Judge — January 17, 1914 — page 8: what you’re looking at

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

superior intelligence. ’ And she returned to her book. Hesitating, undecided whether to kick over a chair and return to the city or to stay and fight it out, Digge finally chose the latter course. Upsetting a chair would not upset Mrs. Digge’s determination. In her gen- tle way she was something of a standpatter. “A mere servant would not do,’’ ventured Digge, after profound meditation. “Um-m-h,’’ murmured his wife raptly. The poor but lovely heroine, having re- fused for the eighteenth time a tainted millionaire, was accepting the village blacksmith. How very un- like real life! “What I need,"’ said Digge, scratching his head perplexedly, ‘‘is a deputy wife.”’ The reader dropped her book. RECIPE FOR TANGO ‘Take two bodies and scramble the legs, Twist ‘em and turn ‘em, Shake ‘em and churn ‘em. ‘Take two bodies and scramble the legs, Squeeze 'em together as close as can be, Dip ‘em at intervals, one, two, three. Stir up the pulses and season to taste. Some like it spicy, some like it chaste. Bouquet of Castle, pinch of Maurice, Serve it up warm ‘and bring on your police. —Will B. Johnstone. The Strike By TERRELL LOVE HOLLIDAY WHEN Mr. Digge came home one even- ing, he found his wife ensconced in the morris chair, perusing a popular novel. “‘Well,’’ said he, ‘‘who is getting din- ner?” “No one,”’ replied she, marking the line with her finger. “And why not?’’ demanded Digge, a touch of asperity in his tones. “I've struck,’’ calmly declared the woman who had theretofore borne his name—and bigger things, to say nothing of three little ones—with fortitude, aye, with apparent pleasure. ‘‘You have finally converted me to your doctrine of aneight- hour day for working people. I've been putting in about sixteen hours.’’ “‘Just how do you propose to manage?” inquired Digge, when he had partially recovered. “That poor brai sweet humility. problem too deep for my confessed Mrs. Digge, with “Till leave it to your “A deputy wife — that’s the idea,’’ reflected Digge. “Then I'd have somebody to go to the ball games with me. You hate sports.’’ Mrs. Digge stared at the wall. “‘What with looking after the children, the general household dradgery and all, the work would be very try- ing,’’ continued he. alone would not be s inducement for the right sort of girl.’”” “*The right sort of girl,’ ’” echoed his wife rather icily. “What inducements would you offer?’’ “I mean,’’ explained the head of the house, ‘‘a pretty, refined, educated girl, who would be a congenial com- panion for me when you are off duty. As to the induce- ments, I should bring her candy and flowers, have her come downtown to luncheon with me sometimes, and buy her a new hat or gown occa- sionally.’” Mrs. Digge sat nervously tapping the arm of her chair, her lips set in a straight, hard line. “By Jove!” ejaculated Digge, smiting fist against palm. ‘‘That’s a great scheme! I'll ad. vertise for her to-morrow. It will be fine to see a sweet, fresh, young face opposite me at the breakfast table. She will always have a smile and a pleasant word for me and try to look her best when I’m around,”’ said he, modestly, ‘because she would naturally hope to be—er—pro- moted, in case anything should happen to you.’” A pale green light shone in Mrs. Digge's eyes and her bosom heaved. But her hus- band, unheeding, proceeded: “In order to keep her from leaving,” said he musingly, ‘‘I might have to prom- ise that after, say, two years of faithful service, I would get a divorce and marry her. “John Digge!’’ shrieked his outraged wife, springing to her feet. ‘‘Are you crazy? Go and put the coffee pot on, while I change my dress. It’s late, but I can broil a steak and fry some potatoes.”” John went, chuckling. The Artistic Temperament All winter long I scowl and scrap— Cold weather makes my temper snap! In summertime it can’t be sweet— It boils right over from the heat. In spring and fall it’s equable— 'Twixt fits and starts there comes a lull, And softly, gently blows my breath— But, hully gee! i’m bored to death! —Jane Burr. You may tell a girl she is worth her weight in gold, but that doesn’t reconcile her to getting stout. A SPEED MERCHANT “ Py gollies ! dot 's a lifly squirrel vot you got in dere, aind it?”” comicbooks.com