Liberty Magazine September 26 1936

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MURDERERS WELCOME By PHILIP WYLIE An Old-Fashioned Girl and a New Kind of Killer STARTLING FOOTBALL TO COME-FOUR GREAT COACHES PROPHESY

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PEOPLE CAN MEET TERRIFIC STRAIN -YET ENJOY GOOD DIGESTION. SMOKERS SPEAK FROM EXPERIENCE WHEN THEY SAY- -4-o-t 9-4*. C ur Modern life bombards us all with a thousand and one little jars, shocks, and nervous irritations. The strain tells on diges¬ tion... slows down the flow of digestive fluids. And it is to Camels that one naturally turns to put more enjoyment into eating. As you enjoy your Camels at mealtime, the flow of digestive fluids speeds up . . . alkalinity is in¬ creased. You feel at rights with the world! Camel’s invigorating 'Tift”... Camel’s aid to digestion. . .Camel’s matchless taste and fra¬ grance — all these are yours when you make Camels your cigarette. Camels set you right! And they never get on your nerves.

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SEPTEMBER 26, VOL. 13, NO. Liberty BERNARR MACFADDEN, PUBLISHER FULTON OURSLER, EDITOR IN CHIEF WALLACE H. CAMPBELL, ART EDITOR The UNITED STATES ...A Sleek, THE cartoon on this page very clearly indicates the present status of the United States. We are living in a world of nations armed to the teeth. They watch one another as a cat watches a mouse. Every nation has its spies in every other country. The War Office of every country has a department in which warlike activities throughout the world are carefully recorded. With every other nation armed to the teeth, here we are, little more than a sleek, fat lamb, harmless, unarmed, going our way nonchalantly, apparently entirely oblivious to the dangers we are facing. The average citizen, even though he knows the menace that is facing us, realizes he is helpless in this situation. He may wonder why the officials of our country fail to do something to build up the armaments necessary to protect our people. But he is helpless to do anything beyond voicing his per¬ sonal criticism. The so-called “ peace-at-any-price ” advocates that have infested our Congress for years, citizens who have an idea that the way to stop war is to dis¬ arm absolutely — they are the real cause of our unpreparedness. But you may rest assured that if this attitude alone were the only evil that we had to combat, we would not be in our present position. There are alien forces in this country and outside of this country that are willing to spend millions, and undoubtedly have spent millions, to encourage the peace advocates in their policy of national helpless¬ ness as far as our ability to defend ourselves is concerned. I was severely criticized for the recent editorial warning this country against the warlike activities of Japan. But apparently this editorial served a good purpose, for a short time thereafter a spy was convicted of giving secret information to Japan’s War Office. And I have not seen the statement denied that there were 200,000 Japanese soldiers in Mexico, that there were 50,000 in Peru, and that the Panama Canal could be closed at any time by a bomb prop-

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R T O O Fat Lamb erly placed in one of the locks of this waterway. We are just a sleek, fat, innocent lamb, and almost any one of the lions in the forest of nations could grab us and figuratively choke us to death. The isolation chatter that has been used so fre¬ quently is just a lot of schoolboy twaddle. Airplanes could land in New York from almost any country in Europe. Just think for a minute what would happen to any of our great cities if its water supply were cut off with a well placed bomb, or if the gas and electric power were snuffed out — not to mention the stopping of the food supply. In a city like New York, for instance, surrounded by salt water, we would have just a lot of crazy they were not entirely eliminated by poison gas. And to think that here we are with billions of dollars, trying to find some way of spending it to give work to the unemployed, when it could be used prof¬ itably for building airplanes which would protect us from attack from any source ! You might think that we were governed by a lot of dumb brutes or nitwits — that they are just plain fools, or cowards, or both. We have been so busy making money, we have been so blinded by our extraordinary progress, we are so impressed with our bigness, that we have acquired the impression that no country would dare to attack us. But you can rest assured that our weaknesses are known, and the vital spot for attack has undoubtedly been recorded in the War Offices of our possible enemies. And do not fail to note that we are the only country that makes no effort to protect ourselves by maintaining an espionage system in the political and military affairs of the world. And as we gambol along, sleek, fat, a tempting morsel, at any time we may furnish a figurative meal for one or more of the lions that repre¬ sent the world’s warlike na¬ tions.

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B E G I N N N G

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*Two Women and Four Men and the Unseen Presence of Death Ready to Strike — Here in a Ro¬ mantic Setting is an Old-Fashioned Girl and a New Kind of Killer inThis Nerve -Ting ling Surprise Story The butler-valet nodded. “ I assumed as much— when I saw you both come in — wet.” “ I think— he was going to shoot me. He had discovered the blanks — replaced them.” Rodgers was a damn good butler-valet— for a detective. Before Bailey had finished dressing he heard the motors of an airplane. He heard them first. Rodgers, in the kitchen, heard them next. Then the two guides, in the servants’ dining room— they were also detectives. The upstairs maid and the lady’s maid— also trained to watch and listen— next caught the remote purring. By the time that the guests realized that some one was flying toward Lonely Lodge, Bailey was already halfway to the A big silver amphibian came in without circling. Nelson Dudley thrust his curly head and wide shoulders through the door. “ Hello, Rob, my lad ! ” “ Hello, Nellie! ” The captain had not expected this arrival by air of his lawyer, an old friend— a friend of many vicissitudes. Dudley hopped ashore and helped out a young woman. Evelyn Case, Bailey’s fiancde, the last person in the world he would have wanted on this particular house party. A gray-eyed girl. Park Avenue bred. She held up her mouth and returned his kiss with somewhat artificial enthusiasm. “ Darling ! What, on earth ever made you think you could throw a party without me? I’m practically wild ! I love the north woods — and you know it! I persuaded father to persuade Nellie to take us both along. If this is some sort of bachelor fiesta — the last roundup before we do Lohengrin together— then I’m glad I’m here to spoil it ! ” Bailey was inept at artifice against feminine antago¬ nists. He shook hands with Evelyn’s father and said uncomfortably, “ Mostly business. No last roundup. You ought to know me better. Thought you’d be bored— ” She took bis arm. They went through the trees and the sunlight toward the porch. The plane was being anchored beside the one which had brought the other guests the day before. Bailey introduced Evelyn and her father. Mary Brookhart nodded rudely. Bernetta Smith smiled and left the table. Evelyn whispered, “ I knew it ! Weren’t you practically engaged to Miss Smith once? And Mary Brookhart? ” “ Sh-h-h-h-E— ” he said. Later Nelson Dudley found him at the dock giving orders about the planes. Together they walked away toward some trees. “You didn’t seem to be particularly pleased that I brought Evelyn,” Dudley said. “ I can understand that- seeing who is here. What the deuce is the idea ? ” Bailey stalked over the pine needles. “ Nellie, make me out a will, hunh ? ” “ What in hell is the matter with you? ” “ I’ll tell you. Did you notice my servants? ” “Sure — I noticed the whole place. Sheer luxury! How do you get oil for your power plant ? ” “ Fly it in. . . . All my servants are detectives.” The lawyer stared. “ Why ? ” “ It’s a long sad story. I tried to see you before I started out on this party — but you’d run up to Albany. ILLUSTRATIONS BY DAN CONTENT

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A month ago I'left the entrance of my office building, and a dame in a car tried to hit me as I crossed the street. .Didn’t recognize her^and the license was muddy. A week later I got my lunch sent up to my office, and before it arrived I went into a board meeting. We had a row- over my turning my business over to my employees— and sent out for sandwiches, and I forgot the meat and po¬ tatoes cooling out in the front office. It sat, unguarded, for more than an hour. Miss Deane, my secretary, brought it in after the meeting. I refused it— so she nibbled on my pie. A few minutes later she started to sweat and jerk. Went out like a light. I ran her over to a hospital and they pulled her through. Strychnine. That pie was loaded with it.” “ Oh-oh! ” “ To say the least ! So I decided to find out who was monkeying around, and monkey back. I couldn’t call the cops— my suspects were too important and my case too delicate. I did try an agency, but when I asked them to put a man on K. Y. Mitchell, they said you couldn’t shadow the President of the United States, or the Secretary of State, or Henry Ford, or Andy Mellon, or, by the same token, K. Y. Mitchell.” “ So you asked him up here 1 Damn it, Rob, some day you’re going to get in trouble.” Bailey made a wry face. “ Maybe. Some day. Nellie — who would want to murder me? ” The lawyer shrugged and pondered. “ Well— Mitchell — though he’d use agents—” “ Sure. He wouldn’t dress up as a woman and try to run me down. He’s no pie poisoner. Anybody else ? ” Nelson Dudley’s face was blank; and then— slowly— it became incredulous. “ Good God, man— you don’t mean to say that all these people here—” The captain sat down and gestured. “ Nice mossy stone.” Then he spoke rapidly: “ Mitchell could not want to kill me— badly. And Ralph could; that damn cousin of mine is N. G. And he knows he has a big claim on my dough. He knows there’ll be a lot less if I hand the Bailey corporations back to the men who built them up. Ralph detests me. I make bim work. You know Logan Walters? My general manager? Smart. Three years ago he em¬ bezzled a hundred and fifty grand. I think his wife is aces, and more for her than him I saw him through. If I step out as I plan to, he may lose his job. Then Carey. He’s like a brother— or was. But when we started piling up dough together— moved into the city— he got money- crazy. I’ve sort of carried him ever since he was a kid. Often I’ve thought he envied me. And since my decision to haul out of business he’s been openly frantic. He makes four. But it was a woman driving that car. Well, there have been plenty of angry ladies in my past. Regrettable but true. Remember, I nearly married Bemetta Smith? ” “Vividly. You had to go to Africa to duck the fire¬ works.” _ j. And she hasn’t been getting all the work she could use— lately. She was in my office, trying to see me, the morning that person or persons unknown doused the piece of pie with strychnine.” Dudley nodded. “ Last— and by no means least —handsome Mary Brookhart. Nellie, my boy, she has had two husbands. Both of them died in accidents at which our Mary alone was present.' One of them was a diplomat. In Bolivia. I was there too. I beat Mary and a tough bird named Shail to my tin mines down there, and I gave her the go-by at a party in the mountains a few weeks later, and the dear gal tried to sepa¬ rate my head from my shoulders with a machete shortly after- “ Why didn’t you have ber locked up? ” Bailey spread out his hands. “ It was just temper. However, she settled down in New York this fall and began to telephone. Another thing — she stuck a lot of what she has in my companies. Now that I’m easing out, and the prices of my stocks are fall¬ ing, Mary stands to lose. Well, by hook or crook, I per¬ suaded them all to come up here. I filled the place with dicks. I figured I’d give each and every one a chance to do me in — under circumstances that would make it easy to go through «n inqlesfciafterward Orily— I’d be ready, and I’m known to be hard to kill.” Dudley grinned. “ Why didn’t you invite me, you sus¬ picious rat? You know I’ll get a nice slice out of dis¬ posing of your estate. And you know that my affairs aren’t so hot. I could use the cash. Or did you figure I’d ask to come up when I heard about it? ” Bailey laughed. “ Anyhow, I’m sure glad you’re here.” “When women in cars started chasing you around elevated pillars, and poisoning your food, you should have phoned me right away. Rob, you jackass ! If you think you’ll get to first base this way—” The captain interrupted : “ It wasn’t so cockeyed. Mitchell tried to shoot me this morning.” “ Mitchell 1 ” “ Well— practically. I didn’t let him get too far. You see — the gun was loaded.” Dudley stared at his friend. “ Good Lord ! ” “ T THINK he knows I know. I think he’ll try again. 1 But I want you to make me out a will— something that’ll stir up action. We’ll'talk about it— and say it’s go¬ ing to be in force as soon as I get back. Fix me a will that’ll mean my business is going to be transferred — even if I’m dead — as soon as you get back to the city. In the meantime, we’ll keep Mitchell. You see ”— he looked at his watch—" in a few minutes those planes are going to head south— to the surprise of one and all. And they won’t be back for two weeks. Just— a lack of considera¬ tion on my part. Shortsightedness. See ? ” “ Sure. Some one’s coming! ” Bailey squinted through the trees. He looked hard. “ Nobody I know. Must be Mrs. Walters’s personal maid. I didn’t see them arrive. Pretty girl, isn’t she ? ” The lawyer followed the captain’s eyes. “ Pretty ! ” The girl walked toward them across the pine needles. Both men watched ber. To Dudley she was a pretty maid —an extra pretty one. A girl in a gray silk dress that had white cuffs and collar. A brunette— neither too large nor too small. But to Captain Bailey she was something more — and a consciousness of it invaded his preoccupa¬ tion with his own murder, erased momentarily even the proper concept of his respectable engagement to Evelyn Case. An unidentified sense made him feel that she was singularly moving, exciting, mysterious; that he had known about her, that she needed help. So, when she came near, he looked into her eyes, his gaze unimpertinently friendly and strongly personal. “ It’s a nice day.” The provocative tone of Dudley’s voice angered Bailey. “ Yes,” the girl said. She was looking, still, at Bailey. “ Very nice. I hope I haven’t disturbed you ? ” ‘ “ On the contrary,” the lawyer answered. “ Welcome addition. Very welcome. Just seeing you around will make Lonely Lodge a shade less solitary.” She said, “Thank you,” so flatly that the lawyer was abashed. The captain felt unwonted anger. “ Come on back to the house, Nellie,” he said. “ I will not,” the lawyer re¬ plied, smiling. “ I’m for walking with— by the way? ” “ Beth. But I’m not walking any farther, thanks.” “ Come on ! We have work to do.” The captain’s voice was a quiet imperative. Dudley nodded toward the girl (Continued on page ten)

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HE talked himself into an interview ... but his SOX talked him out of a job! keep his sox in place.

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Baltimore Girl Who Won Friendship of King Edward VIII ONE of those new-rich Amer¬ ican women, I suppose. She won’tlast — they neverdo ! ” That’s what a British dowa¬ ger said to me two years ago this summer, when the news began trickling back to deepest May- fair that the Prince of Wales and “ a certain heautiful Ameri¬ can ” were having “ such fun ” dancing the rumba in the Casino at Cannes and lolling in the sun¬ light at Biarritz. But that even a British dow¬ ager may sometimes be wrpng was abundantly proved soon after Prince Edward’s accession to the throne, when the official Court Circular recorded that the beautiful American, now identi¬ fied as Mrs. Ernest A. Simpson, formerly Miss Wallis Warfield of Baltimore, was lasting very nicely, thank you. With Mr. Simpson, as Liberty has reported, she was an hon¬ ored guest at the new King’s first formal dinner in St James’s Palace, along with the Prime Minister and Mrs. Stanley Bald¬ win, Lord and Lady Louis Mountbatten, the Bight Hon. Alfred Duff and Lady Diana Manners, and Mr. and Mrs. Charles Augustus Lindbergh. Without Mr. Simpson, she ap¬ peared on the guest list of His Majesty’s second formal dinner. The list, as announced : Meet Mrs. Wally Simpson, “the Most Envied Woman in the British Empire” — A Reveal¬ ing Glimpse of the Maryland Lady and How It All Happened by FREDERICK LEWIS The King and Mrs. Simpson. Their Hoyal Highnesses the Duke and Duchess of York. The First Lord of the Admiralty and Lady Maud Hoare. The former Viceroy of India and Lady Wil- lingdon. Mr. and Mrs. Winston Churchill. Not bad for “one of those new-rich American women ” ! But, as it happens, my British friend was also quite wrong about Mrs. Simpson’s back¬ ground. Her ancestry goes back much further in Britain’s history than the King’s own House of Hanover and Windsor. The Warfield family is de¬ scended from that noble knight, Pagan de Warfield, who came to England with William the Con¬ queror in 1066 and distin¬ guished himself at the Battle of Hastings. For his services he received a knight’s fee of an English manor, henceforth known as Warfield’s Walk, one of the sixteen “ walkes ” into which Windsor Forest was divided. In The Annals of Windsor are found many now amusing refer¬ ences to the Warfield family’s “prominent and close associ¬ ation with the royal household.” Bichard Warfield, direct de¬ scendant of Pagan, came to Maryland in 1 669, and settled imi the hanks of the Severn. Here, Lady Cunard, American born, was conspicuous in "Ihe Prince's seT' and sponsored " Wally." Mrs. Jimmie Corrigan. Al lefts The Simpsons' dining room, where ihe King has been a guesl. 13

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been widely circulated to the effect that Lieutenant hit as Spencer had made eighteen years before. His ati Spencer became so distracted by conditions in his home tude toward his wife was devotion itself; and Wallis w that he jumped from a window and killed himself — a which must have its humorous side to husky, very much alive Commander E. Winfield Spencer, U. S. N., as he takes his ease these autumn evenings at the Ninth Naval District on the Great Lakes ! As a matter of fact the Spencers ’ singularly united couple. There suspicion of scandal during their ni life or at the time of their divorce in “ The same thing happened to those 1 a happy and /as no scandal or ie years of married 1925. o youngsters that happens every year said a man of the world who knew the Spencers intimately. “They drifted apart. And they met the situation in the modern manner— by a quiet, respectable divorce.” The records in the courthouse at Warren- ton, Virginia, bear out the truth of this state¬ ment. In 1924 the then Mrs. Spencer came to Warrenton to establish the year’s residence re¬ quired. by Virginia law, and throughout her stay lived a quiet, almost retired life. Not a half dozen of her old friends in near-by Bal¬ timore knew of her presence or intention. Then, on strictly tech¬ nical grounds, she re¬ ceived her decree. That there was noth¬ ing which reflected on her conduct is evidenced by the fact that it was she who obtained the divorce. That there was nothing discreditable to her husband is likewise Con vouched for by the fact that he is not only still in uniform but has been steadily advanced bility and rank. Commander Spencer married again shortly after the granting of the divorce; Mrs. Spencer not until three years later — July 21, 1928— when, on a ■ " she met and married Ernest A. Simpson. very happy dn this trip. Proudly she showed photographs of herself in the court dress she had worn at the time of her presentation to King George and Queen Mary — the occasion on which, so it is said, she first attracted the eye of the heir to the throne. “ I felt almost like a bride again,” she said. Incidentally, she was giving to her old friends the best possible evidence of her own and her husband’s social position in the British capital. That an American-born woman married to an untitled Canadian-born man should hundreds of modern couples,” achieve so much in such a Cowgirl Love and Cowboy Hate in Madison Square Garden You see them risking their necks in the arena of the rodeos. Some¬ times there is more than prize money involved in the wild con¬ tests— hearts are at stake; passions clashing; love and hate in a death struggle before thousands of spec¬ tators who do not guess what is really going on. Every year the crack cowgirls and cowboys of the Far West trek through the great American states, competing in the rodeos, but never before has the real story of these people been told. Now Dora Macy, who wrote Ex-Mistress, Night Nurse, and Public Sweetheart Number One, brings you the real story in her latest novel— _ Of i_._ This inner circle con¬ sists, first of all, of the new King’s most inti¬ mate British friends, the Mountbattens, the Sutherlands, and the Milford Havens ; then of a slightly larger group of American-born or American - married people, mostly of great wealth. TV/rOST firmly estab- ■LYl lished American woman ii RIDING HIGH n responsi- lished American i the Prince’s set, when the former Wally Warfield came to London, was Mrs. James W. (Jimmie) Corrigan. Long recognized as the uncrowned queen of Americo-European so¬ ciety, Mrs. Corrigan was always giving par¬ ties for the Prince at her magnificent town residence, fine old Crewe House in Curzon Street, to which she invited personable young wom- >on. Don’t miss HI en who could dance. That beautiful Mrs. Simpson obviously qual¬ ified ; so she promptly became a “ regular ” at Mrs. Jimmie’s entertainments. In .Mrs. Corrigan’s wake came an even more pictur¬ esque character, “ Emerald,” Lady Cunard, bom Maud iy/fR. SIMPSON has been placed by world on- what is known as a spot. He has been subject of such quips as “ The Unimportance of Being Ernest,” etc. It was inevitable. It has happened London, Alice Burke of San Francisco and New York, widow of the shipping magnate, Sir Bache Cunard, and mother of Nancy Cunard. No one knows where Mary Cunard press of the found the name Emerald, but she signs her checks that ' ' way, and many of them. Anyhow Emerald, oldest, most magnetic and most ambitious^ member of the Prince’s set, promptly took nearly every husband whose wife has been the recipient Wally to her ample bosom. More recently it was Lady of the royal favor. The only question is whether the man Cunard who sat, along with Wally and the Prime Minister As can be seen from a casual glance around his sub¬ stantial suite of offices, Mr. Simpson is “ in shipping.” Previously he was in Harvard, where he was graduated with the class of 1919; and before that he was in Canada, Meanwhile, buttressed by these two sturdy champions, Mrs. Simpson’s way into the Prince’s set was sure and speedy. Thelma, Lady Furness, American-born wife of another shipping magnate, Sir Marmaduke Furness, and than the British. Tall, blond, soldierly,’ he is the young Lady Furness was also said to hold at the girl’s dream of why the sun never sets on the British social life of the heir to the throne. Empire. He was for a time in one of the regiments of which Edward has long been honorary colonel. Even now he keeps himself fit by enthusiastic participation in outdoor sports. The Simpsons came to America on a visit in 1934. After renewing old acquaintances in New York, they n the down to Baltimore for the r The world knows what followed— at Cannes, at Biar¬ ritz, at Como, at Budapest, at Vienna, at London. First, Thelma and Wallis and the Prince. Then, just Wallis and the Prince. Chaperoned by her Aunt Bessie, Mrs. Merry- man, Mrs. Simpson became what she is today, Edward’s closest friend. At forty, the “ beautiful American ” is Wally’s old friends, Simpson made quite as much at Pimlico. Among the most envied person in the British Empire 1 THE END 15

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VI LLON the chaplain. “ Besides, you are registered as a student for holy orders.” “ Father,” said Master Frangois, “ having seen her, I give up the priesthood.” “ Ah, you do, do you? ” “ My thought,” said Master Frangois, “ was that I would resume my residence here with you, face criticism with courage, and re-establish my character.” “ You can’t ! ” said the chaplain. “ Not in my house ! ” “ My room in the attic,” said Master Frangois, “ is it still unoccupied? ” “ I will give you all the gold I have,” said the chaplain, “ if you will go at once ! ” “ She herself,” said Master Frangois, “ is of the best blood in the land.” The Rapscallion Poet of Paris Again Dares Death for Love and This Time Wins a Strange Prize with a Kiss The chaplain was reaching down into the pocket of his cassock. “ My further thought,” said Master Frangois, “ was that I would call upon the provost and come to terms with him. That is, with him or with his wife. Before I left Paris I sent her a little poem by way of thanks for suc¬ cessful intercession. I think she must have liked it. Her maiden name was worked into the line beginnings, acros¬ tic fashion.” The chaplain pulled out a fat moneybag. “ Take this,” said he, “ and go ! Among liars you are God’s master¬ piece.” “ Had you offered the purse for its' own sake,” said the poet, keeping his hands clasped, “ I should have been able to accept it with humility and gratitude, both proper in the life of virtue, but since you make the gift appear a tribute to mendacity, I must decline. What I have told you happens to be truth.” “ I believe nothing you say,” interrupted the chaplain, “ but I would help you escape punishment. Take the gold, leave the city, do what the devil compels, so it be far away ! ” “ Another thought,” said Master Frangois. “ Since the lady is of honorable birth, I have become interested in my own father. Who was he? Who and what?” glassy. “ Your mother’s Master Villon smiled ever so slightly. “That’s the man I asked about. He died, I understand, when I was bom. What was his profession? ” They faced each other. Then, the chaplain held out the purse. “ Will you take it and go? ” “ How is my mother? ” said Master Frangois. “ Have you seen her lately? ” “ You are beyond love or prayers,” said the chaplain. “ God have mercy on me ! ” “ I’ll accept the money,” said Master Villon in a softer tone, stretching out his hand, “ if no conditions cramp it." “ It’s not to be spent on Catherine.” “ Catherine? She betrayed me, as you know! If we meet, I’ll kill her.” “ Promise not to meet ! Leave the city at once ! ” Master Frangois tucked the purse inside his jacket. “ I spread my thanks at your feet, father. Peace be with you ! I know the way out.” At that hour of dusk good men were busy with their meals and the street of Saint James was deserted. If he hurried southward he could reach the city walls before the gate closed for the night, and the guard, having passed him in for a country fellow market bound, would let him trudge back to the fields. That is, if he hurried. Instead, he walked toward the river, over the bridge, past the lesser Chatelet where Provost d’Estouteville locked up poets and scholars, then to the middle of the island, between churches and other respectable edifices, turning at last sharply to the left along a crooked street. The unwelcome name of Catherine had suggested Noah Joli, equally disliked, and Noah was closely related by marriage as well as by nature to Robin Turgis, tavern keeper and treasury spy, and Turgis spun his web of evil in the Pine Cone, with its absurdly painted sign and its sour cellar smell, and the Pine Cone emphasized the idea of food. 17

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In the darkness he heard the sign creaking in the breeze, and stumbling down the familiar stones he kicked the door open. Before a bright hearth a capon roasted. Before the capon sat Catherine. Before Catherine, across the table, sat Noah Joli, she leaning sociably, he sprawling sym¬ pathetically. Near his elbow stood a jug of wine. At the moment he was unbuttoning the front of her dress, and her state was such that she admired his wit. Watching this byplay of the heart, Robin Turgis was resting his person on the account desk at the tap. At sight of Master Francois they curled up, as it were, in an abrupt concentration — three separate spiders, at home to Mr. Fly. Master Francois removed his cap, bowed to the com¬ pany, stepped over to the table and found himself a chair be¬ tween Catherine and Noah, facing Turgis. The three followed him with their eyes. “ Robin,” said he., “ I am hungry.” The tavern keeper straightened his in- In Addition to the Regular Purchase Price Liberty Will Pay a Bonus of $1,000 (approximately a dollar a word) to the author of the best short short story published in its pages between August 1, 1936, and March 1, 1937. . . . To six others will go further payments, raising the total to $2,000 will b opened his spacious thumbed a page or two, carried the vol¬ ume to Master Fran- gois’s chair, and with the finger of doom in¬ dicated a long-stand¬ ing total. Master Frangois emptied half his purse on the table. “ Keep the surplus,” said he. “ I may eat here again.” “Who was robbed today ? ” asked the as¬ tonished host, count¬ ing the pieces. Master Frangois waited till the arith¬ metic was complete. “ Have you a pen ? ” said he. “ It might be well to cross out that addition.” paused till the ink was drawn across the reckoning, and Tur¬ gis, with small show of grace, had put the bookaway in his desk. “ The king’s treasurer and talking about you this morning. “ So I hear,” said Master Frangois, using his wits. “ When he and I talked, over a bottle of Beaune, the sub¬ ject was you.” The treasury spy came out from behind his desk. “ You talked with him ? ” “ With the Seigneur de Grigny himself. In his house. Also while traveling with him in his coach.” “ For vigilance,” said Master Frangc de Grigny has no match. He scrutiniz to' the remotest corner.” Robin Turgis went white, then purple. “ Would you care,” said he, “ for a hot dish from the kitchen ? ” 18 “ I’m not so hungry as that,” said Master Frangois with that dangerous smile of his. “ When the capon is cooked I’ll cut off a slice for Catherine and Noah, and if they don’t die, I’ll try it.” He pulled out his knife. “ Easy there ! ” said Turgis. “ Remember you’re among friends.” “ I’m between Catherine and Noah,” said Master Fran¬ gois. “ Or I was, until they drew away.” The girl leaned forward again and tried to smile with her painted lips. “ If you hadn’t run off, Frangois, if you had known how I really felt— that beating you got at my doorstep was no work of mine.” . He permitted him¬ self a close look at what had once charmed him. He drew a deep breath. The spell and the hate were both gone. “ Our quarrel is at an end,” said he. “ You love me no more, Frangois?” “ My dear, the new heartache cures the old.” “ Who is she? ” “ Put your mind on Noah. I spoke of Noah raised him¬ self with the aid of the table. “ A pleas- These are bonuses — to be paid in addition to the regular purchase price. Stories will be bought and paid for on acceptance as usual. On publication in any issue of Liberty between August 1, 1936, and March 1, 1937, each author will become automatically eligible for a bonus. The Bonuses Will Be: $1,000; $500; and Five of $100 Each ant e of their s All writers are eligible. Amateurs and inexperienced authors are cordially mvited to enter the lists, but so-called “professionals” are $1,000 for a thousand words is * tops ” in prices — and when you add Liberty’s regular purchase price it becomes a sizable sum. Seldom has a higher rate been paid to any author. This is not a contest, but a bonus offered in Liberty’s continuing effort for the best short short stories. There are no special rules. You may submit as many stories as you wish. Rejected contributions will be returned provided sufficient postage AND a self-addressed envelope Manuscripts will be handled in the usual way : simply address them to Short Short Editor, Liberty, 122 East 42d Street, New York, N. Y. They will be bought on their merits. THIS IN ACKNOWLEDGMENT AND GRATITUDE TO THE AUTHORS WHO, OVER A PERIOD OF YEARS. HAVE CONTRIBUTED TO LIBERTY THE BEST SHORT SHORT STORIES PUBLISHED ” said Turgis, I’ll walk 01 * Do you fear the capon? ” said Master Frangois, noting an exchange of eye be¬ tween the tavern keeper and his broth- Catherine put a nervous hand on his arm. “ He will call the watch ! ” “ The watch and I,” began Master Frangois calmly, dis¬ engaging himself from her grasp, “ are now on such cordial An energetic wom¬ an, young but fat, came suddenly out of the kitchen, a globed creature in bed slip¬ pers that flopped and a single garment that stuck to her. “ Here am I sweating “ Lazy louts all!” she cried, away — ” She caught sight of Master Frangois. “ Saint Michael and all the saints ! Does he show himself here ? ” “ Good evening, Margot.” “ The hangman for you ! Out of my door ! ” “ Margot ! ” pleaded Turgis, “ he says he has come into fortune, and he’s in the treasurer’s favor.” “ Call the police, Noah,” said the fat woman. “ Stay here, Noah,” said the tavern keeper. “ We’U keep the game in our own hands. He says he spent some , “ the Seigneur hours at the treasurer’s home.” his department “ At Grigny,” said Master Frangois. “ Did you meet his daughter? ” asked Margot. “ I did,” said Master Frangois. Catherine was watching.

Page 19

You need a laxative that COMBATS ACIDITY, too Sal Hepatica does BOTH !

Page 20

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Page 21

her person, which is supposed to be evidence of love? ” “ The guards,” said Madame d’Es- touteville, “ expect you to leave by the door, and when you do, they’ll seize you. If you don’t leave promptly, they will inquire into what you and I are doing — and Mademoiselle de Grigny. They’ll look for you here.” “ Upon most women,” said Master Franqois, “ the evidence of love might create the happier impression, but to Mademoiselle de Grigny I told the “ Master Franqois Villon,” said Ambroise, “is there one. woman you have not deceived ? ” “ There is one.” “ This is too much ! ” said she. “ You refuse to play fair? You chal- “ I shall stay till your husband and the seigneur return. I will then at¬ tempt to clear a little of the mud from my name. Let them hang me if they insist, but if I live, let it be no longer as fugitive or vagabond. The moment the provost comes in—” “ Why,” said the girl, “ he won’t get back for days' He and father thought you were still in the country. They are searching for you there ! ” “ Then my life is my own,”' said Master Franqois, “ for at least an hour more.” AMBROISE walked toward the stairway, and turned at the thi eshold. Her hand clutched the bro¬ caded curtains. “ Against my will I must summon the guard. To save Louise, to save myself, I must ! Will you go?” “ Can he find a way out? ” asked Louise. “ He can. He knows it well.” The girl came close to him. “ If I ask you, will you go? ” He bowed. “ Not for another hour, mademoiselle. An hour at least.” With a hand-wave of exasperation, Ambroise disappeared. The fright came back to the girl’s eyes. “ They do mean to hang you ! Why do you make it easy? ” “ Because I cannot hope for your love. For a moment I have seen you. Nothing better is left than to die She reached up and kissed him. “Don’t die! Go!” The persuasion in the kiss was ex¬ traordinary. He found the streets quiet and the walking smooth, in spite of hunger, as he crossed the bridge to the island and the second bridge to the street of Saint James, and on up to the cloisters of Saint Benedict the Well- Turned. The ancient vine served once more as ladder to his attic window, and when he descended again to the kitchen inside, he offered thanks, as of old, for bread in the box and sausage in the larder, and climbing back in stocking feet, hands and mouth full, to the bed on which his boyhood had slept and dreamed, he considered the probable astonishment of the cook, and what face his father in God would Sure you can smoke a pipe. Just try Half & Half. Cool as a wife saying: “Where have you been?” Sweet as your alibi: “Out with your dad.” Fragrant, full-bodied tobacco that won’t bite the tongue — in a tin that won’t bite the fingers. Made by our exclusive modem process including patent No. 1,770,920. Smells good. Makes your pipe welcome anywhere. Tastes good. Your password to pleasure! Not a bit of bite ii which gets smaller a No bitten fingers as ) e Telescope Tin, HALF ^ HALF The SaAe 7>if»e -Tobacco * 9 FOR PIPE OR CIGARETTE 21 THE END

Page 22

Fearless Example by KENNETH BROWN COLLINGS READING TIME • 5 MINUTES 3 SECONDS

Page 23

ALL HIGH- These Teaneck, New Jersey, high-school students get flight instruction and have a plane! Here it is, with their instructor, Art Norwood. YOUTH is sprout¬ ing pinfeathers! Just glance at the stream of appli¬ cations for student flying permits that pours daily into the Bureau of Air Com¬ merce in Washing¬ ton. The number of these permits issued so far this year amounts to more than one third of all the licenses issued throughout the bureau’s nine years’ existence. While touring the country with a flying circus some six years ago, each time I announced my belief that the very kids there in the grandstands would some day fly and think nothing of it, merrv little ripples of doubt would run gaily through the audiences. And when I told them that my own three-and- a-half -year-old baby boy could hold an airplane in straight and level flight, these ripples swelled to a wave of dis¬ belief. Today, strangely enough, it is the mothers of the na¬ tion who are responsible for little Willie and little Inez having an opportunity to get a proper groundwork in aeronautical subjects. At least, parent-teacher associations had a lot to do with having aviation courses included in high-school curricula. Here is how the educational score stands as of July 16, 1936. I quote from a letter from the Of¬ fice of Education, United States Department of the Interior: “ Our mailing list of junior and senior high schools covers about 23,000 individual schools. Most of the special aviation courses in high schools are concerned with train¬ ing for some phase of aviation work.” And the letter goes on to say that in fifteen states there are forty- two evening trade extension cours< jects given are aero mechanics, aero drafting, aircraft sheet-metal work, aircraft engines, and aero radio. As one seventeen-year-old put it, “ Heck, we can’t get jobs anywhere else, so it’ll have to be in aviation.” Only a few of these youngsters care a darn about being bold brave birdmen. Oh, they all want to fly — but not professionally. Their thoughts of lifework turn, wisely, to engineering and design, sales and service and trans¬ port operations. Colleges, too, are alive to the trend. Some hundred and ten of them offer courses that range from ordinary avia¬ tion ground school to aviation law. And quite a few have student flying clubs. The annual intercollegiate flying meet is already three years established. Leaving high schools and colleges, we find four hundred and ninety-eight schools scattered over the country which teach nothing but flying. To these will fall the burden of At Last American Schools Are Awakening to the Passion of Our Boys and Girls to Fly by SWANEE TAYLOR READING TIME • 4 MINUTES 10 SECONDS . A few of the sub¬ training about ten thousand pilots be¬ fore the year is out. And there is ac¬ tually a high school in our broad and happy land where flight instruction is being given as a part of a regular two- year aviation course ! This breath-tak¬ ing and inspiring phenomenon is at Teaneck, New Jersey, where four or five years ago a group of boys banded together as the Club for the Study of Aviation Problems. A delegation waited on Major Arthur G. Norwood, one of several commercial pilots who live in the city. Out of the goodness of his heart, Art Norwood agreed to meet with the club on Saturday mornings. It wasn’t long before the parents found that their boys were benefiting from an exceedingly good influence. The local parent-teacher association in¬ vestigated, and then asked Major Norwood if he wouldn’t take the boys on to the next step, whatever that might be. He would — and soon they were flying primary gliders. Flying them with rare success, too. Next the mothers asked that a ground-school course be given in the high school. The Board of Education acquiesced gladly. Ma¬ jor Norwood outlined a suitable course. And today it is duly ap¬ proved by the New Jersey Board of Regents. The major became a mem¬ ber of the school faculty. Next the youngsters wanted a ship. Do I have to go on ? Certainly they got one. The parent-teacher association having raised half the price, naturally the board couldn’t refuse had it wanted to. So Art Norwood went to Cincinnati to take delivery on a suitable low- power light plane. In a day or so he flew into town and circled over the high school. When he was sighted, a concerted shout all but raised the roof from the building! The high-school faculty wisely decided to make the aviation course competitive — to be won by the highest • standings in all school activities. About three hundred boys and girls are eligible to start the ground-school course each year. Only forty-odd are chosen. The cost to the taxpayer? A mere $500 a year for maintenance of the ship, plus the instructor’s salary. The kids pay for their own gas and oil, which amounts to around $3 per flying hour, or $1.50 per week. Bargain prices, friends, for upright Americanism these turbu¬ lent times ! Safety? I point wordlessly to the all-time high mark set by the Teaneck High School. Their ship has made more than twenty thousand take-offs and landings with factory air still in the tires! THE END 23

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by FREDERICK L. COLLINS READING TIME 16 MINUTES 50 SECONDS And Still They March on Down the Years — The Long Parade of Lovely Ladies in the Life of Our Theater’s Most Persistent Playboy JOHN “ CALIBAN ” BARRYMORE’S first real romance was a whiz-bang! — for it landed him in the world- scandalizing trial of Harry Thaw for the killing of Stan¬ ford White. District Attorney Jerome hoped to demonstrate, by means of young scapegrace Jack, that White had not been the first man in the life of “ angel child ” Evelyn Nesbit, whom Thaw had since married. Jack (of course!) came late, and the trial had to wait for him. As it turned out, he was of no use to Jerome, because Evelyn’s “ velvet swing ” story blackened White’s memory, for the time being, beyond any possibility of convicting Thaw by demoting her from angel-childhood. That was thirty years ago. Last week Mr. Collins told all about it, and told, on Jaek’s and Evelyn’s own authority, disarming facts anent their very youthful Broadway idyl. He told also how Ella Wheeler Wilcox got sore about the drawings, in the style of gloomy Gustave Dore, with which some artist named Barrymore was illustrating her verse in the New York Journal. The artist was Jack. Brisbane sent him to call on her — and straightway the mature poetess was demanding that the editor let “ dear Mr. Barrymore ” go right on with his illustrations as long as she went on with her lyrics! His wife, who was the great John Drew’s sister, was very patient with him, but there were times when sh%.said to herself, as lovely Dolores Costello was later to say, “ My sense of humor is exhausted.” One of these was when he returned one Sunday morning from an all-night party, and found her setting off for early Mass. “ Where are you going, Georgie? ” he asked. “ To church,” she replied. “ You can go to hell! ” Apparently her son derives much of his laconic verbal style from this woman of few words. But Maurice could on occasion express himself in the sardonic man¬ ner since made famous by Jack. One time in London, where he was playing leads with Modjeska, he heard that the great tragedienne had hinted that she was chiefly responsible for his success. Whereupon Maurice approached her with his courtliest Barrymore bow and PART TWO— MAUDE ADAMS TO BONNIE MAGINN — AND ON ONLY recently John Barrymore was reminiscing of the early life of Ethel, Lionel, and himself — a life spent for the most part in his grandmother’s house at 140 North Twelfth Street, Philadelphia. Here all three of the children of Maurice and Georgie Drew Barrymore were born, and here, since Father Maurice was not the good-provider type, they lived and in due course adolesced. They even played Camille in the elder Mrs, Drew’s back yard, with Ethel as the coughing heroine, elder brother Lionel as Armand, and Jack— aged eight — in the thankless role he plays in the new Garbo film ! Maurice Barrymore’s features were the exact proto¬ type of Jack’s, except that where the son’s face has more than a touch of the poet’s fervor, the father’s suggested the gladiator. Also like his son, Maurice was a littera¬ teur, a dilettante, a fighter, a free spender, a Spanish grandee, and a stay-out-all-nighter. “ Madam, I have to inform you that I was well known in this town before anybody knew whether you were a woman or a mouthwash.” Jack feels that in most things he is much like his father : “ I excel him undeniably in his vices, which were few, and trail panting in the wake of his many virtues. Perhaps I most resemble his notorious and scatter¬ brained ancestor, the seventh Earl of Barrymore, better known as* Hellgate,’ who had a sister whose language was so volcanic that she was known as ‘ Billingsgate.’ He also had two brothers— one, clubfooted, was called ‘ Cripple- gate,’ and the other was known as ‘ Newgate ’ because that was the only prison in which he had not served time.” These wild, wild Barrymores were Jack’s ancestors on his paternal grandmother’s side. His father, whose own name was Blythe, took the Barrymore name so his family need not be ashamed of him when he went on the stage ! Compared. with the Blythes and the Barrymores, the 24

Page 25

Drews were simple peace-loving people. Grandma Drew was the skippiest of the lot. Her matrimonial career ran through four husbands. Famous Uncle John Drew, “ hero of a thousand dress-suit plays,” vied with his brother-in-law in verbal picturesqueness, but otherwise conducted himself both on and off in a thoroughly dress- suited manner. His way of always playing John Drew in every part in which he appeared was a continuous annoyance to Maurice. “ It was right after dinner,” Jack tells us, “ and Ethel, Lionel, and myself were saying our prayers. We had just reached the point where we were saying ‘ God bless mother, God bless father, God bless grandmother.’ when the door opened and father, who had been missing for a few days, put in his head and added: •“ ‘ and please, God, make Uncle John a better actor.’ ” But whichever side of the family made Jack what he is, it is certain that he began that way at a very early date. In- granting Evelyn Nesbit priority rights in the famous Barrymore affections, we must except certain adolescent episodes. He confesses, for example, to having stolen his grandmother’s jewelry, pawned it, and purchased with the proceeds a rosary for a symmetrical Philadelphia lady many years his senior, with whom he fancied himself madly in love. His more mature com¬ ment on this incident was, “ What strange in¬ roads religion makes into the minds of the young 1 ” At Mount Pleasant Academy young Barrymore showed increasing signs of knowing just what he wanted in the way of amorous adventure. It ras in the ball- recipient of the Barrymore homage. Jack, like many another young man of his years, never drew the age line. It is doubtful if Miss Adams, who was just coming into her greatest popularity, treated the youth’s roman¬ tic ardor at all seriously. She may even have considered it merely part of the general adulation which she re¬ ceived on every side. Not one wit cast down, the incipient Great Lover turned his attention to the tall and willowy Ida Conquest. Ida, like Maude, had served her time in the coveted role of John Drew’s leading woman — preceding Billie Burke and the ebullient Mary Boland. She was one of the out¬ standing beauties of the period. But she was also too wise a woman — this beautiful, poised, ash-blonde Ida Conquest — to take a boy to raise. There was another girl at Helen’s, a little girl with big brown eyes set far apart and a mass of wavy brown hair that fell low on her forehead in unmanageable curls. She had a figure so petite and so nearly perfect that she was called “ the Pocket Venus.” The tiny beauty’s real name was Margaret Bird and her stage name was Gladys Wallis; but she had hardly started to write the latter on the honor roll of theatrical fame when she became Mrs. Samuel Insull, wife of the Midwestern master of utilities and patron of the arts, who was, before his more recent sojourn on the Athenian front, public angel number one for every worthy dra¬ matic and musical venture in Chicago. Little Gladys’s defection .rocked the theatrical board¬ inghouse in Forty-sixth Street. Our Jack was one of the most sincere mourners when she decided to give it up for the grandeurs of the huge rose-pink Italian villa on the banks of Lake Michigan. Naturally, being the kind of girl she was, she did not room that he won lasting academic "fame by dancing with the fattest and the least corseted of the village girls. He was the smallest boy in the school — but Little Jack, as he was called, had a typical explanation of his actions. “ I like to grab a handful of back.” he said. It was after the Evelyn episode, however, when he moved his brush and comb— as befitted a Barry¬ more — into Helen Windsor’s famous Forty-sixth Street theatrical boardinghouse, that the fun really began. Maude Adams wa« star boarder when young Jack moved in and, although she was ten years older, immediately became the 25

Page 26

forget the old days in Forty-sixth Street. Naturally, too, the Windsorites didn’t forget their little Gladys. What could be more natural, therefore, when Jack Barry¬ more came to Chicago, than that he should look up his o'd friends, Sam and Gladys, and be seen occasionally in the latter’s charming company? The friendship between these two talented people was of the most innocent sort — as a matter of fact, it had been, back in New York— but for that very reason it serves as an example of how se¬ curely, even early in his career, the reputation of the Great Lover had fastened itself upon him. YyROTE a Chicago scribe: “ The girls have gone as mad ' ' over Jack Barrymore as they have for years over his sister Ethel. It is whispered on the Chicago Rialto that he is receiving more than across-the-footlights adoration from the pretty wife of a very wealthy man who is con¬ cerned in many theatrical ventures.” The truth is, Jack had no eyes at this time for any married woman, no matter how pretty, for he was busy engaging himself to a beautiful young Chicago society girl, Miss Grace Lane. His friends have never known much about this particular romantic interlude, which, like so many others in his life, was of brief duration. Back in the Forty-sixth Street days, Jack’s adventures were quite as often pecuniary as romantic. He refused to concentrate on earning a living. He appeared out of town as Max with Nance O’Neill in Magda, and was so bad that he was sure he’d be fired. So he went straight from the theater and sent the following. explicit telegram to sister Ethel in New York: FOR CHRISTS SAKE SEND ME FIFTY DOLLARS The clerk demurred at accepting such a profane mes¬ sage until Jack explained that the word objected to was the name of his manager and that it was really for his sake that he wanted the money! It was sometimes necessary for Helen Windsor’s guests to double up. To effect this economy of space, Jack teamed up with the already humorous but as yet undiscovered SEE THE SIGNED O. K. CERTIFICATE WITH YOUR FORTUNE SHOES Smart - New - Correct For Fall Five experts say, "This handsome Rugby Buck, wing tip brogue is right for this Fall”— in Style, Leather, Fit, Finish, Value! And they confirm it in writing — their signa¬ tures are on the 0. K. certificate that accompanies every pair. soffiraii SHOES RICHLAND SHOE COMPANY P. G. Wodehouse. The pair of them were apparently the problem children of West Forty-sixth Street. “ Their worst trick,” confided one Norton, an aged actor who recently drifted into Hollywood, “ was stealing my teeth, which were mounted on a gold plate, and hock¬ ing them for the price of a good dinner and a bottle of wine. This was more than embarrassing to me, as I could neither read my lines nor eat so long as the teeth were missing.” During these precarious but exciting days, Jack’s favorite stunt was soliciting testimonials from dis¬ tinguished members of the profession for a shaving lotion named Schaeferine. One of his victims was the famous comedian Nat Goodwin, who was one of the elder Barry¬ more’s closest friends. For Maurice’s sake, good old Nat sent the shaving people a carefully worded fulsome testi¬ monial. To Maurice’s son he telegraphed: I HAVE USED YOUR SCHAEFERINE STOP MY LAWYER WILL SEE YOU IN THE MORNING STOP Desperately in need of the five-dollar bills which the shaving-lotion people paid for a really good name, Jack wired Ethel collect for a testimonial— and, as always, Ethel did her best. Her message to the shaving people read:' “I received your — I can’t remember the darned thing’s name, but I think it is the best table water I ever drank.” Ethel was like that— helpful. She never turned a deaf ear to Jack’s frequent “ Ethel, I’m broke. What do you suppose you’d better do about it? ” Years later, when she was reported engaged to a charming but impecunious Englishman, somebody asked her friend, the late Finley Peter (Mr. Dooley) Dunne, how he thought the couple would get along. “ Oh, that’ll be all right,” replied the Archey Road philosopher. “ Jack and Lionel will support them on the money Ethel gives Jack and Lionel.” Jack did not scorn to mix business with romance. The dramatic sensation of the moment was a young Russian girl, Alla Nazimova, who had come up from the Bowery to bring all Broadway and a good part of Fifth Avenue to her feet. Barrymore, at home in both metiers, was among her most persistent admirers. One night in her dressing room the young man grew eloquently ardent, even for him. Alla, he insisted, was not only the greatest living exponent of Ibsen roles but the most fascinating and most beautiful of living women. Then, while the Russian beauty was regarding herself in her mirror with new interest, he dropped his handsome eyes and sighed deeply. “ Why do you sigh? ” asked madame, applying an added touch of blue to her eyelid. “ When you wear that blue-and-white make-up,” he said, “ you remind me of a poor consumptive orphan boy I am trying to help. Alla dear, you could do him a great service if I dared ask you.” 17'INDHEARTED Nazimova was all attention. “ It’s like this— do you wear Never-Split Linings? ” “ Wh-wh-what? ” “ Never-Split Linings— greatest thing in the world to make your skirts hang like Paquin’s. The Duchess of Marlborough has endorsed them. So have Mrs. Astor and Elinor Glyn. Great goods, Alla, great goods ! ” “ But the poor consumptive boy? ” she faltered. “ Well, you see, he gets a commission for every endorse¬ ment he secures. For one from a great artist and beauti¬ ful woman like yourself he might get ten dollars. And ten dollars means a lot to this poor little boy.” Deeply moved, Nazimova affixed her signature to a glowing testimonial. “ And what is the poor boy’s name? ” she asked. Jack examined the paper carefully, folded it neatly, and pocketed it. Then he helped himself to one of her gold-tipped perfumed cigarettes. “ His name, my dear Alla, is Barrymore.” But even the lane called Broadway has its turning. In 1905 came the engagement with Collier in The Dictator which gave Jack steady employment for many months and took him to both Australia and England. First, however, it took him to San Francisco just in time to take in the earthquake. He was sleeping, as was 26

Page 27

his frequent wont in those days, in his evening clothes and in the apartment of a friend, when he was thrown heavily to the floor. Trying to escape, he wandered into the bathroom. Hours later, troopers from the Presidio found him continuing his slumber in the tub, and promptly commandeered him to help clear away the wreckage. This was the incident which inspired Uncle John Drew’s immortal line, “ It took a convulsion of nature to get him into a bathtub and the United States army to make him work.” Passing through Union Park, our brave young knight spied a damsel seemingly in distress. Lightly clad, she was sitting on the largest of about seventeen trunks. “ Aren’t you cold? ” he asked her. “ Can’t I get you something warm- Shivering, the damsel allowed that it might be a good idea. So Jack went up to the Bohemian Club, fortified himself thoroughly against come- what-may, and then carried back a glass of brandy to the lady in the park. He learned afterward that he ha,d been playing Ganymede to Mme. Frances Alda of the Metropolitan Opera Company. On his way out of the park he passed Willie Collier, whose greeting was characteristic : “ Go West, young man, and blow up with the country! ” /"\UTSIDE the Palace Hotel he saw ^ Caruso sitting in a van with his trunks, and ran into Diamond Jim Brady, who seemed much amused at his being in dress clothes. It was Brady who went back to Broadway and told about Jack Barrymore’s hav¬ ing “ dressed for the earthquake.” “ A great deal of my reputation for eccentricity,” Jack says, “ had, I think, its origin in that incident. Until I talked to Brady, it had not occurred to me that I was oddly dressed for the occasion. I don’t know, though, what one should wear at an earthquake.” In London, Gerald Du Maurier, who had been crazy about Ethel when she was there, transferred part of his affection to brother Jack. The two men became pals ; and inasmuch as Gerald was now deeply in love with Gladys Cooper, Barrymore saw much of that charming creature, who is still queen of the London stage. Whether there was ever anything romantic be¬ tween Gladys and Jack, only they know; but she recalls rather wryly that she “ lent ” him her pet monkey, Iris; “ He begged me to let him have Iris for a little while, promising faithfully that I should have her back again. But I have never seen her since, except in his film, The Sea Beast, and on a pic¬ ture post card of him and her signed ‘ With love from Iris and J. B.’ ” Then, once more, we perceive the ef¬ fect of “ that damned charm ” of his, “However,” added Gladys, “he is a nice^man, so I forgive him.” When J. B. finally left London — ac¬ cording to the staid British press — “ countesses, even duchesses, shed gallons of tears.” Most of this foreign An Old Thrill Hunter Gets a New Thrill By Rex Beach, Author of « The Barrier ” etc . I’ M a thrill hunter. I like exeitement and I've explored several frontiers looking for it. The other day I got a real kiek out of exploring a factory! In Boston! This was the G illette factory where pre¬ cision is raised to the nth degree. I beheld efficiency perfected. 1 saw machines too complicated for the average man to under¬ stand -machines which performed opera¬ tions too intricate, too painstaking for human hands to attempt. Every hour in theday.miraeles.bothvisihleandinvisible, are wrought by these mechanical wizards. A human hair is only 3/1000 of an inch thick, yet I saw ribbons of the best razor steel in the world — miles of such ribbons — every foot rolled to such a precision that a variation of one-tenth of a hair's breadth caused it to be immediately rejected. Electrical robots, swifter and more canning than human beings, govern the tempering of the blade steel. Almost in¬ stantaneously, these sensitive devices regulate the heat of the furnaces to the fraction of a degree. The hardness of the finished steel is tested with diamond pointed punches, and the punch marks are microscopically ganged to guarantee absolute uniformity. An X-ray eye looks through the metal itself with a vision so clear that a change in its structure due to mere bending can be detected. The most extraordinary pieee of equip¬ ment is a photo-electric device which makes it . possible to measure the sharp¬ ness of a razor blade, although the cutting edge is barely 1 /80,000th of an inch thick! Gillette engineers invented this device; there is no other in existence and it is in constant- use to check the efficiency of the grinding, honing and stropping machines. In the sharpening proeess, the same exquisite refinement of technique is em¬ ployed and finally every finished blado is . inspected and tested before it goes out. Even in the packing, each blade is in¬ geniously fastened inside its moisture proof envelope so that its super-keen edges can¬ not- be dulled by touching the paper be¬ fore it reaches a user’s hands. Upon leaving the Gillette factory I was convinced that 1 had beheld a miracle of scientific accomplishment. This morning when I opened a new package of Gillette Blades I realized that these aro truly the Blue Bloods among razor blades— the finest that modern science ean produce. comfort by selling you o substitute! Ask for Gillette Blades ond be sure lo get them. GILLETTE SAFETY RAZOR COMPANY, BOSTON, MASS. 27

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ADVERTISERS : Liberty is sold the same way you sell your goods-over the counter in the market places of America. DU’RE THERE A - . r YOU'RE THERE WITH A 5 RADIO COMPARE THESE PRICES TUBE FOR TUBE, FEATURE FOR FEATURE, WITH ANY RADIO ON THE MARKET *AUT0-EXPRE$$I0NAT0R * MYSTIC AH D log or othor cad got. J MAGNA CERAMIC DIAL t VIBRACOUSTIC SOUNDING BOARD © METAL TUBES and 8 other CROSLEY FEATURES **Jt©i5 TUBES $167.50 **jt© 13 TUBES $137.50 **->t® 11 “TUBES $99.95 41M" Consol. * ->t© 9 TUBES $89.95 Jt® 7 “TUBES $59.95 ->t© 6 TUBES $49.95 PWeTOSKS success was social rather than pro¬ fessional. The same situation pre¬ vailed at home. But after brief en¬ gagements in his sister’s companies, Mort Singer, an astute producer, offered him a part in A Stubborn Cinderella, a musical comedy. “ How would a hundred and fifty do? ” said Mort. Barrymore, who had never received more than fifty dollars a week, looked at him blankly. “ Make it one seventy-five, then ! ” Mort amended. This colloquy occurred in Atlantic City. Barrymore could hardly con¬ tain himself on the way to the hotel to sign a contract. That evening he went up to New York, got his dress suit out of hock, and kept a supper date with Bonnie Maginn, the Peo¬ ple’s Choice. Bonnie was Weber and Fields’s most glorified beauty. The famous old Music Hall was then at the apex. Its company included, besides Joe Weber and Lew Fields, David War- field, Willie Collier, Pete Dailey, and the becorseted Lillian Russell. But ■none of these received a heartier wel¬ come from the rows out front than chubby little Bonnie. Like Flo Ziegfeld’s Lilian Lorraine of later era, Bonnie Maginn was never a principal but always a star. Sym¬ metrically speaking, she couldn’t hold a torch to Frankie Bailey, whose chief attraction— her “ Frankie Baileys ” — gave to the English language a new synonym for legs. But Bonnie had that in the warm Irish heart of hers which drew men to her. Barrymore’s courtship of her was, on the surface at least, hugely suc¬ cessful. There existed between them that camaraderie which Evelyn Nes- bit insisted was the binding tie be¬ tween her and Jack; but in Bonnie’s case it seemed much more genuine. Broadway credited the breaking up of the Barrymore-Maginn romance to Miss Vivian Blackburn, a young wom¬ an who suddenly — thanks to her fa¬ mous fencing costume— became the cigarette-picture girl par excellence. However, young Jack’s devotion to the shapely Miss Blackburn — re¬ member her with that red heart on a white blouse? — was most ephemeral. To this day, a great many Broadway- ites feel that he was not a little broken up when Bonnie Maginn married Henry Gassaway Davis — later a can¬ didate for Vice-President of the United States — and disappeared from the Broadway scene. But Jack was in the money now. He could pick and choose among the beauties of Broadway. And he did! Just watch the third division of the Barrymore beauty parade go by next week! There’ll be, among plenty of others: lovely Lotta Faust — but she wanted Jack to go back to his studio; exuberant Elsie Janis — but “ Ma ” Janis broke that romance up; Irene Fenwick — but Irene married brother Lionel instead; Hazel Allen and Sally Fisher and— fatefully if not finally — Katherine Hams! 28

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Is Diet The Way? I Bernarr Macf adden wrote an article titled: Can Cancer Be Cured Without an Operation? He stated that he believed this malig¬ nant disease to be “ a con¬ stitutional condition due to an impure-blood stream and a toxic condition of the body”; that the develop¬ ment of cancerous growth was the result of this con¬ dition ; and “ that improper living habits, especially as regards eating, exercise, cleanliness, and elimination, are productive of the caus¬ ative toxemias and impure blood streams.” “ In my opinion,” he said, “the raw -milk -and -raw - fruit diet has proved of ' CAN CANCER BE CURED WITHOUT AN OPERATION A desperate and brave cancer sufferer who has en¬ dured operations and at least thirty-four X-ray treatments writes : “ If I can still add a few years to my life by dieting, then it is worth trying. I am a widow of forty, have two daugh¬ ters, seventeen and eighteen, whom I have tried to raise to meet life and care for themselves. I have worked nine years to support us, but now I am in bed most of the time, so the county cares for us, and although they only allow us $1.50 a week for our groceries, I am sure if I was on the diet they would willingly give more money as medical treat- m^*1 Wouldn’t i “A dear relative of ' . . “ ' ' " ' (fun™ recently eIShe "now Some Revealing Letters Evoked ain in all parts of her body. by Bemarr Macfadden’s Article on Right Living and Eating as a ; * Weapon against the Greatest- Scourge of Modern Times by EDWARD

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PRESENCE of7Jfcg THERE, Lena! Dang Twice He Had to Win the Cross— your shiverin’ tin . 0 c r hide, you can coast A Searching Story of Courage on home from here. Pana- ' . 0 mint Parker brought Two Widely Different Battlefronts his wheezing Model T J to a standstill at the heading time • 24 minutes 4 seconds top of Cochise Grade. come so aeaa ser on Dawn had not yet reached the floor of the desert basin getting this outfit of fancy clothes ? where Panamint’s little adobe squatted at the foot of That letter, addressed to “ Sgt. Robert Conroy,” had the grade. The Oldman’s gaze followed the little-traveled certainly pepped Bob up. Right off, he’d sent Panamint Chester was plenty skookum for any game to be found in the des¬ ert? And why, after reading that letter with the queer address, had be suddenly be- ribbon of road that sloped steeply down from the of his car t approvingly _ sight of the smoke haze rising from the chimney. “ Bob’s up a’ready,” he chuckled. “ Reckon he’s plumb anxious to get hisself draped in these new gyarments he . . town for the clothes. “Be sure you get back with the door of his dwelling. He squinted them by tomorrow afternoon, old sand-eater,” he had ' his adobe home, his eyes twinkling at said. “ Better bring an extra lot of gasoline, too. We’re ’ ’ 1-'~~ * i’“ '*'1“ going to have a week-end visitor, and I might want to do some buzzing around.” It was the first time Panamint had ever seen him gay and excited. With some men that would have meant a the wag of his woman. But men like Bob didn’t bring pain to the women they loved, if they could help it. Were there any such woman in Bob’s life, he’d be hell-bent to keep her Good-natured incomprehension was _ _ grizzled head as his mind dwelt on his younger partner. Queer cuss, Bob Conroy. Tight-mouthed. It - his gizzard. And in all that time, never a peep about how come he was there, or who had done the ventilating. Panamint was not one to pry into a friend’s past, and Conroy was his friend. Still, he couldn’t help puzzling r certain things. Panamint released the brake on the palpitating Lena. The old car went careening down the grade. Inside the old adobe. Bob Conroy sat polishing the already speckless surface of an army Springfield. A fighting man, this Conroy; but beset, 1 For instance, why had Bob stuck here in the sagebrush against whom neither lead, nor steel, nor courage would . 0 years, without making Why had he watched the highway so closely that first year, as if expecting trouble to come rid¬ ing down it? Why had he sent out for that high-power army rifle, when Pa¬ namint’s old Win- . single trip to town? avail. He would soon need all the strength he could muster — not for combat, but that he might bear himself like a man under the eyes of the one person before whom he was most reluctant to exhibit weakness. Yesterday, buoyed up by anticipation, that had seemed easy enough. But in the night had come another paroxysm of coughing. He was still weak from it. Panamint should be along soon now, he thought, cock¬ ing a listening ear for Lena’s exhaust. But the desert was silent except for the clucking of the hens out back. When that suddenly changed to a chorus of terrified squawks, he came to his feet, slid a cartridge into the Springfield’s chamber, and was at the door with poised rifle. A coyote darted across the highway, a limp hen in his jaws. Conroy whipped the - Springfield into line with a snap and accuracy known only to the expert rifle¬ man. For a moment his body tensed. Then, reluctantly, he lowered the weapon. “You devilish old thief!” he muttered half admiringly. “ How could you know-that I wouldn’t dare pull trigger on you — today? ” Yesterday he’d have shot that gray marauder — daring the consequences. But yesterday he’d had no keen desire to prolong his life. A letter— an echo out of the past- had changed all that. Today he must take no chances. He knew only too well the danger he would be courting should he fire even a single shot from the high-powered Springfield. Had known since a week ago, when the jar of the rifle’s recoil had sent a knife- sharp pain through his chest, and brought on a racking seizure. He had a hunch the next spasm like that would come with his number on it. The coyote slid from sight, and Conroy turned back inside to stand the rifle in its rack at the foot of his army cot. A Navaho blanket covered the cot, and upon it his stained Gladstone lay open. In one of the comers of the bag was a small satinwood box. Con¬ roy flipped up its hinged cover. 'It isl"| Searle exclaimed _ , _ above it. “It’s the Big Shot himselfl" they bent

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by LARRY O’CONNER Against its cloth lining varicolored bits of ribbon and metal were pinned. Trinkets. The kind of trinkets govern¬ ments bestow on fighting men. Slightingly, with a long forefinger, Conroy ticked them off until he came to a pair placed a little apart from the rest. He unpinned those two and held them off. His set lips softened a little as he regarded the bronze Maltese cross and simple scroll of the one; but it was on the other medallion that his eyes came to rest with a gleam of pride. He had worked for it, had won it in the face of grueling competition. Remembering, his drooping shoulders squared. For a moment he was again Ser¬ geant Conroy of His Majesty’s Greys, stand¬ ing before his regiment while the colonel’s hands affixed that ribbon to his blouse. A clattering roar jerked him up with a start. Panamint— outside! Not even for a new pair of lungs would Bob Conroy have been caught mooning over his wartime deco¬ rations. Hurriedly he tossed the medals at the open Gladstone, and closed the bag. In his haste he failed to note that the two had over¬ shot the mark and landed on the Navaho blanket covering the cot. Panamint came stamping in, loaded with bags and bundles. “ Hi, Bob ! ” he greeted. “ Here we be, with your outfit. Climb into it, Ten minutes later Conroy clicked his heels and saluted. “ Think I’ll pass inspection, old- timer? ” Panamint eyed critically the slim soldierly figure that seemed to have taken on added height and vitality in the well fitting white flannels. “Boy,” he chuckled approvingly, “ reckon not even a choosy grass widow could pick a flaw in that layout.” Conroy laughed. “I’ll be facing a more critical eye than that this afternoon. My old brigade commander is coming out here to The second killer was crouched by Ihe adobe, the sun flickering on his derby as he Iwisled [this way and lhal lo discover Ihe source of ihe attack. “ Reckon it means a lot to you, Bob — havin’ him come out here.” Conroy nodded. “ I followed the colonel through three years of hell. To me he’ll always be pretty nearly a god. T3..J- T> r, ” m a pretty good husk of n to be disappointed in “ I reckon he ain’t the kind that would blame a man for a sick pair of lungs, son.” “ It’s not that. He knows I swallowed a lot too much gas. He’ll understand about my — physical weakness. But there^are some other things he might not find it easy “ I don’t reckon you committed a murder,” said Pana¬ mint dryly, “ or anything like that.” “ No.” Conroy smiled faintly. “ After the war my dickey lungs weren’t up to hard labor. Jobs went to men whose brains and bodies hadn’t been crocked up. So I jumped at a chance to work my way across on a freighter to Montreal. Since then I’ve — muddled through. But no — Scotland Yard doesn’t want me.” Panamint changed the subject. “ Speakin’ of crime— the town’s all excited over a kidnaping in our peaceful midst. Nabbed the Lundmeyer youngster — son of that rich lumberman. If our radio had been workin’ you’d have heard how they later murdered the attendant at a filling station between Daggett and Barstow. And how their car— a big green sedan— went through Barstow like a bat out of hell, headin’ toward Mojave. Some say there was three men in it, others claim four.” Panamint was burrowing into one of the bags. “ Got some new radio tubes here,” he muttered. The radio began to hum as he fitted the tubes into place. “ That was yestiddy morning. Since then the whole desert country’s been b’ilin’ with sheriffs an’ G-men.” The radio blared suddenly into speech : . . the kidnap car. It is now believed the green sedan must have left the Mojave road and doubled east past Black Water Wells, seeking to cross the desert and enter either Nevada or Arizona. All ferries and bridges are under stringent guard, and at least five hundred men are now combing the trails and highways for the kid¬ napers of Milton Lundmeyer, Third. G-man Graham Searle, directing the search, today told reporters he is positive this, outrage is the work of Public Enemy Num¬ ber One, Gyp Girotti. The makers of Gooch’s Hair Re¬ storer — ” Panamint snapped off the radio and whirled on Conroy. “ By golly, that gang might cut across—” He broke off at sight of Conroy’s face, suddenly gone gray and drawn. “ What’s wrong, pardner? You look like — ” “ I’m all right.” Conroy’s voice was flat, mechanical. “ I— Panamint, you’ll have to drive me into town— at once — soon as you’ve had some breakfast.” 31

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There was that in their posture which brought Conroy r to his knees, snatching at the Springfield. He jerked the I rifle toward him, while his eyes held fast to the tableau beside the road. He saw Panamint’s form jerk, fold at the waist, and slowly crumple forward. He knew why, even before the crashing reports of the two automatics carried to his ears. He had seen men shot through the middle before. Too late, he had recognized those gangsters of the Girotti mob. Too late to save Panamint, but he’d make them pay. Two in sight; one more, at least, in the sedan — two more perhaps. He wondered grimly if he could last to fire four shots in succession. Before Panamint’s body had completed its fall, Conroy was sprawled in a prone position, rifle forward. Below, the big man started walking toward Panamint’s still figure, sunlight glinting on the weapon in his hand. Conroy lined his sights on the center of that moving speck. Gently, unhurriedly, his trigger hand began the squeeze. The big man, standing almost over Panamint, was again lifting his automatic when Conroy’s fingers completed their squeeze and the Springfield surged back against his shoulder. The big man jerked stiffly erect, tossed his arms, and pitched to earth. 'T'HE second killer was crouched by the adobe, the sun -*■ flickering on his derby as he twisted this way and that to discover the source of the attack. Conroy squeezed off another shot. The man in the derby wilted, as if his legs had suddenly dissolved. But the jar of that second shot was like a lance through Conroy’s chest. The sedan’s motor roared into life, and the car lurched forward. Conroy hadn’t counted on that, but there was a way to stop it. Grimly, teeth clenched against the pain, he sent two quick shots ripping through the hood of the machine. The exhaust died abruptly, the car stood still. Out of it erupted a dwarfish man with a golf cap on his head, a submachine gun in his arms. “ Monk Costello,” gasped Conroy. Then his head swam and the world turned black, as he fought to fill his pain- racked lungs. Paying no heed to the excited chatter of Costello’s machine gun, spraying bullets that struck far down the slope, he concentrated on his fight for air. Little by little, he won. When he was able to look down again, only Costello’s head and the blued barrel of the Thompson were visible above the hood of the sedan. Costello, guided by the spurts of sand, had elevated the muzzle of his weapon. A ricochet droned past Con¬ roy’s ear; a burst went thrr-up-p-p in the mesquite twenty feet below and to his right. Conroy’s hands were shaking from the hammer of his pulse. The Springfield’s front sight wavered all around the spitting muzzle of the machine gun and the golf cap above it, but it was on the target at the instant of fire. The barrel of the machine gun described a glittering arc, and Monk Costello slumped from sight behind the sedan. The pudgy slack-jowled man slid out on the sheltered side of the stalled car and edged cautiously toward the rear. Keeping in cover, he reached around, unlocked a big trunk on the baggage rack, and pushed up the lid. Then he leaped up and clawed inside the trunk to drag forth the limp form of a little boy, which he instantly interposed as a shield between his own bulky body and the ridge. He might have spared himself that precaution, for the rifleman on the ridge had not seen him. Bob Conroy was slumped face down on his crossed arms, his whole upper body racked by convulsions. The pudgy man reached the Ford, tossed the boy in on top of the gas cans in the back seat. When he jammed his foot down for the starter and found none, he cursed and tumbled out to begin a frenzied twisting of the crank. At the fourth attempt the engine started; then died. Conroy’s vision was blurred, but he no longer trembled. His brain felt dead except for a dim trancelike sense of satisfaction. No jail-cell finish now; no need to leave the desert. Now he could face the colonel as a soldier should, for he had finished the Girotti job. Wiped out Girotti’s killers. But now— quiet; a little rest until his strength came <ottWuncertainfee///)g Keep calm ond steody— Give Beech-Nut Gum yaur vote! tellers ! keep h BEECH-NUf

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Three- and Four-Star Books Recently Reviewed in Liberty ★ ★ ★ DARkSsQUk'^ WORLDS by L^rCohen^LISTENFOR^^ LONESOME RAISE HELL by Lowell ThomosjTHE MOUNTAIN AND THE DRUM by Corl Comer (Illustrated by Cyrus LeRay Bold- PLAIN by Herbert Gorman; HALFWAY HOUSE by Ellery ridge) ;THE DISCUSSION OF HUMAN AFFAIRS by Charles Queen; THE RIVER PASTURE by Judy Van Der Veer; A. Beard ; CHILDREN OF OL’ MAN RIVER by Billy Bryont. THIS WEEK'S REVIEWS ,ox b" v°- - di’szr ctocK b' * v- w D-

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Nautical But Not Naughty A Former Risque Stage Hit Comes to the Screen as a Hilarious Bit of Clean Fun — Mr. Raft Appears (Again) as a Gambler, and Mr. Gable as a Pugilist (sans Mustache ) by BEVERLY HILLS

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Why My W ife and I Are UNHAPPY READING TIME • 9 MINUTES 50 SECONDS ! A lot of you would, I know. People from all over the world are always telling me I’m the luckiest of men. Just because my quintuplets are “ Canada’s five-star tourist attraction.” Not long ago, while I was on my way home from the quintuplets’ hospital, I was stopped by a nice friendly guy from Chattanooga, Tennessee. “You’re the quins’ papa, aren’t you?” he asked. “ Well, I want to tell you something. Along with a couple of thousand other tourists today, I saw the world’s biggest and best baby show. Yes, sir, I’ve seen Yvonne, Annette, Cecile, Emilie, and Marie. And I’ll never forget the quin capers they cut 1 “ Young fellow, I envy you. I’ve been married ten years —and still no luck; still no babies! “ But I haven’t given up hope — yet,” he confided. “ There are five magic Dionne pebbles in my pocket. Do you know what they say about rocks and pebbles carried away from your farm? ” I knew that, by order of somebody or other, thousands of rocks and pebbles from my farm are put into boxes for the convenience of tourists, and that these boxes are stacked in front of what they call the “ exhibition play¬ ground building.” But I didn’t know why. I’d supposed they were for souvenirs only. That gave the man from Tennessee a laugh. “ The joke’s on you ! ” he said. “ To think the low-down on this pebble business is news to Papa Dionne! Why, didn’t you know that a lot of childless women have taken to wearing five-pebble Dionne wishing bracelets ? “ All these men and women who go away from here with stones want to have quins, if they can. And if they can’t, they want to have just a baby ! ” He asked me to wish him luck. I did, but I was laughing inside. Then I hurried into the house and told Elzire — in French, which is her only language — all I’d just heard about this pebble business. And that gave her a laugh. But there was a hint of tears in her voice as she said, “ If these people who are envying us had any idea of what we’ve been through — what welre still going through— they wouldn’t call us lucky, would they, Oliva? ” That’s how Elzire feels— with all her heart. In a few words I’ll try to tell you how I feel. When we were expecting the birth of a seventh child I was just a plain hard-working- farmer. I worked from sunup to sundown. With my family I went regularly to church on Sunday. I lived and let live, always minding my own business. To city folk, that sort of life might seem dull. But I was born on a farm— this same Dionne farm where I live now — and in the very same room as the quins, only thirty years ahead of them. All my life, practically, I’d worked. Work didn’t scare me ; I liked it. The truth is, I counted myself a fortunate man. Especially after my marriage on September 15, 1925, to pretty sixteen-year-old Elzire Legros, the only girl I’ve ever loved. I was prosperous. I had a knack of making money, and to use our French expression, je ne Vai pas jete par la fenetre (I didn’t throw it out of the window). I saved my dollars and dimes to get married on, and at the time of my wedding — I was then twenty-two — I had two thousand dollars in the bank. I also had 38 the old farm, which I’d bought from my father, and I had an automobile and a hay press — the only one around Corbeil. We started off fine, Elzire and I. We were very happy. After the children came we were even happier. For we both loved babies, and liked working for them and plan¬ ning for their futures. “Why shouldn’t we be happy?” my lighthearted French wife often said to me. “ We have all we need.” We did, too. For we had each other. We had our love. We had our children. We had our three hundred acres of farm land. We had up-to-date farm machinery. I was especially proud of our cattle — the prize bull, the two sleek horses, and the three good cows. Yes; the farm was well equipped and well stocked. In the good years before things went to pieces it used to bring in as much as a thousand dollars a year. And I earned extra money by my trapping and by baling hay for other farmers. We didn’t have anything to worry about — not until the bad years took our savings and forced us to do with¬ out a lot of things we’d always had. We did manage to hang on to the old family car, though, and I kept it run¬ ning all right. By saving carefully, we scraped along. My wife made over some of her dresses — her best ones, mind you— into Sunday frocks for our little girls, Rose and Therese. She also made each of them a fur coat out of an old rac¬ coon coat she’d had before our marriage. Elzire even made my trousers ! Made them well, too. I’ve seen store pants that didn’t look a bit better. Hard as we had to work, there were some moments of letup, too. For amusement we read French books or papers. Sometimes we had visitors with whom we played whist. Sometimes we called on relatives and neighbors. And occasionally we drove in the old car to Callander or North Bay for marketing or shopping. On Sundays, of course, rain or shine, we went to church with our prayer books and our rosaries. Little did we dream then that we’d soon be running from newspaper reporters and dodging photographers. I remember the cold nights in February, ’34, with knee- deep snow on the ground. Elzire and I, after she’d heard the children’s prayers and tucked them into bed, used to sit around the stove and talk. We talked about the times that should soon be better and about the children: about Ernest, who was then seven; about Rose, who was six; Therese, five; Daniel, two; and about our half-year-old blonde Pauline. We also spoke of the baby we were expecting in July, and two or three times Elzire said: “ Somehow, this time I feel different. Maybe I’m going to have twins.” Spring came and she still -felt “ different.” It was easy to see she wasn’t so strong as she’d always been when nearing her time with the other babies. Something told her, too, that all might not go well. But even her strong premonition didn’t prepare her for the serious illness which soon followed, or for the two months’ premature birth of five unbelievably small and alarmingly frail girl We weren’t ready, of course, for a quintuplet birth. For one thing, we didn’t have enough money. And so the Red Cross, under the direction of the government, rushed

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GOD COMES Is Faith Rising from the Dead Past in the Colony of Films — Are the Movies Forgetting to Be “ Colossal and Stupendous ” to Be Simple and Fine and True? by WESTON LAKE PULITZER PRIZE cartoonist Rollin 6 minutes m Kirby, who shoots a mean game of Kelly pool, was pursuing his usual avocation in the bar of The Players, Gramercy Park, New York, when in wandered Pulitzer Prize playwright Marc Connelly seeking an idea for a play. “ How about Old Man Adam and His Chillun? ” sug¬ gested Kirby. “ What is it? ” said Connelly. “ A book.” “ What’s it about? ” “ About God— there ought to be an idea in that.” There was. Assisted by Roark Bradford, author of the darky folklore masterpiece, playwright Connelly fash¬ ioned The Green Pastures. The play ran five years, played nearly two thousand performances in more than two hundred cities, grossed three million dollars and sold to the movies for one hun¬ dred thousand, plus a fabulous writer-and-di rector con¬ tract for Connelly. The book and the play were fabricated out of simple ingredients. But could Hollywood be as simple as that? Could any cinema-trained director, finding himself on location in heaven, refrain from depicting it as elegant, lavish, stupendous, colossal— with a nifty angel ballet number done on a moving heavenly staircase? In The Green Pastures, however, Hollywood resisted such temptations, avoided such pitfalls, by the simple device of turning over the production to some one who knew something about it — to wit, the playwright. This was, of course, contrary to the best Hollywood traditions. But now Hollywood was taking an epochal step: it was actually letting the man who created the play have something to say about its production. As a result, you will never be able to convince the Brothers Warner that God hasn’t come to Hollywood for their special benefit. But if it is true — as it would seem from The Green Pastures and other notable films which are about to come to the screen — that Providence is tak¬ ing more than the usual interest in Hollywood affairs, the ultimate beneficiaries are likely to be you and me and the forty million other people who make the motion-picture industry possible and profitable. Good as The Green Pastures is, it is not so important in itself as it is as a symbol of what has been happening in Hollywood during the past twenty-four months, what is still happening, and what will happen even more defi¬ nitely during the next twelve months. seconds For it is not' the only picture that has benefited by Hollywood’s belated discov¬ ery that you cannot produce a cinema Hamlet with Ham¬ let left out. More and more often, in the long list of credits which comes after the title of every picture, there appears the name of .the man or woman who wrote the original book or play on which the picture is based, and who has been permitted by the chastened movie gods to impart to the screen version that vital spark which made the original version notable. This departure from hidebound movie tradition may be the most important thing — for you and me — that has happened in Hollywood since the coming of the talking picture. Under these enlightened policies, almost the whole of creative literature becomes available to the camera and the microphone. Few novels are so profound and few stage fantasies so feathery light that, with the author’s co-operation, they could not be successfully adapted to the screen. It is only when the original con¬ ception is lost that the really worth-while story is lost. Cavalcade — still probably the finest production ever made for the screen— is an excellent example. The Noel Coward piece was first produced in London as a stage play. It was viewed by the foreign representatives of every American film company and by most of the important Hollywood executives on visits to Europe. In the parlance of the industry, nobody gave it a tear. Finally, it was bought for pictures by a Wall Street banker temporarily in charge of a big California film company which had fallen into financial difficulties. With misgivings and without enthusiasm, the studio put the picture into production. Its only chance, so the wise ones said, was that it might make some money in England; so the director was allowed to produce it as a straight English story without any of the usual Holly¬ wood “ improvements ”— in short, as Coward had already conceived, written, and produced it. Result : a smash hit. A few years before the making of Cavalcade, a slight tired-looking but bright-eyed young director named Alex¬ ander Korda had made in Hollywood one of the best of the silent pictures, The Private Life of Helen of Troy. From author John Erskine’s idea, or rather from his title, young Korda had distilled an idea of his own. He would make The Private Life of Henry VIII. Filled with the force of his great idea, he stormed the ramparts of the studio front office, only to be told, “ Aw, get something commercial ! ” Korda then took himself and hi. idea to Europe. Finally 41

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Cockeyed Crosswords by TED SHANE

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9tHewn' iIsBtfM t u/ith Jordan Johh.^'' Adve^res B«ttAaX fbe A,,idS'” r R^'"' HE is a business man — a buyer who goes into the open market and each year spends a small fortune for commodities that must be given away by his em¬ ployers. He argues with kings, chases stratosphere bal¬ loons through the Swiss Alps, teaches dictators to speak English, crawls around the top of Vesuvius, attends royal christenings, hurries to riots in Paris, and never misses a war. Still he is a business man. Max Jordan’s job is to comb Europe for things you would like to hear on the radio. Not the routine proces¬ sion of tenors, pianists, bell ringers, or crooners. Noth¬ ing less than a grand duke will send Jordan trotting across Europe with a microphone— and the grand duke has to have something important to say when Jordan gets there. When there was a war in Ethiopia, Jordan thought the owners of radio sets in America might like to hear the Emperor. He went to Ethiopia, and Haile Selassie spoke. So also did his wife. But by an unfortunate coincidence Count Galeazzo Ciano, Mussolini’s son-in-law, was also on the air. The studio asked questions. Jordan said, “ I invited both sides to present their viewpoints, and both agreed. That kept me neutral.” But he didn’t tell of the months of experimentation that had preceded those brief broadcasts — of the diffi¬ culties in bringing the Emperor’s voice from the heart of North Africa across thousands of miles to the United States. That was part of his job. Chasing a balloon was another one. Auguste Piccard was preparing for a stratosphere flight and had agreed to notify Jordan in time for the take-off. The call came at three in the morning and Jordan left his hotel in Zurich on a wild dash to the flying-field. A hookup was made and the American public listened to the start of the great flight. Then Jordan and his party piled into six cars and followed the course of the balloon into the Swiss Alps. They were loaded down with geodetic, astronomi¬ cal, meteorological, and radio equipment, and the idea was to broadcast the landing. Outside the Sargans on the route to St. Moritz they were stopped by a railroad worker who pointed into the sky and cried, “ There’s the balloon ! ” Above was a small white speck that appeared to be at an altitude of about twenty thousand feet. “ The gondola,” agreed one of the technicians. The morning sun is reflecting from the silver paint.” Instruments were set up, tests made, and the party iNaited the arrival of Professor Piccard from the sky. One hour passed— two. The technicians were worried. A farmer stopped at the roadside and watched the prepa¬ rations. He turned to Jordan. So many instruments— so many people,” he said. “ And all to look at Venus ! ” Venus — the morning star well known to the people of the Swiss Alps — had been mistaken by a score of experts for the stratosphere balloon. Instruments were thrown into the cars and the party established a new speed rec¬ ord across the Alps to Desenzano on Lake Garda where the balloon had landed. But Professor Piccard was al¬ ready in bed and asleep. In the morning Jordan per¬ suaded him to describe his flight to the American public, but asked him to make no mention of the morning star. A call came to Switzerland telling of riots in Paris. The next day Jordan was in the French capital. He rented one of the few available taxicabs and cruised through the streets of Paris. America received an eye¬ witness account of the riots. You may remember the quiet voice that told the story. It was that of Jordan, who had been crouching on the floor of the taxi watching the excitement with one eye— the other tightly closed by a stone that had come through a window. DUT it is all a part of his trade — his business of send- ing things from Europe you would like to hear. And that is the eternal quest — “ What do they want? What would interest them? ” Jordan thought of Vesuvius, a- broadcast of an eruption. Italian engineers laughed at the idea and claimed it was impossible. That started him off for Italy. He ordered a portable transmitter sent to him from America, hired an army of workmen to run cables from Naples to the rim of the volcano, wrapped a few micro¬ phones with asbestos, and waited. When Vesuvius grumbled, Jordan grabbed a micro- •phone, shielded his face from the heat, and climbed over the rim. Below him red lava was spilling from the cen¬ ter of the eruptive cone, twisting streams of molten rock that bubbled and hissed in counterpoint to the rumblings of the mountain. Dense clouds of smoke and gas belched upward. Jordan wedged the tripod of the mike in the rock and scrambled back over the ledge. Four other mikes were put in place and the broadcast started. “ You are now listening to an eruption of Vesuvius,” said an announcer in New York City. There was a blare of sound that grew to a deafening roar. A broad stream of smoking lava swallowed the first microphone placed a moment before by Jordan. Others were more fortunate and were out of the paths of

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STARTLING FOOTBALL FOUR GREAT COACHES READING TIME • 19 MINUTES S3 SECONDS AKING a touchdown,” Knute Eockne once told us, “ is a simple matter. First of all you get that ball into scoring territory ...” This business of getting into scoring territory is what gives coaches gray hair. The teams that get in there most are the ones that are going to win games. The two in the East that I expect will be battering away at the goal lines the most are Princeton and Pitts- Princeton was unbeaten last year. Fritz Crisler loses a lot of crack men through graduation. But shed no tears for the poor old Tiger. He will have high-class substitutes galore and a corps of dandy freshmen com¬ ing up. This year it again will be dangerous to grab the Tiger by the tail. One dare not let go. Pittsburgh, always a powerhouse, will once more have its generators working overtime. Shedlosky, LaRue, Kliskey, and a few more top men will depart, but Jock Sutherland has not seen his team lose to any Eastern club in eight years. He may make it nine. Despite my own high personal regard for the eminent Dr. Sutherland, I really would like to see that record snapped — when Pitt plays Fordham, of course. I don’t want to stick my chin out too far but I really believe that Fordham is going to have a mighty fine team. The line will be good, but all hope of success depends on the backfield. Another eleven with tremendous possibilities will be Penn. The Quakers looked almost invincible before the start of last season and yet unaccountably lost game after game. Coach Harvey Harman will have his old backfield intact and should have a strong line as well. If so, then watch its smoke. Holy Cross, like Penn, has some of the best material of any college in the East. The Cross should be faster than it has been in the past, since the new men coming up are smaller and speedier than the lumbering giants Coach Eddie Anderson had to work with his first few Those five teams, then— Princeton, Pitt, Fordham, Penn, and Holy Cross— look to be the potential Eastern leaders. But football is such an unpredictable sport that I guarantee nothing. Now let us take a look at what is left without attempting to rank the various elevens. Yale will be better than it has been in recent years. Colgate apparently is not as good as it once was. The Red Raiders slipped a bit last season, but one should never make the mistake of selling Andy Kerr short. The shrewd little Scot is one of the best coaches in the business, and if any one is going to pull a raging tiger out of a hat instead of the usual mild rabbit, then the magician from Hamilton, New York, is the man to perform the trick. Red Blaik is starting his third year at Dartmouth, Dick Harlow his second at Harvard, and Carl Snavely his first at Cornell. All three schools should show definite improvement over 1935. Dartmouth has been coming along slowly but very surely, as Blaik has built up right from the bottom. Watch the Hanover Indians improve this year. Harvard had such a sad season in the last campaign that the only direction left for the Crimson to go is up. Harlow is too good a coach to be kept down long. As for Cornell, one should not expect any wonder team for another year or two. The Ithacans had one of the best freshman teams in the East last season. They will be green sophomores this time who will some day carry Cornell’s new deal back to the top. The two service teams will be strong as usual. Navy showed up very well in spring practice, and Army still has the versatile and elusive Monk Meyer to give it two strikes on the opposition right at the start. Lou Little’s Columbia Lions were too inexperienced and too short on man power last season, but with the addition of experience and a fine lot of freshmen should do considerably better. Graduation has stripped New York University of much of its varsity talent and it will start off by butting its head against the stone wall of Ohio State. But I expect Mai Stevens’s young men to surprise every one, even though its schedule is much harder and its final record may not be so good. Chick Meehan should have his best Manhattan team in the history of the school. Martin Glickman may be the making of Syracuse ; while Carnegie Tech, sophomores a year ago, should be better. Temple has been moving steadily up the line under the astute Pop Warner. Boston College under Gil Dobie, Lafayette under Ernie Nevers, and Villanova under Clipper Smith will have new coaches, and it is pretty early now to pass judgment on them. Catholic University, Georgetown, Williams, Penn State, Duquesne, and George Washington have been mak¬ ing progress in recent years. Watch them all. Brown and Lehigh have little to offer, however, while Bucknell and West Virginia will be strong as usual. That is what a study of the Eastern situation in the crystal ball reveals. But I have some vague recollection of reading the line that “ A prophet is not without honor, save in his own country.” So you never can tell !

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TO COME PROPHESY J^our of the Country’s Greatest • I Coaches Predict a Thrilling Season, Pick Their Favorites, and Tell You Why LWAYS a hothed for experimentation, the Pacific Coast is ahout to sally forth on a new adventure in football. The alleged Pacific Coast Conference has heen made into an honest-to-goodness league, and, if you’ll permit me to borrow a phrase from the real- estate hoys, the possibilities are unlimited. Prior to this season the Pacific Coast Conference included ten school members: Stanford, California, Southern California, U. C. L. A., Oregon, Oregon State, Washington, Washington State, Idaho, and Montana. Each member team was required to play only four of its nine conference rivals each year. Moreover, there was nothing arhitrary about which four teams each mem¬ ber scheduled. It was a laissez-faire system of help yourself, with the big schools requiring no help and the smaller ones virtually helpless. The new plan, drafted last December, calls for a round- robin schedule of seven games between the eight strongest memhers of the conference, and provides the Pacific Coast Conference with its first real competitive race in history. California, Stanford, and Southern California have had to drop some traditional games with nonconference oppo-' nents because of the new seven-game schedule. In most instances these cast-off rivals were more their equals than some of their new conference foes appear to be. But first, lei’s classify the Pacific Coast teams into groups and then go into a little detail about each of them. The teams in each group are reckoned as equal. Group One: California; Southern California. Group Two: Washington; Stanford; St. Mary’s. Group Three: Washington State; Santa Clara; U. C. L. A. Group Four: Gonzaga; Oregon; Oregon State; Idaho; Loyola; San Francisco; College of Pacific; Montana. California, co-champions with Stanford and U. C. L. A. of the conference last year, is definitely one of the teams to beat. Coach Leonard B. “ Stub ” Allison in his first year as head man at California turned out the best Golden Bear eleven since the “ wonder teams ” of the early 1920s. From that team only three regulars are miss¬ ing — the Brittingham brothers, a fine pair of ends, and Larry Lutz, All-Coast tackle. I believe that strength of lines determines championship teams, and the Bears are three deep in this department. No line is stronger than the men who back it up, and California’s two equipotent hackfields of last year are still intact. I think the Cali¬ fornia Bears should be rated the favorites to represent the Far West in the annual Rose Bowl classic. My top ranking of the University of Southern Cali¬ fornia will no doubt be a shock to a great many Far Western fans, as Howard Jones and his Trojans have just concluded two disastrous seasons. But last year’s Trojan freshman team was far and away the best yearling outfit in this sector, crushing all opposition in a manner remi¬ niscent of Howard Jones’s greatest elevens. In addition to his crack sophomores, Jones will also have such stal¬ wart veterans as Davey Davis, Nick Pappas, and Glen Thompson in the backfield, and Max Belko, Bill Gaisford, and Gil Kuhn in the line. The team to watch in the conference race is Jimmy Phelan’s Washington Huskies. Only three men are miss¬ ing from last year’s able outfit that shouldered over every¬ body but Stanford and California. Because of the loss of the entire first team at Stanford, little is expected of Tiny Thornhill’s Indians this year. Our St. Mary’s team will be green but good. We lost sixteen men, including eight regulars, from the varsity squad through graduation. However, the same thing has happened many times before, and yet St. Mary’s has a twelve-year average of not losing more than two games a year. If the new Galloping Gaels maintain that record, Washington State under Coach Orin “ Bahe ” Holling- bery has won more conference championships than any other Northern team. The Cougars had a good season last year and all but four of the regular players are hack. Santa Clara’s new coach. Buck Shaw, inherits a squad badly decimated by graduation. Nevertheless the return¬ ing veterans gave him a high-class nucleus around which to build. Nello Falaschi and Don DeRosa are two blue- rihbon backs, and Phil Daugherty, Bus McGee, and Fran¬ cis Cope have held their own with the hest linemen. U. C. L. A. has lost all of its stars except center Sher¬ man Chavoor, and I doubt if its team can go through a hard schedule to rate at the top. Gonzaga has quite a reputation up in the Northwest as little giant-killer and Coach Mike Pecarovich reports his best-ever team coming up. Oregon, with most of last year’s players back, has the edge on the rest of the teams in the lower group. Practically all the Far Western elevens will feature powerful line-smashing attacks with a mixture of tricky spinner plays and aerial maneuvers to round out their lines of offense. But whatever the situation, the West may be counted upon to furnish their end of thrills for the nation’s gridiron fans. COACHES MORRISON AND STUHLDREHER GIVE THEIR PREDICTIONS FOR THE SOUTH AND MIDWEST ON THE FOLLOWING PAGES.

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HE three distinct divisions of Southern football —the Southeastern Conference, the Southern Conference, and the Southwest Conference— each has an excellent chance to furnish a team that may gain national recognition in 1936. That, I take it, is not a surprising statement, for in a football way it’s really true what they say about Dixie. Within the past few years this section has supplied some of ‘the country’s outstanding elevens. The Southwest actually hit its peak last season when Southern Methodist University and Texas Christian ranked in the top five of the nation and wound up their campaigns with fine performances in the Rose Bowl and Sugar Bowl respectively. In looking at prospects for the coming season, again the boys from the wide-open spaces may have to be reckoned with, for they play a wide-open style of game down here and anything can happen at any time. S. M. U., coached by Matty Bell, lost seventeen men from the championship squad, and all the regulars are gone except Johnny Sprague, a fine blocking back. How¬ ever, there are capable replacements beaded by Bob Finley, whom I regard as the best passer and punter in the Southwest. Too, a good freshman team is coming up that includes most of the backfield men from the cham¬ pionship Amarillo high-school team of two years ago. I believe Texas Christian will be just as strong as last year, for their ace back, Sammy Baugb, is returning. He is a great all-round player. The Texas Aggies should have the best team that has represented that institution in ten years. Dick Todd, a sophomore this fall, was the most sensational triple¬ threat man Texas high schools have developed. A big boy named Lindsey is a wonderful tackle. Arkansas will be in the running with a marvelous passer in Robbins. Despite the loss of Wallace and Mc¬ Cauley, Rice again will be a threat. Except for a murderous intersectional schedule that includes a game with Minnesota, the University of Texas might place near the top. Jack Chevigny is depending a lot on Jay Arnold, giant fullback. Baylor will not have a great team, but Morley Jen¬ nings manages to knock off some of the big boys. One of the toughest leagues in football is wbat we call the Big Thirteen or Southeastern Conference. For the past several years the conference has been dominated by Alabama, Louisiana State, Tennessee, and Vanderbilt. For the 1936 season the strength is more equal, and I would not be surprised at all to see the champion come from the group outside the Big Four. Of those, prob¬ ably Auburn, Mississippi State, Kentucky, and Georgia Tech have the best chance. Auburn lost only two games in 1935, and botb by thin margins. They return nine regulars, including Walter Gilbert, one of the best centers in the country, and a great running back in Billy Hitchcock. And there is a stout freshman squad that enjoyed a thorough spring practice. Kentucky, most of us believe, is just finding itself and may prove to be the Big Thirteen’s most improved team. Georgia Tech boasts about the best all-round backfield in the South in Sims, Konnemann, Hays, and Appleby, all juniors. They have power and speed. Major Ralph Sasse has developed Mississippi State into one of the most dangerous of Big Thirteen teams. Bobby Thames, a quarterback wizard, the Armstrong- Walters passing combination, and the well known Ike Pickle, a driving halfback, are returning. The University of Mississippi, Georgia, Florida, and Tulane may score a few upsets on the favored ones. Se- wanee hardly can expect any conference victories. As for the erstwhile Big Four, the defending champion, Louisiana State, is favored with a wealth of material, especially in the backfield. Again Bemie Moore can present two teams of near-equal strength with two fine linemen in end Tinsley and center Stewart Alabama, relying on power and blessed with big boys, is a team always hard to beat. Frank Thomas and his assistants will have another well rounded outfit this year, but will miss All-American Riley Smitb. I think the Tide squad, with fine reserves, will be around the top. Tennessee faces a hard season in its tough schedule. My own team, Vanderbilt hardly will be as strong generally, but possibly will be better offensively and in the air. We will miss Dixon, our punter, and Geny, a wonderful end, who graduated with a dozen others. We must depend quite a lot on ball handling and finesse for our scoring, and of course those are unpredictable. Looking at the Big Thirteen as a whole, it would not be surprising to see a tie for tbe championship, or the team finishing on top suffering from a loss or tie game. The addition of six schools to membership in the Southern Conference is not expected to make much dif¬ ference in the battle for the 1936 championship. Of the six — Furman and Citadel in South Carolina, Wake Forest and Davidson in North Carolina, and Rich¬ mond and William and Mary in Virginia, only Furman may surprise us. T WOULD bracket Duke, North Carolina, and North 1 Carolina State as the three strongest teams in the con¬ ference. These three could give trouble to any team in the South, but as a unit the Southern Conference is weaker than either the Big Thirteen or the Southwest circuit. Hunk Anderson, using Notre' Dame stuff at North Carolina State, has a junior team that seems ready. Two bruising backs, Eddie Berlinski and Cowboy Robinson, are his best bets. North Carolina will be laboring under a new coach, Raymond (Bear) Wolf, who has to develop a practically new team. However, the material is fairly good, with a pair of excellent ends in Buck and Bershak. Despite the loss of three regular backs and the entire left side of the line, Duke will present a formidable team with an offensive built around Ace Parker and a young speedster named Hackey who was a reserve last year. This pair can make an ordinary line look great. It’s an immense territory, the South. The brand of football played in this section has improved amazingly in the past fifteen years. We have every style of play from Notre Dame to Warner to the old modified punt formation, and back again. We coaches are fortunate in getting high-spirited boys who respond wonderfully in competition. This year I look for no superteams from Dixie, but a class of football that will stack up with any in the nation.

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HEY play football for keeps in the Middle West, spectators and players alike. They’ve got to have the best, and each year they’re not far out of line. It is impossible to pick any team out as the number one unit. They are so close in all-round strength that it would be unfair. This necessitates my picking them in groups. Regardless of conference, I wish to choose them as to section. The first group has Minnesota, Ohio State, and Nebraska. Their schedules are difficult, which means a dogfight each week. Minnesota travels to the Northwest to the University of Washington, the opening game. The latter is re¬ ported to have a dark horse coming up. The next week the Gophers return to play Nebraska, and therein lies a sea¬ son’s schedule in itself. My impression is that Minne¬ sota will drop either one of the two, breaking its long winning streak of a couple of years. If they come through with two victories, they have them all stopped. Minnesota has lost some g;ood boys from its 1935 champion team. Of course this has happened in other years, but it never seems to make much difference. The return of the halfback Julie Alfonse, ineligible last fall, will help a lot. The giant Widseth, who has played great ball, the last two years at tackle, is of truly All-American caliber. A converted guard, Wilkinson, to the quarterback position will give the Gopher backfield its heralded block¬ ing. Parkinson will fill the other tackle spot left vacant by Smith, last year’s All-American. This line will again be flanked by those two veteran ends, King and Reed. The backfield is not as strong as that of last year. Beise, the fullback, will be missed. His loss through graduation will cause Bernie Bierman to change his style of play. The power attack is to be re¬ placed by a speed attack. Thompson, the triple-threat veteran, will again be the key man. Watch two sopho¬ mores, Allen Rock, guard, and Myers, halfback. One of the most colorful teams, year ip and year out, is Ohio State. This year’s edition will be no exception. “Jumping Joe” Williams will be more damaging than ever. Williams is the spark plug so necessary for any good team. If he has a good year, so will Ohio State. Good ends and a wonderful backfield will carry Ne¬ braska along with the leaders. In Lloyd Cardwell and Sam Francis are two of the best backfield performers in the country. McDonald, Shirley, and Brock will form the nucleus of the line. The second group finds Purdue, Notre Dame, Illinois, Northwestern, Marquette, Indiana, and Oklahoma. Line trouble might cause Purdue some concern. But what a backfield— Stalcup, quarterback, halfbacks Isbell and Gannon, and Drake at fullback have what is needed. Injuries last season retarded their progress. I look for Purdue to come up with one of its usual strong lines. If so they will be on or near the top. Notre Dame lost more than its share of star per¬ formers; but there are several good boys coming along that will help. Zwers and O’Neill are two good ends. Wilkie, Wojcihovski, Danbom, and Millner have had plenty of experience in the backfield. Guard and tackle positions will be strong again. If a capable center is found, Elmer Layden will surprise a lot of critics. I understand that Illinois now has the weight and speed it has been looking for. Bob Zuppke’s teams are always tricky and dangerous. Spurgeon and Henry are two nifty backs. Captain Sayre at the center position will aid greatly in steadying the whole team. All in all, I feel that Illinois is due to go places. I would pick them on their spirit. Lynn Waldorf has his system under way at North¬ western. With Heap and Geyer in the backfield and Reid at guard, the Wildcats will cause many a stir. Marquette is due for its biggest year. Buivid, the Guepe twins, Sonnenberg, and Cuff take care of all de¬ partments of the game especially well. Marquette lost only one game last year, and should have no trouble duplicating that feat or even bettering it. Indiana gets stronger and stronger. Huffman and Davis, steady backfield aces, will again carry the weight. Oklahoma will furnish plenty of tough opposition. Michigan, Kansas State, Iowa, Detroit, Michigan State, and Creighton come next. Ineligibility has taken some of the Michigan stars, but in spite of that Harry Kipke feels that there will be an improvement. Leo Ayers, three-way All-Conference quarterback, should bring Kansas State back to the championship class. Iowa still has Ossie Simmons. Injuries have slowed him up in the middle of the last two campaigns. All agree that he is one of the best. TAETROIT and Michigan State must rebuild. There are, however, boys on both squads who have had experience as reserves that will move things along. The job of filling the shoes of Kinsey Jones, quarterback, will be Detroit’s biggest problem. Michigan State has four good men on whom to depend. Odeth, halfback, Dahlgren, guard, Brandstatter, fullback, and Zindel, tackle, will add poise to the inexperienced newcomers. The cellar league will be Chicago, Kansas, and Wis¬ consin. Chicago has lost Berwanger — a team in himself. There is a possibility that the present team will fare better, now that it can’t depend on him. With too large a squad of green material, Kansas doesn’t expect much. Let me see — we now have Wisconsin. The present squad cannot cope with the competition it will meet. It is learning a new style and that will take time. The boys are willing, however, and that is encouraging. John Golemgeske, Edward Christianson, Paul Jensen, and Robert Grinde will make the tackle position strong. Ed Jankowski is a crackajack fullback and some other boys coming along may help. The team as a whole should slowly improve over the course of the season. Our position at Wisconsin may be likened to the poodle at the dog show. At the entrance to this very swanky affair, the dogs had to register. There was a thorough¬ bred going through this formality, and next in line was a puny mongrel. The blue-ribbon winner looked around and in a haugbty tone asked, “ You certainly don’t expect to win any prizes, do you? ” “ No,” the mongrel replied ; “ but I’ll be in very good company ! ” the end

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in a Frank Novel of Modern Marriage “Your selfishness — ” she began, and let him cut in. “ That so? Because I can’t pile you with a lot of furs, and give you three Rolls-Royces — •” “ Just try to be fair.” Woodenly. “ I’ve done all I could to belp you get ahead. You couldn’t even keep your temper. You threw away your job. I could have stood that. But I won’t stand Emmie any more. Now run along to her. You might be late. And take that job from her father. It doesn’t make any difference to me what you do.” They didn’t raise their voices. “ I’m not going to argue any more about Emmie,” he said. “ Where'did you get your joh? I ask you.” “ Fred Robley introduced me to Jen Riley, if that gives you any satisfaction. But I work for every cent I make, do you understand? Jen Riley wonldn’t let me go, if I asked her — ” “ You know why? Do you ? ” His awful white smile. “You know that Fred Robley bought a share in Jen’s business, just to get you a job? “ That’s a lie ! ” Her voice was going up, almost a scream. “ If you want to believe all the nasty things — all the lies — Oh, get out! Go along. Now! Go!” Savagely he tore at the doorknob, brutally he slammed the door. That’s how things end, she thought. Then, in a rush of blood, life came back to her. The telephone was almost at her elbow. She yanked at the re¬ ceiver and had to dial twice before she got Fred Robley’s house. His voice came, muf¬ fled; he was having a party, she guessed. “ Fred, you asked me to come to you if' anything — Fred, you’re the one I want to see now.” His tone was hurried, ca¬ ressing. “ Sara, I’m so sorry — I’m so glad. I knew you’d come to me, my dear. Can you be at Hennessy’s, say, in half an hour? ” It was a little past ten by a drugstore clock when she came to Hennessy’s canopied entrance. Fred, smiling and personable in his evening clothes, waited inside the door. Not till she saw him there did she finally make up her mind to marry him. At Fred’s special table, magically Fred’s very special champagne wa,s poured. “ Take some right away, Sara.” Fred’s look was quick with sympathy. Obediently she drank it down. Then, “Fred, is it true you bought a share of Jen’s store just to give me a job? ” For a second he was taken aback, then his smooth re¬ assurance, “ It’s the best investment I ever made, dollar for dollar. Jen’s paying me a fine dividend — in real money. It’s no favor to you, Sara.” His eyes searching into her. “ Who’s been making trouble? ” “ Stan said—” “Oh, Stan!” Sbe took a deep breatb. “ Fred, I’m through with bim. We’ve separated.” Fred’s poker face revealed nothing. He waited for a man to refill the glasses before he asked throatily, “ You mean— a divorce? ” “ You said it would be a good thing.” “ There’s no question about it.” He was all alive now, handsome, eager, leaning across the table. “You’ve stood enough, Sara. You’ve got to be free of tbis thing. You know how much I’ve wanted it.” His searching gaze made her look dumbly down at her “ Divorce,” he said practically, “ means Florida. Ninety days’ residence will do it down there. Let’s see. It’s March nineteenth. You ought to he back here, every¬ thing settled, in June. Or you don’t have to stay, except to establish residence. Just see a lawyer there, then go back for your decree. I’ll connect you with the best lawyer in Miami. I’ll long-distance him tonight.”. “ There’s a good deal you have to know, isn’t there? ” she asked helplessly. “ I’ll fix things. Sara, this is wonderful news.” She held her hands tight under the table. “ Fred.” she 53

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said, “ you’ve been so generous with me always.” “Don’t be foolish, my dear. Don’t you think I’ve wanted you to be free— from him? ” His wooing eyes, holding her. “ It’s a rotten tangle,” she said appealingly. “ Fred—” “ Yes, Sara.” “ Nothing.” “ If it’s about expenses, don’t hesitate to call on me. I’d be miserable, Sara, if I thought of you batting around queer dumps. If you want to stay a while, stay at Miami, play on the beach, see the right people.” A hesitation. “ But not the right man, Sara.” “ No. I wouldn’t think of that. I — ” “ You won’t stop thinking of me? ” Swallowing emo¬ tionally. “ You’ve been so good, Fred.” “ I’ll write the bank that corresponds with mine. You’ll find a checking account in your name.” “ But I couldn’t.” “ It’s going to hurt me terribly if you don’t let me watch over you. This suit’s partly mine, Sara— will you look at it that way? ” “ I’ll try to, Fred.” He looked at her for a long time before he spoke again. The hour had struck, she knew. “ You won’t back out the last minute, Sara— the way some do? ” “No.” “ For your sake— and mine too.” He reached out and stroked her hand. His expression didn’t change exactly with the caress. She felt, rather than saw, the drawing back, the turn¬ about of Fred Robley. Queer, she felt the change in him through her nerves, her pores. ^ “^Go^ tomorrow. Don’t wait. And when you come He straightened up. Suddenly he was a good fatherly stockbroker, watching the board. He cleared his throat. “ When you come back, my dear, we’ll find a nice young man for you.” “ A what? ” “ A nice young man— a rich one this time— to marry “ Thank you so much, Fred.” She was flushing, not with anger but with shame. When he moved to rise with her she pushed him back in his “ Don’t find anybody,” she said, “ and don’t do anything about me. Let me alone— do you understand? ” She ran out into the street. She had a disgusted fear of his following her. But there were no footsteps behind her flight. At last she found herself in Cherry Street. She had gone in a circle, that was all. Through everything, back to the beginning. She found Stan in bed, reading one of the detective stories she had dropped. “ Been over to see your ma? ” he asked damply. “ No.” “ I thought you had.” Yawning, showing no curiosity. Then he took up the detective story. FUNNY, I don’t want to kill him, she thought as she undressed in the bathroom, brushed her teeth system¬ atically, put on her pajamas. I suppose the next thing to do is to make up. The same old thing. I’m going to bed with him again, and it doesn’t make any great difference, one way or the other. I might sleep on the sofa. What for? That’s silly, too. Just go to bed with him. That’s routine. When she lay down beside him he threw away the book and turned out the lights. She didn’t flinch exactly when an arm went around her. There was no resistance in her. Nothing so definite. His breath in her ear was hot, and nothing more. She didn’t answer his question, usual when they made up, “ Are you still mad with me? ” His loving her was pain. She woke to find the sun striking her eyes under the drawn shade. Stan’s place beside her was empty. The flat was perfectly still. Everything that was good was gone, she thought, star- 54 ing at the wall. It was splendor, and it’s lost. Who’s to blame, really? That first morning at Atlantic City we thought we saw each other truly. Was there nothing there to see? No, that was love. We were beautiful then. Now we’re ugly. We’ve made it up and made it up, always the same way. In bed. Like taking dope. It doesn’t really help you; just quiets you. It doesn’t even quiet you, after a while. It was dreadful last night. And it can be so wonderful, when it means what it should. We’ve got to grow 1 The silent cry was moving her lips. We’re losing all we ever had, just by keeping on, like stupid animals. Now I know what to do. I know! It isn’t easy, but I’m not afraid ! It’s right 1 TEN RILEY, when Sara reached her shop, was giving a salesman hail Columbia about the mess he had made of the New York order. When he had gone, Sara said quietly, “ Jen, I want to borrow some money. I’m going to get a divorce.” “ Sweet harmony ! ” Jen hugged Sara largely. “ Happy event! I knew you’d get through those measles. I’ll get you a lawyer here in twenty minutes. About the money—” Sara, who had thought about that on the way down¬ town, swept her eyes along rows of hanging garments. “ Jen, I don’t like to borrow outright. I may never be able -to pay it back. Now this is what I’d like to do for the money, if you’re game. You’ve got bushels of clothes, like that New York order, that you don’t like to show to people here. You don’t have bargain sales. You can’t get much from the jobbers. Now, suppose you send a col¬ lection down to me in Florida — ” “ What ? Try to sell that truck at Miami Beach ? ” “ No. I’m going to the cheapest place I can find.” “What for? It’s not a life sentence. Establish resi¬ dence, come home — ” “ I want to stay — till it’s over.” “ Why ? ” “ It’s just the way I feel— get away from people.” Jen’s full brown eyes, which had been staring incred¬ ulously, brightened with tears. “ I know what you mean,” she said softly. Then she hitched herself back to the business angle. “ If you feel that way, I know a little town- outside Palm Beach. Lake Worth. No style — ” She mused a second, red fingernail against white teeth. “ Hire an extra room at Lake Worth, and you can ballyhoo for a lot of this truck. Cut-rate prices. I’m backing this divorce, understand? Mingling business with pleasure. I know a couple of shysters at West Palm Beach. I’ll wire the cheap one.” Sara gazed her thanks. When she could speak she said in the voice of that inner conviction that held her: “ You won’t lose money on me, Jen. I know that.” Jen took her to the train that night. Sara had seen a lawyer, which was easy. Seeing her mother had been harder, because the repeated, “ But what are you going to do? ” had called for a dozen ingenious evasions. She hadn’t told mother the train she was going on, or when. Just a moment with Jen in the Pullman. Jen kissed her brusquely. “ Good luck this time,” she said, and glided away. The train was hardly moving when Sara began think¬ ing again. No going back now. I’m a grown woman. I won’t be unhappy next time. . . . The ninety days were almost up. Sara was in the water much of the time; or on the veranda, sinking herself in long books. She missed the first month here when she had hung in the office the card, “ Distinguished Gowns Much Reduced. Sara Freeman, Room 78.” When Room 78 was open it was jammed with bargain hunters, impressed to the buying point by Sara Freeman’s style. She had sold everything, practically. There had been letters from home. Two a week from mother, always asking to come down. Occasional ones from Jen, dictated and hard as nails, but softened by penciled postscripts. Boxes of candy, cases of wine, bales of the latest books came, with nothing to identify them, except the mark of Fred Robley’s sumptuous taste. Two or three times he long-distanced her with messages of no

Page 55

man you promised me.” “ I haven’t found the right one.” H~S“ Something in her look lowered m ISskF'™-1*4*1*1'1- -sHsiS ifs— - “NO MORE FLEAS” SevqeawYs CATARRH «»» SINUS CHART- FREE

Page 56

the street Fred lingered under a palm for her to re¬ appear. “ What’s your program now? ” “ Go back with you. By plane.” He seized her hand. “Back with me ! Sara, you’ve decided—” “ Yes. I’ve decided.” The look in her face seemed to quell him. He dropped her hand. “ What have you decided? You don’t know yourself.” Sullenly. “ Maybe not, Fred. Fred, you’re such a darling. When do we start home— fly? ” “ Today. It’s all right by me.” A S though she had left it an hour ago, she went straight to the apartment in Cherry Street. She turned the latch and went in; an atmosphere, breathing from the walls, scared her a little, set her heart pounding. Everything was in order. Stan had come home, sorry for what he had done, and tidied up for her. He wasn’t living here. She had paid the rent in advance, so the apartment was hers. But he had a latchkey. He had come home, thinking of her comfort. She went to the telephone and called Jen Riley. “ Hello, kitten,” said the rich round voice. “ I was go¬ ing to meet you at the airport with the Orphan Asylum Band. But, gee, I’ve been busier than a flea on a Bengal tiger. How does the flat look? A little less ratty , huh ? ” “ It’s fine, Jen.” With a curious turn of the heart. “ Did you fix it up? ” “ Somebody had to. I sent a couple of scrubsters over.” “ It’s darling of you, Jen. I wondered who — ” A pause; then, “ I see Stan’s tools are all cleaned out of the kitchen.” “ You bet they are. Catch him leaving anything of his behind ! He almost wrecked the place getting that fool bench out. That’s the man of it. What’s yours is his, and what’s his is his own. Come on down, dove.” Sara went downtown. When she came into the shop, she bowed almost gaily to waiting customers— old acquaint¬ ances, most of them. In the back, Jen kissed her favorite absent-mindedly, . sank in a chair, aiid said, “ Whew ! I’m almost dead. I’ll have a heart attack one of these days, right in public. Work’s killing me. Won’t it be fun to open up a shop in New York? Sell to the hicks; that’s my motto. Sara, that divorce has done you more good than a gallon of tonic. The sun’s given you the mulatto finish the gals are crazy about. You can take it, with that skin.” A lot of Jen Rileyisms. “ My kitten, you’ve developed salesmanship. Now drop that far-away look and listen. A shop in Madison Avenue. Call it Mme. Jeanne Rylot or Jane or June or something highly perfumed. . What’s the matter with you at the helium, seventy-five a week to start with, and commis¬ sions? I think we can show New York a trick or two, when we get planted there. How does it sound ? ” “ It’s swell, Jen, and I know you can make it go. You always do. But — ” “ But what? ” Sharply. “ I don’t know but that I’d better stay where I am. Can’t I come back here, Jen — for a little while? ” Jen Riley, fat and tired and full of ideas, looked up at her. “ No ambition,” she mused. “ That means just one thing. You’re going to get married again on me. Well, Fred Robley’s good pickings, if you want to make your living that way — ” Sara laughed. “ I’m not looking for a lot of money. Not now.” “ What do you go to all the trouble of getting a divorce for, if it doesn’t do you any good? Stan, now. Divorce hasn’t turned him into a blazing genius, but he’s getting his fun out of it, while it lasts. Maybe Emmie’s the kind that makes a bum out of every man she touches, but—” “ I don’t want to hear—” “ Emmie, sweet lamb, can pay for her hide-outs and ruin ’em at her leisure. Look what she did to poor Rod Gill. If he’d had a wife instead of an- Emmie, he wouldn’t be staggering all over the place. They’ve revoked his driver’s license— that’s a blessing to the public—” 56 Jen went back to her customers. Stan’s ex-wife held up her heart, held it firmly. Jen tattled and romanced about everything in town. She never got a story straight. She wouldn’t listen to Jen any more, that was all. To Fred Robley she gave many of her evenings. The hours with him drifted silkily. Dancing, drinking, driv¬ ing in his smooth car were an effortless escape from vacant evenings in the flat. One night they were dancing at Hennessy’s because the Country Club was too slow. Fred, rather more in¬ sistent than usual, was guessing at the day and hour when she would quit Jen’s for the business of being a lady. A little tight, he was taking everything for granted. What a wedding they’d have ! And the places they’d see together! And a suite on the Normandie. This made Sara laugh. “ Let’s not make it the Normandie,” she said. “ Re¬ member what happened to—” Like a ghost, summoned by her words, Rod Gill stepped up and touched Fred on the arm. Fred’s smile was tol¬ erant. Why not let Rod cut in? His face was puffy, but he didn’t seem any tighter than usual. Rod seized Sara and swung her away, doing very nicely with his feet. “ How’s everything ? ” she asked. “ Hey-nonny-nonny,” giggled Rod. “ I’m moving to Turkey. Quantity production’s my motto. Get a harem, raise an army—” “ And sober up,” said Sara. “ Hey ! Why do they all get around to that when they talk to me? What do you do when you’re sober? ” “ Try it and tell me.” “ Getting sober is not the chief end of man. What is it, then ? Speed. I got a little bus that makes ninety, and the clock don’t lie. I lost. my license, see? But I know a usurer who’ll lend me that car, with a wreckage guar¬ anty, at a hundred dollars a day. Cheap. Hell in a hurry — that’s my motto ! ” “ You’ve said it,” agreed Sara. “ You know how it is,” he resumed after a while. “ You and I know. We marry people that are yaller. Yaller as a pup. We’d come out of our tail spin, wouldn’t we, if they’d stick it out? But no. The yaller ones quit us, club up together, get cozy. We are four of a kind. That beats a full house.” “ And Emmie? ” “ Do I care? Gawd, Sara, it’s awful that I do care. Vodka can’t blow her out of my head. Yaller, the whole lot of us. That’s the trouble. We can’t take it.” She looked up into his puffy, desperate face. “ You’ll straighten out, Rod,” she said, “ and find somebody.” “ Sure I will. A chambermaid next time.” Suddenly he dropped her arm, let her go. “ Well, good luck to you and Fred,” he said. And left her in the middle of the floor. ipRED rescued her, and she didn’t want to dance any 1 more. What Rod had said about “ yallemess ” and Stan and Emmie had struck home more accurately than anything she had heard. “ He ought to be locked up,” said Fred casually. “ He ought to be happy.” Tears came to her eyes. “ Who are the happy ones? ” he asked, looking straight at her as he reached into his pocket, opened his wallet, and brought out a slip of paper. “ The people who take things as they find them and make the most of it.” The scrap of paper, held between his fingers, dangled under her nose. “ Just look it over.” It was torn from a column headed Pleasures and Pal¬ aces and the date line was from Lake Merrymount. Her eyes skated over a blue-penciled paragraph : “ And the gay doings at Sally Percival’s prolonged week end. . . . Mesdames . . . Rodney Gill . . . Messrs. . . . Stanley R. Freeman . . .” The names stood out on the stripes Can Sara’s noble resolution to let Stan have his fling until he finds out the worth of her love stand this con¬ stant fire? She is playing a losing game with her des¬ perate weapons. How can she win? The next and last installment in Liberty gives you a brilliant climax.

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CONTENTS @Myda£ The United Stotes-A Sleek, Fot Lomb ^ Moster Villen Contemplates the Life of the Home John Erskine 16 SkicS Beginning- Murderers Welcome . . .Philip Wylie _6 a^'\Jl2~PoriW' . Wa"ocelrwm “ All High-Schor Gad Comes tc It’s Your Air. . A TELEPHONE CALL FROM A DEAD WOMAN ’^n. m & stiS • POPE PIUS GIVES A RECIPE FOR WORLD PEACE £t*S3&&22ffi&gSE!$& HELL IN SPAIN AS I SAW IT by CORNELIUS VANDERBILT, JR. Sisii; ssxmk; 4l““' A"1"” Liberty Get Your Copy of Liberty on Wednesday

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