Evening Star Newspaper, July 5, 1935, Page 25

INSTALLMENT L '« HIS is a story of Kansas City, second metropolis of that wonder State, Missouri. Kan- sas City. enthroned on its hills overlooking the confluence of the wooded Kaw and the dun-colored Missouri; its odoriferous packing plants amidst the smoky railroad yards crisscrossing the West Bottoms; its teeming lanes beneath towering skyscrapers; its svelte hotels and stately residences; its broad boule- vards, shining strips of asphalt wind- ing over hills and along bluffs; its many viaducts, alive with thrumming humanity. A city of today! Several miles from Twelfth and Main, Sunday afternoon throngs made merry at an amusement park. The hot June sun reflected dazzlingly on the garishly-painted stands and from the blue-green waters of the artificial lake. Scores of tanned bathers lined the springboards. Others lay half-buried in the sand at the edge of the water and watched their more active comrades as they disported in the cool depths. On the midway shows, concessions, rides, games, all attracted their share of the milling, shifting, perspiring hundreds. Re- freshment stands resounded with the tinkle of their cash registers as iced drinks trickled down eager parched throats. In the Trocadero, a long, stuccoed ! structure of Moorish design, its min- arets rising above the trees along the lake, a dance band played intermit- tently, the saxophones blending in organ-like harmony, seeming to vie with the thin notes of muted trumpets before a background of soft cadence supplied by the rhythm instruments. | At intervals they blared forth in “hot” numbers to which the drummer con- tributed well-timed blows singularly like wood-chopping, then drifted into lazy waltzes where violins sang. De- spite the heat, the floor was crowded, ‘while around the sides of the vast, dim room, scores reclined in deep divans or sat upon upholstered benches, talk- ing, laughing, watching the dancers. Sleek-headed boys, graceful girls, they danced effortlessly, apologetic at col- lisions, good-humoredly pushing and crowding at the exits after each dance. Toward the end of the afternoon the orchestra swung into its custo- mary closing number and the tune, Tamiliar to most of the dancers, habi- tues of the place, started many of them toward the check rooms. The matinee dance was over. On the terraced stage before the shell-shaped sound amplifier there was sudden activity, Lighters flared as they were applied to cigarettes. Gold saxophones reflected the lights on music racks as they were hurriedly deprived of their mouthpieces and laid in their beds of blue velvet. Then— & snapping of instrument cases; scrap- ing of chairs; voices raised argu- mentatively; plans made; gradual exodus in twos and threes—white-clad figures moving across the shining. deserted floor. The foremost trio paused in the foyer and appeared to debate a point. ‘Two of them regarded the third ques- tioningly. “Can you imagine a guy like that, Bud?” complained the rotund blond one. “One word outa him an’ we coulda been invited over t' Ivy Wells' for tiffin—bless my soul. There'd been cartloads of bonded stuff, nine differ- ent kinds of sandwiches an’ a Filipino | t' carry 'em in to ya. Why, we wouldn't | even had to smoke oug own cigarettes.” Bud, who had been a fullback—and looked it—seemed bored. He yawned openly. The gentleman cf generous girth spoke further. His expression was that of any one freshly stabbed. “An’ that flock of babes with her— not a dud in th’ dozen. But, no—this nine days’ wonder has t’ pipe up an’ say—he's sorry but he’s tied up till 8:30. He's sorry! Are we smirkin’ with pleasure? He's tied up—is that a laugh! Since when has his calendar got 50 heavy? Tied up! You'd think he wuz greeter for Greatéer Kansas City.” He paused to pant in scorn. The object of criticism, Paul Machanello, dark-haired, 25, and strummer of banjo and guitar, eyed his censors with an air of one detained by un- important trifies. “You don’t like it?” he inquired coolly. “Whadda you want me to do—shed tears?” The stout boy purpled to the edge of his hair. He waved his arms spas- modically. “Are you a pal! Put th’ &kids under our evenin’ and feel good about it! After all I've done for—" “Twenty-one, aintcha? You can go over there without me. I'm not your grandmother.” “You're tellin’ me? mother was a human.” “What you say—surprises me.” “Aw, now, listen, Paul. We can't go over there without an invitation-— an’ one little word from you woulda— besides, Jess Whitewood is probably in th’ crowd, an—" “Now—you're tellin’ me. I'm way ahead of you, son. That’s one of the reasons I'm not so keen about it. Run and tell her that, Big Mouth.” “Huh—maybe you think I won't! I'l pile it on. T'll make you out the chiseler that you are.” “Sure you will. That's your busi- ness—you overstuffed scandal-ped- dler.” “You go to hell! You got it comin’. And that ain't th’ first verse!” Paul turned abruptly away and started down the entrance steps, the unmoved Bud at his side. They made for the rear of the dance hall, where a dingy model A roadster awaited. Puny. the disgruntled fat youth, gazed hotly after them a moment, then fol- lowed, his continued remonstrance falling upon unheeding ears. They whirled the roadster out from its parking space and he had to run to catch them. Bud, at the wheel, raced the motor tentatively. “Screw yourself in here,” ordered Paul, “if you're goin’ with us.” ‘They sped townward, Bud twisting the little car in and out of traffic with a practiced hand and a marvelous Jjudgment of inches only between hurtling fenders. His two passengers clung to gear lever and door handle, respectively, and resumed the discus- sion of their differences. Half way in on McGee, they slid to & stop before an apartment building. Puny took his nose from the wind- shield, where it had been flattened by the peremptory application of brakes, and climbed stifly out. Bud followed from the other side, but Paul re- mained in the car, sliding over under the wheel. Puny stared. “Where are you goin’?” he demanded aggressively. “Downtown. Any objections?” ‘The stout boy remounted the run- ning board. He eyed the careless fig- ures in the seat closely, lip hanging. “Where to?” “What is this—an interview? None o' your business!” “Takin’ that telephone dame home again. On our gasoline!” “You're as screwy as you look. I put in 6 gallons this morning. What's more, I put in oil. The only thing you ever put in this crate is air in th’ tires and a lotta dead weight in th’ cockpit. Your gasoline!” “Why don't you marry the girl? ¥ou,run all her errands.” My grand- “I'm goin’ to—tomorrow. How's | that for a snappy comeback?” | Puny snorted in high derision. “Now it'’s time for a good general laugh,” he retorted. “It beats me how you take up with just anything. Spe- clally a frill that slapped your face on a rolly coaster. I bet you think that was cute—you haven’t tumbled that it was her way of leadin’ you on. I know telephone broads—they're a gold-diggin’ outfit.” “You don't know her.” “An’ I don't wanta. Pin that In your helmet.” Paul started the motor. “Okay, fathead,” he said. “Go on up an’ bite y'r nails. I've got places to go.” He grinned maddeningly. Puny turned away haughtily. “Come on, Bud,” he muttered. “He’s | nuts.” | Paul shot away from the curb. He gripped the wheel and chuckled as he | drove. A likable chap, this Machanello. In his second year with Babe Bunton's | Orchestra, playing at the Trocadero during the Summer season and at the popular Viennese Ball Room down- town during the Winter, he was very well known among the dancing public. And approved, especially by the op- posite sex, because from the youthful feminine and therefore romantic point of view he was no strain to the eye and was further possessed of a really commendable singing voice. ~ The opportunities afforded him by this following, needless to say, found no distant reception. His mode of living. in & sense, was not complicated, yet it sometimes be- came that way with disconcerting suddenness. With Bud Samuels and Puny Gormley, hitherto mentioned, whose baptismal names were, respec- | tively, Leland and Alfred, he shared divers apartments. Changes in loca- | tion were frequent and were usually | made on urgent request of the owners | thereof, after the third or fourth | party had been “thrown” by the les- sors thereof. A restless trio, this. Collectors of empty bottles, connois- seurs of the faminine figure divine, ravishers of traffic regulations, always broke, always in debt for new musical instruments bought in never-ending search for “tone,” always in trouble of some kind—usually girls. Unheed- ing. Irresponsible. But passing musi- cians—and hospitable hosts far in | excess of their incomes. | Downtown, Paul parked the old car | beneath the pyramided tower of the | Telephone Building. Having gained | | a position commanding the entrance, | he did not leave the car, but sat in | the late afternoon sun, and, at inter- | vals, drew on a cigarette. His attitude was somewhat tense and the hand he | rested on the steering wheel hovered nervously near the horn-button. A group of girls issued from the | wide doors, and one, who hesitated uncertainly before the building, turned quickly at Paul's signal and came toward him. Young, blond, lissom, | she ran along the sidewalk and climbed | into the roadster with a graceful little | hop. She was classic-featured with a | typically pure coloring, cleverly en- hanced. Her blue eyes lighted in- stantly, unmistakably, as they fastened themselves on Paul. Her voice low, | rich. “Darling,” she articulated, breath- | ing quickly. “Oh, but I'm glad to see ! you! Today was the longest of | all—" She nestled close to him in the | seat. He seemed in no hurry to start the motor, holding her hand, his eyes | drinking her in, isolating them from | the clamorous street at their side. | “I'll say it was, honey,” he answered. | Then, eagerly, “Did you tell 'em? Did you say your little piece?” She did not reply, but nodded her head without looking at him. Her color was high and she trembled slightly, her eyes masked by their long lashes. Suddenly she turned and faced him—although with an obvious effort. Her gaze was almost an appeal “Paul—" she breathed. “Paul He patted her hand. “I know how you feel, sugar,” he murmured, con- | solingly. “It’s a big step to take. And— tomorrow’s the day. But don't worry. We're going to be okay. Everything is gonna be jake—for always—" The girl slipped a hand under his arm. Her smile, a trifle apologetic, | was dazzling. “I'm sorry, darling,” she said. “It's—it's just because I'm so- glad—and—and—" “I know,” he repeated. “I feel like kissin’ a policeman, myself. What do you say we run out to Jerry— Joe’s an’ eat and put th' finishin’ touches to th’ arrangements. Right?” They raced out Prospect avenue through the growing twilight. The girl’s head lay against Paul's shoulder and, though the arm around her became numbed in its maintained position, he was aware of no dis- comfort. At a small cafe, just inside the park gates, they occupied a booth. The girl ordered coffee, but Paul dined heartily, attended by two white-aproned youths who rushed to and fro betimes, bearing victuals to other patrons enthroned on the line of stools at the counter. This pair, Paul addressed familiarly as Jerry and Joe, and they were ex- tremely anticipatory and very defer- ential, their gaze often lingering on his trim companion. When the girl went to the phone to call her roommate the twin res- taurateurs approached Paul. “Datin’ that blond pretty regular, aintcha, Paul?” inquired Jerry. “Yeh—about three months,” Paul told him, carelessly. “What's her name, now? sit—" “Ina Frederickson. Folks live in Dallas.” “She’s built like nobuddy’s busi- ness,” opined Joe, the frank. men,” said Paul, con- “I'll let you in on some- We're to be married tomor- | I fer- ‘then at each other. round-eyed. “No kiddin'?” they gasped together. “No kiddin’.” Business men to.the eyebrows, they soon submerged their confusion under broad smiles and effusive felicitations. They became | known you. “Fan my brow!” supplicated Jerry. When the girl returned they were obsequiousness personified, a truly great gesture being their refusal to i issue Paul a check for his meal. Eventually left alone, the two heads in the booth became very close together. Ina sat, chin cupped in her palm, an alluring dimple flashing into her smooth cheek as she smiled at the impetuous plan-making of Paul, acr the table. They were very exact about details. She spelled her full name for him, to be used as marriage - license data. He bor- rowed a pencil from Joe and entered all memoranda in a small note book. After her name he wrote, “Free white and 21,” but she took the pencil and crossed out the first word. He forgot to return the pencil to its owner. The ceremony, they agreed, would be very simple, attended only by bosom friends, themselves and the minister; Paul, to be accompanied by Bud and Puny, in due homage to comradeship of long standing; Ina THE EVENING STAR, to Ina, stating that any one would do for him, just so he “knew his groceries,” ard the one she named, pastor of the church she attended, he vigorously approved. He suggested Galveston as the ideal honeymoon spot and, this being indorsed, began turning over in his mind various|, means of securing the necessary funds, a contingency that he had characteristically ~disregarded until this moment. Other minor details were speedily settled. It seemed that they agreed on_everything. When they left the cafe the park was brilliant and the evening crowds were returning. Reclaiming the de- crepit Model A, they drove slowly townward. The evening was tranquil, the moon a huge, bright disk in a sky still streaked by the sunset's aft- erglow. Thirty-second street came much too quickly. They stopped before the vine-clad portico of a small brick apartment building and Paul snapped off the Leadlights. He then produced a cig- arette and, placing it carefully on the back of his hand, struck his wrist a sharp blow The, cigarette executed a neat flip and stuck in his mouth. He lighted it and, settling back comfort- ably in the seat, slipped an arm around the girl at his side. She snug- gled close to him warmly, respon- sively. For some moments they were still, then the girl stirred faintly. Her profile was thoughtful, preoccupied. “I suppose youw’ll have to go right away,” she sighed. Paul blew a cloud of smoke out of the corner of his mouth so it would not drift toward her. “I'll be back to- morrow though—for keeps,” he re- minded her. “Think of it, Honey— this time tomorrow night you'll be— my wife—" The girl moved her head in assent, then suddenly straightened in his arm until she could see his face. Her eyes were concerned, her manner tense, half-fearful “I don’t know why I'm doing this,” she said, wonderingly. “But I want to. That seems to put everything else in the background. Still, it doesn’t seem hardly fair to you. It will be such a change in your way of living— and—and I'm afraid I won't be able to make enough allowance for you— when—when you slip a little.” Paul patted her shoulder. He did rot seem surprised at her misgivings. His eyes were unaccustomedly soft, | watching a golden flame play across | her hair where a shaft of moonlight fell upon it. “I know what you're thinking, Honey,” he said musingly. hard for you to realize that I'm on the level about this. I admit that I've been a genuine heel, livin’ on whoopee parties an’ gin—but not—since I've It's easy to see why this “It's still | g | see, you're the only girl I ever felt this icea didn’t click with you at first. but I argued you into it and I'm takin’ the responsibility. And if you could feel the same way about it, there’s not a chance of things goin’ haywire.” Ina sat staring into the shadows ahead of the car. In the light that filtered through the trees into the seat, her expression was indefinable. “You know—how I feel about it,” she replied, slowly. “It's just that— I—I hope you'll always be—as you are now.” “And T will be,” he insisted. “Lis- ten, Honey, when I think of living— with you—all the rest of my days— well, I just can't see it any other way. Remember what I promised you? I meant every word. If I ever lle to you, it’ll be under an anaesthetic.” “But you're so sure,” she protested. w can you be so sure?’ “By just looking at you,” he ex- plained, easily. “I'm no high school kid—1I know what it’s all about. From pow on, all childish pleasures are in the discard. Look, Honey—I'll start workin’ toward a band of my own; maybe dash off three or four song hits. Believe it or not, I have been known to have ideas and some of ‘em weren't so dusty. We'll get by—like a top. Why, with th’ most wonderful little woman in th* world t'look after, I'll be th’ world’s most devoted fam- ily man—and like it!” 1 His optimism was infectious. She leaned toward him, a little smile playing about her lips, half-timorous, half-whimsical. “You're sweet,” she told him, con- tritely. “And I'm being morbid— and silly. Stil—” She looked away, her profile again sober. “Paul,” she said slowly. “Tomor- row—I'll have the right to ask you something that I'd like to ask you to- night.” She shot a glance at him, laughed a little apofogetically. “Am I being too bad?” He was mildly surprised. “No—" he assured her. “It's very personal” she warned him. “Paul—is there anything be- tween you—and Jessle Whitewood— that—I mean, anything that could really hurt us—after tomorrow—?2" He was held for a moment by the intense expression in her eyes strain- ing at him through the semi-gloom inside the car, then burst into a short, spontaneous laugh. “Is that what's worrying you?” he cried. He laughed again, a note of incredulity in it. “Mostly—,” sald Ina. “Oh—I know I'm foolish, but—." “Honey,” he interrupted, swiftly serious. “If that's all, there’s nothing to it. Poor old Jess—she gets blamed for a lot. She’s been & good friend to me—helped me over many a rough spot—but I think we're square. DOw. She's just a part of that big, bad past of mine—that I'm through with—and if I've left any obligation behind, I'm not aware of it. Now, does that fix it up?” The girl turned toward him, her face radiant, convinced. “Darling,” she said, repentantly. “Will it be hard to forgive me?” Paul smiled at her, almost master- fully. “Easy,” he deprecated. “You | way about.” | Ina sat very still. “How?” she| asked, naively. “How, what?” “About me. How do you feel about me?” DAILY T 58 Walter Sprague found himself a success- man. Moreover, he was a wealthy man; wealthy—that is, if you consider one whose assets are just short of $2,000,- 000 wealthy. He retired from business and settled down to enjoy the remaining years of his life. He joined three golf clubs, be- came interested in horse racing, read good books, played bridge, traveled. And yet, withal, he was neither con- tent nor happy. Unfortunately, Walter abided in a community Wwhere wealthy —men abounded. He was one of many, hence undistinguished. He was respected, but not admired; was considered & good citizen, but by no means an out- standing one. Unlike the rich man of the small town who is lord of all he surveys, Walter’s prominence and im- portance ended at the portals of his own home. Just why he was not content Walter did not know; not until one day at breakfast. He was glancing through the front-page columns of the Morn- ing Blade and his eye fell upon the picture of a prominent citizen. The article beneath the picture was the citizen's obituary. It told of his death, of the great loss to the community, of the man's achievements, of his wealth, of his various activities dur- ing the past years of his life. ‘Walter Sprague read the article and knew why he was not content. Bit- terly, he reflected that if the Morning Blade were to publish his own obituary there would be no great splurge of headlines. There would be no men- tion of a loss to the community. There would be no paragraphs concerning great achievements. It would be just a plain, ordinary obituary, such as would be written about a store clerk or a dog catcher. Walter brooded. Never during his life of hard work and constant appli- cation had he achieved publicity. Never had he become known as a man of prominence beyond the circle of his business associates. This was bad, he told himself. He had amassed a fortune, yet when he died it would be the end of Walter Sprague forever. Gradually a plan formed in Walter’s mind. He was wealthy. Why not use that wealth to achieve a name for himself? Now that he could devote the time to it, it would be easy. He would become a benefactor, a philan- thropist. He would donate buildings and promote public enterprises. News- papers would write long articles about him. Prominent men would consult him, seek his advice. He would be talked about. Past records, records of his early life, of his rise in business, his success, would be brought to light and published. And when at last the end came, newspapers would have material galore to write about the man who had devoted a life to society. They would read his obituary and re- member. In a word, he would have contributed his bit to posterity. Walter burned with excitement, as the plan unfolded itself in his mind. He set to work at once, The Morning Blade provided him with information that the city was planning the erec- tion of a memorial library. A drive was on to raise the necessary funds. Walter folded the paper, stuck it in his coat pocket and set out for the town hall. ‘That night he picked up the evening edition of the Ledger and felt & thrill at sight of the headlines: *“Memorial Library Made Possible by Generosity He headiines., to bring her roommate, Carol Haynes. 4 The selection of the minister, he left: of Local Citizen. Walter Sprague, re- tired business man, donates Jarge SHORT STORY: FOR POSTERITY'S SAKE BY RICHARD HILL WILKINSON. felt @ thrill at sight of the { of national importance; his opinions sum.” Beneath this | was his picture. (A poor likeness, Wal- ter thought.) And still fartoer down on the'page was a two - column lead paragraph, followed by the complete story of Walter's' life. | Within the next | week Waiter sat for new photographs and ordered a doz- en prints made up of himself in a pos- | ture that reminded | him, secretly, o[‘ Napoleon’s favorite | stance, and yet in itself was prepos- sessing and dignified looking. | A month later he again made the front page of the Ledger. This time he had promoted a movement which resulted in the establishment of a health camp on the outskirts of the, city, at which the children of poor | families could enjoy themselves for two weeks each Summer, free of charge. When the reporters called, Walter had photographs of himself in | his Napoleon posture ready and waiting. Within the next year and the one that followed, Walter came to be sat- | isfied with the success of his plan. | He had achieved a prominence far beyond his wildest dreams. He had become one of the city’s leading citi- zens. His name was connected with practically every movement pertaining to public benefit. Newspapers called him up to seek his comment on affairs were frequently quoted editorially. There was talk of asking him to run for State Representative from the dis- trict of which his home city held the largest number of votes. But Walter was content to let well enough alone. He had no desire to mix in politics. He had accomplished that for which he had set out. Every newspaper in the city, and in nearby cities, had his photograph on file; their libraries contained reams of ma- terial concerning his activities, public and private, past and present. When he died, Walter knew there would be a big front-page spread. Folks would miss him. The city would consider itself a loser. And so for a time Walter's name remained out of the papers. And yet whenever he did become active in any public movements, they played him up. The mere mention of his name, associated with the enterprise then in progress, was a big thing. Supremely content, joyously happy, ‘Walter lived on in his new glory, and was no longer afraid to die. The end came suddenly. He was on his way to the newspaper office, with a new set of photographs of him- self. As he passed beneath the stag- ing on a new building under construc- tion, a ladder slipped and a great load of bricks came crashing to the earth. He was not dead when the ambu- lance arrived and he lived for 10 min- utes after they reached the hospital. His last thoughts were pleasant. He was dying at the psychological mo- ment, he was at the height of his glory. The newspapers would play him up big. Alas! The very minute that Walter breathed his last, a famous movie ac- tress shot her husbani. The news swept the country like a maelstrom. Newspapers cleared their front pages of important stories as if they were so much “filler” material. It was the greatest news lead in years. And the story of Walter Sprague’s trag'c death was printed in a 3-inch space on in- side pages of both the Ledger and the “Well, I feel—I feel—m—."" “Do you love me?” “Huh—sure I do.” “Tell me, then.” “I'll say I do.” “Oh,—you- 1 or doa’t you?” “In a big way!” She muttered something and turned an indignant back on him. Paul gathered her into his arms and held her close. She glanced up at him briefly, and divining the look in his eyes, tried to hide her face against his breast. He forestalled this with a haand under her chin and deliber- ately bent his head. At the last moment, she closed her eyes and sub- mitted blindly, her arms slipping up around his neck. Their lips met. The girl's eyes were shining as she drew slightly away. She smiled at Paul, her red mouth an invitation, close to his own. ‘Tell me. Do you ,_WASHINGTON, D. C., FRIDAY, JULY 5, 1935. “1 love you—," sald Paul. “From the day I met you on the coaster and you socked me. You're more to me than aaything else in the world. You're a song without words—a torch in th’ dark, and a breath from the woods in the Spring. You're my dream come true—and the only girl I ever told these things to—and meant s The arms about his neck tightened convulsively, and Ina drew his head down until her lips found the eager ones above her. It became very still in the little car. The tiny clock on the dashboard ticked bravely on, for four hours, slow but undaunted. ‘When Paul reappeared at the Tro- cadero that evening, he bore with him a new record for sustained and un- authorized leave of absence. The orchestra had just ended a aumber and his approach being noted by sundry of the personnel, he imme- “Tell me, now,” she whispered. ' Sweeping Redctio Th ro! diately became the cynosure of varied satirical acclamation. It’s Vincent Lopez!” “How’s everything in Hot Springs?” “Remember when we worked for Bunton down in K—C?” “Hey, Jessie was lookin’ for you.” Boss Babe Bunton surveyed the unpunctual one. “When did you dock?” he requested, cuttingly. They blared out in the next tune. Paul climbed to his seat and picked up his instrument. next him, he confided, under cover ! of a hand, “Goin’ to get married, | tomorrow.” | Bud rolld his cyes at him. | “Crocked again,” he said. (To be continued.) Zoo Gets 1,000 Crocodiles. One thousand crocodiles, captured rare ingredients. irritations. because you get relief. approved by Good Housekeeping Bu- reau, All druggists, 35¢ B-§ . . . and after spending hundreds of dollars to clear it up, I tried Zemo | and got relief,” writes G. C. 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