Judge — January 17, 1914 — page 5: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

The FTER dinner Mr. Horace Hendricks, dramatic critic of the Morning Mirror, folded his nap- kin absently and pre- pared to go down to the theater. “Is this another first night?’’ inquired his pretty young wife solicitously. “Yes, of course! The managers are jamming over some new witless concoc- tion every night now!’’ “But this play sounds as though it might be something worth while. The title, ‘Hoodwinked,’ is interesting.” Horace Hendricks looked sternly at his wife. “I would prefer not to be influenced in the matter of new plays, even at my own fireside, Annabelle. Kindly retain your ideas until to-morrow morning’s papers are out. If the matter still interests you by that time, you may see how nearly your ideas coincide with my own.”” Mrs. Hendricks subsided. There was really nothing else to do. But when her Critic EYE TROUBLE on the By ROBERT C. McELRAVY husband had taken his hat and cane and overcoat from the hall tree, she ran to her room and donned her best evening clothes. Horace Hendricks proceeded to the the- atrical district ina leisurely manner. He dropped in at several familiar places and whiled away a couple of hours. Asa re- sult, he was late in reaching the theater. He accepted a program from the uni- formed boy in the lobby. “«*Hoodwinked,’ by Josephine Johnson. She’s a new playwright—the name sounds like an assumed one. A driveling farce, I suppose. Well, I sha’n’t worry about it much!"" He sat comfortably through the first act. Occasional laughter and applause resounded through the crowded theater. “A typical first-night audience,”’ rumi- nated Horace. ‘‘All the relatives and personal friends are present, just like a college commencement, for the purpose of encouraging the author in her iniquitous pursuit.’’ He passed out into the lobby between the acts. Smith, the young critic on the Chronicle, slapped him on the back. Hearth “Great dope, isn’t it, old man? hit of the season, so far!’’ Horace Hendricks shrugged and mum- bled a perfunctory reply. ‘‘Extraordinary pumpers, these young critics! Always wanting me to commit myself before the play is ended. I don’t propose to be taken advantage of in this way.”’ As he moved along, Smith followed him with a puzzled glance. ‘‘I should have supposed Hendricks would have left his grouch at home to-night, at any rate,’’ he commented to a friend. With the curtain signal, Horace wan- dered down to his aisle seat again and dropped into it wearily. The second act wagged slowly along. Toward its close he gazed about abstractedly, like one rous- ing from a sound sleep. Ina box, with their mutual friends, the Stantons, he caught sight of his wife. They were all laughing excitedly together, and Annabelle was eager and smiling. It was really won- derful, Horace thought, how she kept up her appreciation of such rot as this. But she had always been interested in plays, and had even tried writing them herself. The comicbooks.com