The evening world. Newspaper, April 1, 1922, Page 15

that. It's up to us to show him what we know about living.” Everybody laughed jovially. Henry enjoyed the six-mile drive out the River Road to the club. He had never cidden in so big and powerful a car before; it rolled so much more smoothly than a New York taxi over New York streets; he would have such a car himself, A hundred big cars were parked near the club house; a gallery of thirty or forty people were grouped around the eighteenth hole. Just as they stepped out on the ve- randa a tall girl in a smashing sports costume of green and white drove off from the first tee. Henry saw the beautiful free swing of the driver, caught a glimpse of the ball skimming down the fairway, saw it land a good 200 yards away and go bounding on. “That was a good drive,” he said ad- miringly. Henry had given up golf after two trials of the public course at Van Cortlandt Park, but he knew a good drive when he saw it. “That was my daughter, Anita,” said Theodore Camp. “She does this course under eighty.” Henry met dozens of cordial, well dressed, assured men and women in the next hour. Not one was a person he had ever seen before; not one had @ name he remembered, There must have been a tremendous influx of new people. And of course he had never known the people who owned Midvale —the conquerors. He had lived with an obscure family in an obscure strect. He had carried papers night and morn- ing until he was old enough to drive the feed-store wagon. He couldn't go to parties and picnics and high-school dances. He had been an outsider, one of the beaten ones. Now he was one of the conquerors. Now he would be one of the people who owned Midvale. NITA CAMP came bounding up the steps, crossing the floor With long strides. “Anita’——- her father be- gan, Anita had already seized Henry's hand. “I know who you are,” she cried; “you're Mills of New York.” She wrung Henry’s hand in an iron grip, “Gee, but I'm glad to see you. We certainly need new men!” “You're a true philanthropist, Mr Mills,” she cried “Any young man who gives up New York to come out here is a philanthropist. And when hejs an eligible bachelor! : Anita Camp threw her hand in the air to express the inexpressible. “Seriously,” she said to Henry, in a voice that could not be heard more than twenty or thirty feet, “I can’t im- agine your keeping your freedom more than six months. But I'll do the best I can to protect you. We'll play golf all day to-morrow and go somewhere else in the evening to dance, I'll make up a foursome right now.” “But’—— Henry began. “Jack,” roared Anita Camp “Oh, Jack!" A bronzed ciant in white flannels bore down on them, He looked like the stroke oar of a Yale crew or an all- America full back to Henry. “Jack,” said Anita, ‘{f want you to meet Mr. Mills of New York, Mr Mills, this is Jack Hardin—he does this course under Borey Jack gripped Henry's hand. ‘“‘llow’'s this year's Follies?’ he asked aT haven't seen ‘em myself yet, but Um going down next week.” “U-u-u-u-h,” said Henry. He hadn't geen this year’s lollies either; or any other year’s. “Gertrude! Oh, Camp yelled. Wh-o0-0-0-0!" A slender girl in a sleeveless jacket of hunter's pink responded. She was tanned to the color of a red Indian. fertrude!” Anita “Wh-o0-0-0-o! “Gertrude was runner-up in the State championship for women last year,” Anita explained, ‘This year she's going to win.” ‘Unless you do, Anita,” said Ger- trude. “Oh, 'm just a rough-neck player,’ gaid Anita. “I can drive, but [ never will learn to be careful with a mid- fron, Shall we start at 10 to-morrow? Md like to get in eighteen holes before lunch.” “But’—— Henry interposed. “We can do elghteen move afte: funch,” Anita went on, ‘and then we'll @rive to Montmorenci’s for dinner.’ “But I don't play golf.” "You don't pluy golf!” cried “No,” said Henry. Really?” “I'm an absoiute duffer,” said Henry Anite “Oh, you New York duffers,” said Gertrude. "7 bet he con make the fitst hole in three, don’t you. Jack?” said Anita Jack grinned. “And the nintn in two!” he sai! “But Trewtiv can't play,” said fens “Well,” said Anita Camp, "Po don really believe vu But if it’s so, to morrow isn’t too soon to begin \ can't live in Midvale unless yor pln golf.” An orchestra suddenly lnrst i ragtime far down the veranda “Come,” said Anita Camp, “let's ta one one-step berore dinner.” “T don’t dance,” said Heng, “What?” "] don’t dance,” said Henry e “Then dll teach you,” she said firmly, Pp 2 and, seizing Henry, she started off with him, He skipped after her, in a deter- mined effort to keep his feet, what- ever happened. The mu@ic suddenly stopped. took a deep breath. “Why, you'll learn in an evening or two,” sald Anita Camp. “I'll teach you the foxtrot after dinner.” She very nearly kept her word. They worked on the foxtrot for two hours. And when Henry got so he could more or less keep going and endeavored to beg off for the evening she started in on the one-step. That lasted two hours more, “A few more evenings like that,” she said, “and you'll be another Vernon Castle.” Henry bathed his feet in alcohol be- fore he went to bed. I[t had been a warm evening, and he had been wear- ing new shoes. Henry ATURDAY proved a blazing Aug- ust day—the kind of day to lie in a hammock under the breeze of an electric fan and pretend to read and have one long cool drink brought to you on a tray. “| DON'T DANCE,” The foursome 10 o'clock, Henry's first diive was on astound ing success. Without in the least know ing how, he got 130 yaads straight down the course. collected promptly at "Oh, you New York kidder,” said Gertrude. “Telling us you were a duf fer.” They all Jaughed They thought Henry had tried to steal a march on them, Henry swung his brassy as he had never swung before It was a tough shaft, but it broke off well above the head, Jack Hardin loaned him a spare olub, Henry sliced so far out into the rough that hie never did Ond bis ball. He made the first hole in thir teeen and the second in fifteen. Henry offered to quil. But Anita Camp wouldn't hear of it, and the others had nothing to aay Throughout that day Henry sliced missed and sliced srilling and gruelling missed, ani It took them unti! nearly 2 o'clock to get pound the fies! time-—-what witua waiting for fenry, Anita insisted 1 __THE EVENING WORLD'S FICTION SECTION, SATURDAY, APRIL 1, 1922. _ they had time only for iced tea and a sandwich before starting in again. Henry's feet felt as if they were blis- ters. He could hardly rest his weight on them when they drove off the second time. But after the first hundred yards he found it a little easier., Probably some of the blisters had broken. “I suppose,” he said wearily to Anita Camp at the eighth hole, “that thia is the worst golf that was ever played on this course. Anita did not deny it. “Never mind,” she learn.” Henry thought he might learn—if he survived the process, * e ° s . T was after 6 when they reached the club house, “Now,” eaid Anita, “let's hurry up and dress. We'll drive to Montmorenci’s.” “It's thirty miles,” said Hardin, “We can make it in an hour in my ear,” said Anita, “There's a dance here to-night,” said Gertrude. Henry heard the word “dance.” said, “you'll He > er SAID HENRY. spoke up be! could speak, “Lets go A shower and a might bring “All wight trude said Henry had a the shower did hack oi neck tried cold was [oo fouch it ore any bods else to Montmorenci’s he said divive and him through, Montmorenci’s it is, cool food (jer which The He the pain hear to posi set into blazing headache nothing to ¢ Dbrrned Vilke fire, on it, but hfe couldn't His were wii we, his cream great, again tively taw. It «guln drove feet torture to his shoes Hardin the back put tix feet frent of him dined on oad house the oat Tbangy get in wih Anita Grew. it¢ up on the folding chair in That eaased them a lol the verunda of the overlooking the eiver, The ffenvy (lis headache Hain tO sit Dp Life aching tae endurable the sound of instru rned ta Anil Camp here?” he Heal They foud stimulated opsened We be was again appro heard fle t) when he Mens “De they dance Do ties?! hand in the State.” NEXT SATURDAY’S lal O MIE. COMPLETE STORY By SOPHIE KERR Illustrated by WILL B. JOHNSTONE ~-ACTION HUMOR LOVE WITH A “®KICK"- ORDER YOUR EVENING WORLD IN ADVANCR. 8 “ — —- aa The band struck up a roaring onme- step. Jack and Gertrude arose. “Come,” said Anita to Henvy. Henry went. “Isn't it fiendishly hot?” he asked when they sat down again. He hoped, without making a direct request, to turn the conversation toward a cessa- tion of activities. “It feels to me as if there were a thunder storm coming wp.” “[ think it’s going to rain,” Hardin said. They all went out on the lawn and looked at the clouds. They were roll- ing up rather darkly. “It certainly is going to rain,” said Henry. “It's going to euin hard.” The band started again. “Come on and dance,” cried Anita, “It won't rain for a long time vet. We Ana can get home in forty minutes. We can beat that storm,” They danced, They danced vnotit Henry told himself he could never dance again, They danced until Henry’s feet were no longer feet, but merely two excruciating pains at the end of his legs. It was 11 o'clock be- fore Anita was willing to quit. Then the thunder came and they all rushed for the car. “You drive,” said Anita to “and whoop it up too,” “I can't drive a car,” said tlenry. “What!” said Anita, “act,” said Henry. Everybody in Midvale drove a cari he couldn't very well explain that everybody didn’t in New York. “Never “get in. ifenvy, mind,” said I'll drive.” Anita Camp}, HEY hit thirty miles an hour im the tirst hundred yards. They hit forty. They hit fifty. Amd still the speedometer climbed, It seemed to Henry that they were hurtling through the air without touching the road. A rut or a thank- you-ma’am would send them all crash- ing down the bluff, rolling over and over, into the river. Henry shrank into tne cushions. “Gee!” said Anita Camp. to step on twelve cylinders.” Henry opened his eyes. The speed- “[ do love ometer showed seventy miles. Henry shat his eyes again. Anita turned casually to Henry. “Isn't this great?’ she asked, “Oh, I eall this living.” She shoved some lever on the wheel two inches, Henry wondered if she were trying to go faster. “Gee!” Anita Camp began again Henry shut his eyes. lie might as well if she were going to talk to him instead of watching the road. Anita chatted on. There was a rushing in Henry's ears. He opened his eyes. Ahead loomed a pair of brilliant head- lights. They were going to meet: head on, There wasn't room to pass, This Was the end. And then they were Bast. Somehow they were past—by @n inch. On, on, on they rushed while Anita Camp chatted to Henry. ‘They pulled up in Wabash Avenue at twenty min- utes of 12. The big car moved swiftly © che Comps drive. said Anita Camp. “rts rai@ fee box.’ “I'm with you,” said Jack Hardin, Henry considered. Te wanted to be alone. He wanted to get down out of that car on his feet and walk and be alone. He hud never expected to want te walk again, But he did, HEN the vest started for the butlers pantry Henry slipped upstairs to hia room, ‘The storm was just beginning ut ifenry got into his raincoat. tfe ean down the stairs. The rest Were out of sight. Henry opened the frant door and went out, He walked toward town, toward the raile way station It was ruining pitche forks now, but Henry walked doge yedly on. fe walked to the telegraph office in) the railway station He wrote: MARY BREIL, h2 West Ninth Street, New Yorks Will sou marry me next week? HMNRY MILLS. He gave his address as the Wiibash Hotel Then went back to the Cumps to bed, ‘Ree noxt morning Henry was up ind ot woe. Te ealiell Gey me Watash Hotel. Tis walire@ See the dining room “TL want « glass of chilled orange juice, bia ‘offee, and toast —this toasi,” he said to the waiter, “Very nice chops this morning,” the waiter said “LH have orange juice. coNee au@ fomst,”” said Menry firmly. He had finished his leisurely break. fast wien « bell boy came in bellow~ ng his name ITenry sfopped him, Telexsianr fur von sir,’ the boy said “Exactly.” said Henry, Henry gave the boy 50 cents and tore open tie envelope Ile tead: Yes Rut why the haste? Plena end details special deliv- eey MARY BEHLI, Wen: nied, the sinile of a Cone quero: Then he paid his check und walke.! over to the clerk's desk “When is yvour next train to New York?” le asked And as he spoke hig face wore the ineffuble expression of the New Yorkee, the New Yorker whe is going home to the peace and the quiet and the ease which is New Yor. Copyright. All rights reserved, Printed by arrangemert with Meiropatiian Newspaper Bercvtee, Now Tort } ,