Evening Star Newspaper, October 20, 1935, Page 90

3 Magaszine Section “ HE rose-petal softness of my skin," said Mr. Tommy Trap- hagen, “I attribute to the daily use of Santé Soap." Miss Snowden's round blue eyes went rounder and bluer, and her pencil paused over her note book. She cast a covert glance at Mr. Traphagen. His skin was nol rose-petal. It was firm and pleasantly tanned. “] said,” said Mr. Traphagen, and his voice was louder now and more insistent, “the rose-petal softness of my skin I attribute to the daily use of Santé Soap. Take it down! Write it! It’s a testimonial which one of our clients, Gloria Dane, has written for Sant¢ Soap.” “Oh —'' Miss Snowden's pencil dug ear- nestly into the paper. “And take this and get it changed into pennies,” he said, as she finished and folded up her note book. Again the round blue eyes dilated. ‘‘This" was a bill — a hundred-dollar bill! “And find a pet store where I can buy twelve white mice.” Miss Snowden went back to her typewriter, her head whirling. Of course the first day in a new office was always strange, but not this strange. Mr. Traphagen’s rose-petal skin — ten thousand pennies — twelve white mice. And now he was calling for Hazel. Hazel appeared. Unlike Miss Snowden, who possessed a certain shy, elusive prettiness, Hazel was a young lady of lush and blatant charms, and she appeared to be extremely capable of taking care of herself in a hard- boiled world. She was lazy and leisurely as she draped herself over Mr. Traphagen's desk. ‘“What's on your mind?"’ she demanded. “Plenty. For one thing, Giskind wants me to do something about ‘Miss Cheerio.’ It's sagging." “Meaning it's time you landed the leading lady on the front page when she tries to com- mit suicide in Central Park Lake, leaving a note behind in her pocketbook, saying it was all for love o’ —"’ “Never mind the bright ideas. It isn't ‘Miss Cheerio’ I wanted to see you about. It'’s that lion tamer lady. Fearless Francine. She had an act in vaudeville, but that's all washed up now, and she's trying to hook up with the circus. “Here's the lay,’”” he continued. ‘‘Get her a room at the Towers. You take one next to her with a door adjoining. Your line’s trained mice. One of them gets out of the cage and into her room. She screams, telephones the management. They send up some bell hops, who kill the mouse. Then you rush in, raise Cain. It’s Felix, your prize mouse. “We can play it for days: LION TAMER FAINTS AS MOUSE INVADES ROOM — FEARLESS FRANCINE WHO MASTERS THE JUNGLE'S MOST SAVAGE BEASTS SWOONS BEFORE AD- VANCES OF TIMID RODENT. “That’ll be the first day. Then you sue her and the hotel for $50,000 because your act is ruined by the death of Felix. Then we'll have Felix’s funeral and a blanket of roses from Walt Disney in Hollywood on be- half of Mickey Mouse. Then —'' He broke off suddenly. “This is too good to waste on a stooge.” He turned toward Miss Snowden. “Miss — uh — Whatshername — call up the Allied Booking offices and find out if they have any white mice that need publicity."” Mr. Tommy Traphagen stood in Grand Central Station waiting for the Twentieth Century to pull in. Although the day was warm, he wore a top coat, its large patch pockets bulging and sagging strangely. As the gates opened and the passengers debouched into the station, his eyes searched the crowd, lighting at last on a young man of dangerous blond good looks followed by three porters and a large assortment of showy luggage. “Max!"” “Tommy!"” “But where,”” Max protested, ‘is the re- ception?”’ “Right here.” Tommy patted his bulging pockets. Indifferent crowds hurried past. THIS WEEK - Girls Are Like Elephants When the time came to call the boss’s bluff, Little ““NMiss Whoosis> remembered by H. ASHBROOK “But this is outrageous. Last week when Chevalier arrived, they — Say, what do you think I'm paying you for?" Tommy cut him short. “You're not paying meanything. I'm taking a percentage on what I make out of you. And I've made plenty when you consider what little there was to start with. I've built you up from nothing. You should have heard them last week at Imperial Pictures when I tried to raise your $500 to $3000. They laughed in my face. Said you didn't have any real following. They said a lot more'' — he paused, grinned — “a lot more that they're going to take back — in Hlustrations by C. C. Beall about half an hour. So let’s get going.”’ Arm in arm, they left the station. It was at the corner of Forty-second Street and Vanderbilt Avenue that Tommy dropped the first handful of pennies — deliberately — casually - nonchalantly. There was a flurry in the crowd, a dive for the coins. He dropped another handful. Max's handsome brows knitted into a puzzled frown. “What's the idea? Are you crazy or —"' “Pipe down — and smile.” “But —" “‘Smile!” Max smiled. Tommy continued to drop pennies. The crowd was following now. At Madison Avenue it had increased, and by the time they reached Fifth, it was a pro- cession of such sizeable proportion that it surged out into the street. At Sixth Avenue the crowd was definitely a mob. Someone shouted. Tommy dropped more pennies. By the time they reached Times Square, traffic was stalled. The crowd surged, milled about. Heads popped out of office win- dows. Policemen pushed their way to the center of the maelstrom. “Officer! Help! It's Ray Maximilian,” Tommy shouted. “Ray Maximilian.”” The name ran through the crowd. ‘‘Maximilian.” Those in front took it up, passed it on to those behind. It grew “Poor kid. Poor crazy kid,” October 20,1935 he thought. He was miserable I REEEm———