Judge — January 17, 1914 — page 6: what you’re looking at

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

A BALD FACT Old Beau—When 1 was a tiny boy with long golden curls, they called me Archie! Mrs. Golightly —And now they call you Archibald ? Horace left after the second act. There was no use waiting for the third—two acts of this sort of thing were certainly sufficient. He gave his check to the woman in charge of the wraps and listened dreamily as the audience continued its wild, hila- rious applause. Cries of “Author!"’ ‘Au- Za thor!’’ rose frantically on the air. But he did not wait. He had no wish to see the confused and blushing Josephine Johnson appear from behind the wings for her one mad moment of success. “Old stuff, this author business. It only tends to deceive the critic into think- ing perhaps the play amounts to some- thing, after all!’’ He hastened to the offices of the Morn- ing Mirror and struggled for an hour writ- ing acolumn of comment that would let the play down easy without offending the advertisers. This accomplished, he went to his club, Horace reached home about three in the morning. The door of his wife's room was partly closed, and he proceeded to re- tire noiselessly. He did not waken until about eleven o'clock, when he rose quietly and pre- pared for breakfast. Annabelle was waiting for him. She had the clippings from the morning papers in her hands, including that from the Mirror. The scene was about as usual, except that Annabelle was crying. He went up to her and placed an anxious arm about her. ‘‘What’s up, my dear? Why are you crying?’ . Horace really ww loved his wife. She was the dearest lit- tle wife in the world. He was quite sure of it, for he himself had chosen her. “*S-somebody is wrong!’’ wailed Anna- belle, holding up the crinkled clippings tearfully. “Yes, I presume so,’’ agreed Horace amiably. ‘But you can’t expect these other critics to agree with me, Annabelle. Most of them, you know, are young and untried striplings!’’ “‘But—but I wanted you to agree with them, Horace, this time! Oh, it’s awful —awful!”’ Horace Hendricks took up the clipping from the Morning Mirror. “T see nothing wrong with this, Anna- It is run just as I wrote it, and is Listen to this belle. precisely to the point. first paragraph: “‘The first-night audi- ence at the New Playhouse last evening bore up beautifully under the lat- est theatrical infliction, written by a new play- wright, Josephine John- son, The piece was im- possible, like many of its predecessors. The title, “Hoodwinked,’” may have blinded the managers and a few personal friends of the author, but it did not pull the wool over the eyes of thinking peopte in the audience.’ ’” “‘Don't—don’t, Horace!’’ cried Anna- belle, again breaking into sobs. ‘But, my dear, there can’t be anything wrong with that. It is simply ordinary criticism, with a little brightness thrown in.” Annabelle sat stiffly up in her chair, Her trembling lower lip took on new firm- ness. ‘‘That’s just it, Horace! You'd rather be bright than be right. You sac- rifice truth to revel in your own scintil- lating remarks. Now see what you have done!’ She handed him the criticism written by Smith, of the Chronicle. Horace read the opening lines quickly. Then he sat down very quietly and said, “‘My heavens, Annabelle, what have I done?”’ The first two sentences of Smith’s com- ment were as follows: ‘*Playgoers will rejoice in the success of ‘Hoodwinked,’ a merry little comedy with a farcical turn, shown at the New Playhouse last night. The author, Jo- sephine Jobnson, is in reality Annabelle Hendricks, wife of the well-known dra- matic critic on the Morning Mirror, Mr. Horace Hendricks."’ JOB'S COMFORTERS comicbooks.com