a man, sharp as a pin, quick as a match, with a peering, boring eye. “Tideweiler,” said Mr. Willoughby meaningly, “Mr. Patrick Canon is applying for work. What have you got that would be—suitable?” This was a formula. Mr. Willoughby and Tidweiler understood each other. “With industrial conditions the way they are now.” said Tidweiler, “of course there isn’t mu-h. The only thing I could suggest would be the lens-grinding department.” “All right,” said Patrick Canon. *This way, then,” said Tidweiler. Lily shook her permanent wave over the typewriter as Patrick Canon went by. “Tid- weiler’s got ’im,” she said. “He won't last long.” Minnie snapped her gum reflectively. “Naw,” she said. “You got to have a pull here or you don’'t get nowheres.” The lens-grinding department was not a pleasant place to work. Lenses are ground by sticking them in pitch on a curved surface like the under side of a wooden chopping bowl, and fitting over it a cover lathered with emery and water. When the machinery is started the ¢hopping bowls go back and forth and round and round and up and down and sidewise, and the effect in looking over a roomful of them is #s of being adrift at sea during a storm. Here and there over the surface of this sea scampered a company of large red spiders. Thase were the workers. They were red because th'y were spattered with rough emery. They ran because the lenses had to be kept wet so that they would not break. Breakage was de- ducted from a worker’s pay. Patrick Canon had a good head and good sea legs, but even he found it desirable to take hold of a strong-looking piece of madinery while he was receiving his instructions. “You will have these two mfddle rows,” Tid- weiler said. “Here are. your work clothes.” handed Patrick a kind of khaki romper several sizes too small. “This is can. This is the lever that chinery. Don’'t let the lenses Don't let them get too wet. break. That is all.” “Thank you,” said Patrick Camn. When Tidweiler had gone Patfd& put on the romper suit and bent himself @iperimentally. “Lucky I work standing,” he said cheerfully to the man at the next machine. ¥he man glanced at him in surprise—good cheer was not common in the lems-grinding department. j e “1 zely you won't be able t4 itand a-tall, cone to~morrer,” he predicted. “aimst of ‘em . ain't.” ////7 o’ 1A ,‘ 4 THE SUNDAY STAR, WASHINGTON, -D. C, MAY 17, 1931, " I COULDN'T HATE PATRICK Dancing with Stacia was like holding a flame in your arms, bright and untouchable. “I'll bet you were,” said Patrick. There was just the right degree of admiration in his eye. The follow straightened involuntarily. “Well, maybe I was,” he conceded. “I'm Jim Purdy.” He spoke as if that explained a great deal. “Jim Purdy,” said Patrick, “care if I chase along behind you and see how much water you put on these posies?” “Sure thing,” said Purdy. Patrick followed Jim Purdy twice the length of the row. Then he started his own machine, took his own watering can—and ran. “I feel like a ship on an ocean of joy . . .” he sang. Jim Purdy nodded toward his neighbor on the other side. “The boy's got spunk,” he said. ATRICK CANON would not have been sing- ing that morning if it had not been for Stacia Willoughby. But then, of course, he would not have been there at all if it hadn’t been for Stacia. Patrick had seen Stacia the night before for the first time, and ever since the world had been all rose and gold; rose like the color in Stacia’s cheeks, goid like her golden hair. Stacia Willoughby was a slim, bright sprite of a thing, with an arrogant little flirt of a chin and long enticing eyes the color of clear water in the shadow of the rocks. Her hair was a close, gold helmet pushed back from her forehead, and her red mouth was a bewitch- ment. Patrick had first seen her dancing with a dark young man of an annoying degree of per- fection, and she had kept right on dancing with him in the most upsetting way. Patrick had met her, of course. Stacia shook hands with him in a pleasant but strictly impersonal man- ner. “Good evening. Warm, isn't it?"” she said. And then she turned away again to dance with the dark young man, Patrick cut in, of course. Dancing with Stacia was like holding a flame in your arms, bright and untouchable. She smiled at him— a straight, impersonal little smile. “Rather a mob,” she said. “Too much mob,” said Patrick feelingly, doubling back to avoid the youth who was bearing down upon them. He caught them at the next corner. Patrick did not know then who the dark and perfect young man was, but he found out after- ward. It was not hard to find out about Trevor McIlwain. Trevor Mcllwain was the son of Ivor Mc- . The very difficulties of the situation gave it an added spice for both of them. There was not much spice about Patrick Canon—and nobody knew it better than he did. He was not rich or handsome or talented or clever—just a nice, blundering young man whom everybody liked. But somehow when Patrick Canon got an idea he hung onto it as if it were the last idea in the world. the next morning in a snug-fit setting down her uncle loughby Optical Manufacturing struck him that if he could Willoughby, and if he could Patrick went to work for the spirit with which gentlemen Ages slew dragons and fought stormed impregnable castles their ladies. It could not really matter the dragon he had set himself to slay was of the uncomfortable variety that grows two new heads the minute you Patrick was looking the night when he went to call on Stacia. H2 shook hands with a fine gravity. Patrick Canon,” he explained. “I know,” said Stacia. “I met you last night.” “You remember me!” cried Patrick, his eyes lighting. “This morning.” she continued, “I saw you going into Uncle Jared’s factory.” Patrick’s wide grin widened. She had seen him. She had recognized him. Surely that was a good omen. “I'm working there now,” he said proudly. “You're in the grinding room,” said Stacia thoughtfully. “How . . . ?" began Patrick—and looked guiltily at his fingers, which were red. “Yes,” he said. “But . . . I guess I won't be in “No,” agreed Stacia. “I guess you won't.” This sounded like encouragement—but wasn't. Stacia Willoughby knew all about Tidweiler and his methods. “I'd like to take you to dinner,” he said abruptly. “I'm going out with Trevor McIlwain.” “I supposed you would be,” agreed Patrick. “How about tomorrow?" Stacia shook her head. “Or the next day?” “No.* Patrick hesitated—not as if he were deciding what to say, only how to say it. He said it with startling simplicity. “I love you,” said Patrick Canon. “I thought you ought to know.” The stark courage of it shook Stacia Wil- loughby as more violent, more accustomed pro- testations never could. The clear color flamed in her cheeks. “But you don't even know me!” “I don’t have to,” said Patrick steadily. “I couldn't be mistaken.” After a moment he went on again: “Don't think I'm going to— pester you. I just wanted you to know why T'd like to do well in your uncle’s factory.” “But . . .” began Stacia. “When I get promoted,” said Patrick, “will you go to dinner with me then?” “But you won't get promoted,” said a little desperately. “You see . . .” -“But if I do . . . will you?” Stacia was bewildered. She did not know what to say. So she said yes. PATRICK'S career in the lens-grinding de- partment was a comedy of errors. He got the lenses too wet and they swam. He got them too dry and they broke. He stuck them too deep in the pitch and could not pry them out,” At the end of the first week his pay was But =t:the end of & month & curious thing rooph vg v s ‘They thought it a great joke. ler could not have b2en more upset if there had been & riot. Tidweiler took the matter up with Mr. Wil- loughby. Mr. Willoughby was shocked. “You'll have to transfer him.” “There’s the molding room,” said Tidweiler, “So there is,” said Mr. Willoughby. The molding room was an even less pleasant place to work than the lens-grinding depart- ment. It was there that the lens blanks were fired. And, as Patrick later remarked to Stacia, the heat needed to cook lenses would make a volcano look like a safety match. Moreover, there was Bludge. Bludge, Patrick decided, was short for bludgeon. He was boss of the molding room—though he was not down that way on the books. Bludge maintained his supremacy by hitting all newcomers in the eye or the stomach or whatever soft portion happened to be handy, and when the newcomer recovered he either did what Bludge said or went awav. The molding room was in a building by itseif, because, of course, every now and then it burned down, and between it and the rest of the factory buildings ran a river crossed by & narrow footbridge with a wiggly railing. In the middle of this footbridge Patrick met Bludge. Bludge stopped, his hands, like a pair of stoker’s shovels, resting on opposite rails. Patrick stopped too. “Yah!” said Bludge. don't yuh?” “No,” said Patrick. “Do you?” Bludge drew down his black brows and thrust 'd a chin that looked like an iron-bound “Think yuh smart, “Pretty quick I show you who's smart,” he promised. “Wanta fight?” “I don't want to,” said Patrick. “But I will.” And forthwith he smote Bludge on the point of the snowplow. Bludge was not much hurt, but he was dumb- founded. No one had ever hit him first before, and he could not understand it. While he was still figuring it out, Patrick hit him twice more. For a moment a wild hope ran through the spectators from the molding room. But things do not happen like that, really. Bludge emitted a roar and launched himself at Patrick. . He struck one blow, but it hit Patrick mysteriously all at once in the eye and the lip and the wind. Patrick described an arc in the air above the railing and disappeared in the water. . Patrick found a convenient rock and held onto it. He stayed down as long as he could, and what with one thing and another—par- ticularly the thought of Stacia Willoughby—he was able to stay down longer than any one would have believed possible. Long before Patrick came up and it did ‘him worlds of good. After all, he ' was ever so wélcome to Bludge as Patrick's vell o’