Lakeland Evening Telegram Newspaper, May 19, 1914, Page 6

e IN ICED BOTTLES ANYWHERE — \ Every botile bubbles over \ wzth ”ci! restfulness to body and mind— A delightful flavor all its own. 5¢ BOTTLED BY CHERO-COLA BOTTLING CO. LAKELAND, FLORIDA ) Lol wm OOOOOOOOOOOOOOONXXXXOC | SHE WENT A-PLAYING ikttt 15 @ Fowuti By MARY ROBERTS RINEHART. Everybody said it was a wonderful chance for me, but mother wasn't so sure. She didn't mind the stock com- pany, where father could take me home at night, and Anne could git around at rehearsals; but this was dif- ferent. And then I think she was afraid of Mr. Cunningham. He was supposed to have as much temper as he had professional reputation, and, of course, that was colossal. I coaxed mother over at last. Tom- my had the mumps, and she was so worn out with him that she gave in./| The whole family had a hand in get- ting my costumes ready, and 1 bor- rowed Anne’s feather boa, little think- ing what use it would be put to! The rehearsals were pretty bad. One morning Mr. Cunningham made me go through a six-line speech—the one where I find the revolver and take out the bullets and then snap it at him—17 times. 1 was pretty tired, and when he said, “Now—again,” I turned on him like 4 wjldcat. “If you make me do it again,” I snapped, “I—I won't take out the bul- lets!"” He laughed—can you believe it? He laughed, and I fumed, and it was bed- lam all around. I went home and wept it out on Tommy's pillow—which made him think he was going to die, and his poor, comical face went all mottled. But—Mr, Cunningham kept me. That’s where the tragedy comes in. He was very particular with me on the road. Once or twice he said that some day I would learn to act, and I walked on air for days.” He had his private car, and was very comfort- able; but the pne-night stands nearly | killed me. after a monstrosity called “The Merry | Maids of Manchester,” and the bell- boys thought it funny that we had no poodles, and that we didn't gather to | sing in the parlor and call one another | by our first names Baldwin, the juvenile, was very nice , to me, and we took long walks in the mornings, picking up postcards to send home, and sometimes running over our scene in the second act, where my guardian—Mr, Cunningham —steps in and says: “Do you love him, Hilda? He—he is a splendid fellow.” And, of course, every one in the audience knows the guardian 18 in love with me and is going to Africa If I take Baldwin. The guar- dlan is married, you see, and Miss D’Arcy played the wife. The funny thing was that Baldwin wag really crazy about Miss D'Arcy, We fellowed right along | . Words of Praise For Mayr’s Wonderful Stomach Remedy “How thankful we are to you for getting a_hold of {lmr wonderful Remedy, y wife could not have had but a short time to live if she had not taken your We rfyl Remedy when she did. One more of those '\:ur‘\sm pains she was having would have killed her without a doubt. ~ Now she is free from all pain, free from heart trouble and at disturbing the results J nents——an the expulsion of five or six hundred Gall Stones. \. w she is \H. to eat anything she , sulkily; which was so absurd that I 1y tight! 1 and talked about her all the time. “l wish you wouldn't,” 1 said one day. “I know she's beautiful, and can act like a dream, and all that; but you needn't rub it in.” “How about you raving over Cun- nlngham all the time?” he retorted went back to the hotel without speak- ing to him again. And then the most awful thing hap- pened! You know the scene at the beginning of the last act—when we are all at breakfast and the wife sweeps In in a rage? Well, it starts with grapefruit, and I have a line when I taste it and say—to Mr. Cun- ningham: “It's as bitter as—as you have been —to me, this last week.” Well, I put that stuff in my mouth, and at once the most dreadful pain began just in front of my ears and seemed to go all over me. My tongue drew up and my jaws locked perfect- trled to swallow and couldn’t, and there I sat, while Mr. Cunningham looked at me and waited for his cue. you, I'li have to tell you that. But it's a hard life, and—I want you to give it up. You're too young, and you've been too much sheltered, to—" “I'm twenty-one, Mr. Cunningham,” I broke in defiantly. “Even grown people get the mumps. I'm not a child; I'm as old as—the girl in that picture.” I rushed out then, and in the first act, where I have the scene with my guardian's wife, I burst into real tears at the end and got a curtain-call. 1 ber of things—but it doesn’'t matter. One thing was certain—I hated Mr. Cunningham! I was quite ill for a day or two at home. ring, I tried to put the whole thing out of my mind and to forget that mumps. But the day before the New York opening I heard Ella admit some one. I had been looking at under some of ing when he came in. Cunningham! At last he went on without my | speaking, which caused a titter and made him wild. However, the rest of the act went well. In the farewell scene, where he goes to Africa to the war, I tried to warn him to kiss me on top of my head, because by that time I knew that I had the mumps and I was in a fever of fright; but Mr. Cunningham’s big scene al- ways carries him off his feet, and that night, to my horror, he kissed me twice. Hopper, the stage manager, nearly went crazy when I told him. “Now I'll get it!” he groaned. not the mumps, but the devil! You'll have to go on—that's all. Wear a nightcap—anything—but don't put Cunningham up against a new ingenue when he's up in the alr with a new play!” “Then you'll have to cut out the grapefruit,” I sald with a shudder. “No, | “It will have to be bananas, and I | can wear big mull tles to my garden hat in the last act and a feather boa in the second.” | So we fixed it. I was not very ill, and, after all, Mr. Cunningham took the news like a lamb, even sending me some jelly his chef had made. But a week later Baldwin stopped guddenly and made an awful face over his lemonade in the tennis scene. 1 knew then what had happened; and when he came to rehearsal the next morning with his neck-line entirely obliterated, and with a silk handker- never like that, thank goodness! Hop- per had to take his place, and Mr. cloud. Then he sent for me. I went in fear and trembling. He was in front of his dressing-mirror, hair on top. It is naturally a little gray over his ears. When I csme in he got up very courteously and drew out a chair. “Will you wait just a moment?" be said, and finished what he was doing. The dressing-room was a ltter, of course, and right at the bottom of the mirror was a picture in a silver frame. It was a girl in a black gown, and it was exquisite—the plcture, not the gown. I thought that very likely t was the girl he was in love with, with some one. graying his | for, of course, he would be in love | 1 knew what was coming before he | 1 shook hands with him and tried Tommy's stockings I had been mend- | It was Mr.| | the invention of new 1 was very unhappy; there were a num- | MAKE SPECIALTY OF NOISE Men Constantly Devising Automobile Horns That Will Produce New and Startling Sounds. It is strange to think that there are noise inventors, but, then, the truth is always strange. The noise wmventor's chief task is es for auto- horn mobile horns. An automobile "should act like a hammer blow on the Then, nothing terrible occur- my theatrical career had died of the | 1 had just time to slip a picture | to hide the basket with his picture | and the stockings. did not sit down. Mr. Cunningham He stood by the | | head. It should make the foot pas- senger jump, as a smart hammer blow would do, It should make him look in a frenzy of terror to see whence the noise came, just as he would look to see who had hit him with the ham- mer, It should make him run like a rabbit out of the autoinobile’s way, even as he would run out of the way of the hammer that had struck him. The automobile horn does all these things, but it only does them so long as its sound is new and strange. Ite iong, siren-like wail no longer does them. Its horrible clank-clank, as of rusty iron scraping rusty iron, no longer does them. What does them now is a very powerful, very sudden fire and looked down at me severely. lhunk honk, as of a giant blowing a “You're a bad child!” he said at last; “a runaway. What made you do it, Eleanor?” “I had to,” I pleaded. "It was too dreadful—every one getting sick and blaming it on me. Won't you take off your overcoat and—and have some tea?” 1 was quite breathless with excite- ment and reaction, and I was still ter- ribly afraid of him. My hands shook s0 that I could hardly pour the tea. He dropped into a chair and looked around. “Jove, what a thing it is to be in a real home again!” he said, looking very human indeed with his feet out | before him. “I always pictured you doing something like this—tea and mending—instead of roaming around the country with a theatrical com- pany.” I gave him his tea, squeezing a bit of lemon in, and then—suddenly—he clapped his hand to his left ear, and I knew it had come. He waited until | | he could speak, and then all he said was “Good Lord!” He looked at me helplessly. There were only two things I could do— laugh or cry. I had cried so much that now I laughed—laughed while I knew that there would be no New York opening; laughed while the chief instead of a collar, we all knew. | 8reat Mr. Cunningham glared at me; He was quite shiny in spots—I was| laughed until he looked injured and then got over it and laughed himself. “Well!” he sald, when we both Cunningham looked like a thunder-! dried our eyes and got our breath. “I never expected to laugh over a tragedy llke this. You make me do anything you want, Eleanor.” “Oh, I hope you won't be very ill,” I sald quickly “But I shall be; I'm sure to. I al ways have things hard,” he replied, getting up and coming over to me. “1 took you very hard indeed, Eleanor. 1 don’t care anything about “The Pil- lars of Society.” I only know I want my little ward again. FEleanor, the | day you left 1 was wild. T can't act— 1 can't live without you, dear. Why, see—you've put your mark on me!" When he said that, what could I do? Anyhow, I forgot completely that this i was the greatest tragedian of his time. All T knew was that he was lonely and that I-—well, that I didn't hate him. He crushed me to him—I'll ad- sald it. I clasped my hands tight to- gother to keep me from crying and my feet felt numb and cold. I was | ‘borflbly, awfully afrald of him, and | yot I had the most dreadful inclina- | Mayr's Stomach Remedy ' t a Wonderful Mayr's Wonde stomach had rumpled it up in the back. | “Now, Miss Fleanor,” he sald, turn- ing round and facing me, “I'll tell you why 1 want to talk to you. You are looking ill and tired; what would the little mother say to me?” That was the worst thing he could have said. I choked up in a minute and put my head down on the back of my chair. I—k-know “But it's mean ert” I can't act!” I sobbed. ‘You can act,’ ‘That’s the trouble_ In fairness_to | tion to pat down his hair where he to put it off on moth- | he said very gently. | mit that; but Anne told it as a great juke when the nounced, hall she heard me say: “Of course you may I've had them!™ sht, by the Frank A. Munse engage I'm not afraid. v Co.) Inadequate. First Charity Visitor find Rk How did vou Hol¢ Sec y Visitor—Nearly fro- | zen' st Ch Vis N ro- | l‘yv s ' the ‘ment was an-) that as she came into the| bags horn. But this new noise, like others, will soon grow familiar, and once it is familiar its hammerliké quality will disappear So noise inventors study the squeal of pigs, the bray of doukeys and the cry of the seal. They visit boiler fac- tories and sawmills in their search for ideas. They frequent slaughter houses. And it i8 not enough for them to find a new noise —they must reproduce it in a horn. Theirs, indeed, 18 no easy task. Scientists say that a good, efficient noise, such as the noise inventor turne out, not only geems to act like a ham- mer blow, but really does so. It ex- hausts the nerves and the brain, It is, indeed, the chief cause of the terrible modern malady of neurasthenia, So the noise inventor, it seems, g not an unmixed blessing. Neverthe- less he is here to stay. For without him how can the speeding automobil- ist make the foot passenger bl lh\h leap a foot in the air, and then scurry | like the wind out of harm's way to the sidewalk ?>—Chicago Record-Herald. Condemned Even as Food. “These are evil days for rich men,” sald George Ade at a luncheon of the Chicago Athletic club. “I'd rather be a pickpocket than an interlocking di- rector—there's more honor in it “They say that a cannibal king re- cently sent post haste for his doctor. “‘Good grecious, man,’ the doctor gaid, ‘you're in a dreadful state. What have you been eating? “‘Nothing,' groaned the sick man, ‘except a slice of that multi-million. alre whose yacht was wrecked on Cocoanut reef.' “*Merciful powers,’ the doctor cried. ‘And I told you under no circum. stances to eat anything rich. George, get the saws and axes. We must op- erate at once.'” ““When you swallow Dr. Bell" Pine«Tar- Honey you can I:d'lf heal, It soothes and smoothes the raw spots’’ —says Granny Metcalfe, ‘That's Granny’s wa eighty PINE TAR- hONEY “;Iell B;' y ¥ ‘be‘.!;;q i For sale by Henley & Henley. The Loss by Fire in the U, it ',“‘n always arrivipg 2 We keep up with the very newest things in fancy footwear, Itsy ’ asure to show our goods, nd our aim is to fit you. we @ ple are thy ¢l o o i # 1y store in Lakeland that ues the custom fitting methogs, PEERERDERPDEDI0 DUTFON-HARRIS CO...:5¢ FOOT FITTERS We Repair Shoes While You Wait. £ BT 1’7') Ky. 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