Evening Star Newspaper, March 3, 1935, Page 80

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NDOT ST Nfw 7o FREE LESSON HomeArtCrafts FIRESISE IOUSTRIED Dept. 12 MOTIAR, MICE. and croaked, ‘‘Gotta dresh shuit. Perce gomme dresh shuit. Minn’ap’lus. | Don't life it!” { French chorus girls!” Neither did they, they all assured him, and at last he felt happy again; feit ihat it was a fine thing 1o have so many millions and so many friends. Especially was it comforting to have so loyal a supporter as Percy Willoughby. For the actual journey it would be necessary to carry some tens of thousazs of dollars in cash. Cord- wood had begged Percy to take charge of this. Percy had hesitated — after all, he put it, how could Mr. McGash know that he would not pocket most of it? When Cordwood had got over being shocked by the hint that a friend of his could do such a thing, Percy reluctantly took the enormous pile of new bills and slipped them into his bureau drawer. But, he insisted, he would give the Chief an accounting of every penny he spent . . . give it to him just as soon as the crusade was over. Naturally, to the authentic in- habitants of Jackrabbit, Cordwood had added a few dozen old friends from the lumber camps, and 911 ad- venturers finally filled the two-section special train for the journey to New York and the R. M. S. Dipsomania. Practically all the three hundred odd people who were left behind, with hundreds of farmers from the neigh- borhood, ja.nmed the station and all the railroad yards. No departure of a troop train ever saw more weeping, more blanching of cheeks, more piling of suit-cases upon Gladstone bags, nor half so much of screaming, ‘‘Oh, I've lost my baby’s go-cart’” and “That’s nothing! We've lost our baby!’ A hundred times a minute, people screamed, ‘‘Now be sure and write!’ and, “Don’t take any wooden money!” and, “Bring me back one of them Veteran con- ductors of the G.N.P.R.R. grew hoarse and helpless as they begged, “All aboard, please! All aboard!” A strange swarthy man with a peanut roaster did enormous business. For some reason almost every one except Percy Willoughby seemed to feel that peanuts were exactly the thing to ward off the perils of the journey. On the roof of the station, Colonel Blight suddenly appeared, and in a voice which would have routed a consider- able enemy he bellowed, ‘‘Come on, now, everybody, three cheers and a tiger for good old Cordwood McGash!” They massed on the platform and beyond. But through the bee-swarm of hysterical exiles cleaved first a THIS WEEK bugle note, then a rank of men in uniforms of plumed brass helmets, red tunics with gilded Sam Brown belts, yellow breeches with green stripes, cavalry boots — the Jackrahbit Creek Band and Bugle Corps, playing “Happy Days Are Here Again.” They marched gravely the length of the platform, back again, then into the first section of the train. Percy, standing beside Cordwood, protested, “You're not taking the band along — to Europe?”’ “Sure!” beamed Cordwood. “I didn’t — I didn’t know —" “No, it’s a little surprise for you and all the folks. I guess the band’ll show the folks in New York and Paris — Hope I can fix it so we can have a parade up Fifth Avenue — the whole bunch of us marching behind the band!”’ Percy sighed. Then, as his fingers touched a bundle of hundred dollar bills in his pocket, he brightened. It was Cordwood who was a little sad as the two sections of the train did actually get into motion and he looked at the outskirts of Jackrabbit, at the well-beloved loafing places — the gasoline tanks, the stock pens, the lumber yard, the wholesale grocery warehouse, the beaten earth before tarpaper shacks, where year on year he had squatted in the dust with Old Timers and told tall lies and passed pints of corn from lip to lip. Would he ever see them again? Paris might be prettier, but he bet himself that it wouldn’t have any kindlier a glow to it than this rusty-red wheat elevator in the prairie sunshine. Percy, in a drawing-room decorated with check-books, portabie type- writers, and bottles of champagne, was in charge of the second section of the train; Cordwood in charge of the first. And into Cordwood’s car he had somewhat guiltily sneaked his best friends and drinking-companions: Em- manuel Ilgenfritz and his family, Oley Tengbom and what Jackrabbit suspected to be somebody else’s family, Doc Berklund, Sime Bende- lari. He would have liked the Miner- van radiance of Maybelle Benner, but he felt that she would not really under- stand, in the matter of Scotch. Cordwood had assigned to himself an upper berth, explaining to Percy that he didn’t want any one to feel slighted. In Drawing Room A, he had put his housekeeper, Sister Tinkerbun, and one of his three “hired girls.” All the way to New York there was quivering scandal about this, and the only question was whether Cordwood was criminally carrying on with The SHIP By LELAND STOWE I am a ship that’s plied the seas too long, Has skirted siren shores and been caressed By far too many winds. Always the quest Of treasure and adventure drove me oh. Heedless of tides forbidding to the strong, Mindless of dangers on the breakers’ crest Mine was the bark that knew no anchored rest, The ship that sailed when charts were right or wrong. For such a ship to tire of storm and gale And trackless wastes I thought could never be. But now your green deep harbor holds the sail That’s left behind the restless nomad sea. Now swings my bark at anchor close to shore And smiles to think that it will sail no more. Sister Tinkerbun, who was nine years his senior, or the hired girl, who was twenty-two years his junior. Which- ever it might be, the entire caravan felt with a not unpleasing hoirer that already, with their own host, they were beginning to sniff the wickedness of Paris. In Drawing Room B were Sime Bendelari, apothecarian bachelor and man-about-village, and the reporter from Duluth. It seemed that on one particularly white night at the mansion, Cordwood had invited the Duluth reporter to go along. Cordwood didn’t remember the invitation, but he had learned many years before that on the morning after, it was better not to inquire too curi- ously into what he might have said after midnight. Anyway, the Duluth reporter was a lovely fellow, and it was a good thing to have a contact man for the press. He did not know, and he never afterward learned, that the young gentleman from Duluth had been fired by wire, after ignoring four commands from his paper to come home. This Drawing Room B was Cord- wood’s refuge all the way to New York. He was very happy there. He lost $116.50 at poker, and he was often allowed to sing. He was the gladder of the refuge when, within an hour after the train had left Jack- rabbit, he learned the real characters of little Irving Berklund, and of Magnolia Iigenfritz, the hell-child. No one knows the nature of the Little Ones until he has seen them relieving the tedium of a train journey. After he has seen them thus, he re- alizes that Calvin was absolutely right: that infant damnation is not only just but highly agreeable. Cord- wood had beheld Irving and Mag- nolia as normal children, who were prettily grateful for bags of candy and who had no disagreeable traits what- ever, except perhaps yelping a good deal, throwing stones at windshields, and secreting dead kittens in one’s overcoat pockets, But the magic of travel was upon them now, and it revealed the Little Ones as complete demons. They chased each other through the aisle. They had a game of tag in which the goals were the shrinking knees of the older pas- sengers. Irving brought from the observation car a ponderous brass ash-tray, and with this Magnolia and he played catch, while the adults, their faces furrowed with agony, crouched in their seats, and the cow- ardly Cordwood, though he admitted that he was responsible for these horrors, fled into Drawing Room B and demanded a drink. At St. Paul and Minneapolis, there were hundreds of spectators, with reporters ranging from the financial editors, who desired to know Cord- wood’s views on the Latvian bond situation, to the religious editors, who demanded of the frightened Rev. Mr. Mitch whether it was true that he was going to hold services in Notre Dame de Paris. But it was in Chicago that Cordwood really got into the news. ‘The trains were met by eighteen ‘reporters, nineteen press-camera and movie-camera and sound-picture men, and more than a thousand laymen. Percy had, at Cordwood’s insistence, rather sulkily telegraphed ahead to get police permission for a parade up State Street, during the six hours when the Jackrabbitites were to study the economics, ethnology, art treasures, and bars of Chicago. Gleefully the drum major whirled and caught his stick, at the head of the procession. Gleefully the troubadours of Jack- rabbit whammed the drum and tootled the fife and blared on the cornet, as they crashed into such novelties as ““The Washington Post’’ and “There’ll Be a Hot Time in the Old Town Tonight.”” Gleefully Cordwood and a hundred other male stalwarts trudged at the rear, waving large pennants painted with pink wild roses and the valiant words, ‘‘Jackrabbit Creek, Biggest Small Town in U. S. A.” And gleefully the simple citizenry of Chicago received them. The Chicagoans filled the side- walks, snickering. Small boys by the hundred stalked beside the parade or followed it, imitating the marchers. Press photographers snapped it at each corner. And, starting nowhere in particular, rising along each block, in- creasing to a thunder-storm, rose the derisive cheer, ‘“Hurray for the Jackrabbits!” Cordwood was enchanted — for three blocks. He wished that his friend Percy had not, poor fellow, had to remain at the train; that Percy might have seen this rare, lovely tribute to true American democracy. He began then to wonder if the small boys marching beside them weren’t, as they stuck out their little bellies and arched their arms and waggled their heads, just a little making mock of the procession. A quick, nauseating ( Continued on page 15 ) March 3, 1935 - Coming 'NEXT ISSUE KONRAD BERCOVICI “The Magic String”™ Young Love and Gypsy Magic LORD DUNSANY “Jorkens Retires From Business’ The Story of a Mysterious lsland SINCLAIR LEWIS ‘“Seven Million Dollars’ Chapter III of a New Serial E. PHILLIPS OPPENHEIM ““The Butterfly in the Death Chamber’ Another Monte Carle Adventure VIRGINIA DALE “From the Flying Trapese” Drama High Above the Circus Ring o o hacage S SPEIS- L o b e TS o — CHANNING POLLOCK “Winner Lose AII” A Powerful Story of the East