Judge — March 7, 1914 — page 7: what you’re looking at

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

A 1914 “‘Wo-o-o'"’—he mumbled tragically, meaning thereby under no conceivable conditions, “You don’t know Mrs. Judge Merrow; I do,’’said I. ‘‘I've played this circuit before. What she says, goes. You'll be presented to the ladies; then there’ll be a feed; then you'll make a speech. You might as well count it as good as done.’” From the part of his face that showed above his collar I could picture what was in his mind. If he had paid thirty dol- lars to avoid showing his teeth to a six-foot male, what would he pay to avoid showing sixteen ladies that he hadn’t any? I leaned forward. I tried to be gentle, tactful, sympa- thetic. I pulled aside an end of the towel. The ball of ice was shrinking, but shrinking slowly. The engine whistled. Through the car window houses on the outskirts of the Junction village were visible. The brakes began to grind; the speed decreased. Braunce started to his feet. The look of the hunted creature was in his eye. I caught his arm and clung to him, and I still held him when the train came toa stop. Other passengers were troop- ing out. That gave us a moment’s grace; but through the window I saw the club women, company front, with Mrs. Judge Merrow at their head. Desperate crises demand desperate measures. Above the window was an ax, in a case labeled ‘‘For Fire Use Only.”” I tore it di I laid the dwindled ball of ice on the car floor. I smote lustily. Crystal slivers flew; the ball was cleft; one beautiful set of teeth—with plate—lay undamaged before us. Down the car steps I toiled, a heavy grip in each hand; and after me came Braunce, dignified, distinguished, worthy bearer MODEL FARM-WAGON of many honorary degrees. Mrs. Judge Merrow swept forward majestically. I presented the great man; the lady phrased stately welcome. : Braunce’s teeth had been clicking, not loudly, but, oh, so busily! By sheer will power he brought them under control. Also by power of will he smiled. “‘Madam,”’ he said—it was his first distinctly articulated word that day—‘'madam, you overwhelm me. After such greetings I may say, in all truth, that no matter how warm my gratitude, my words must seem cold; yes, cold as ice!’” Locating the Squawker ITTLE Marjorie was running down the street, blowing a toy balloon, when she slipped and fell prostrate in the mud. “Boo, hoo, hoo!"” she cried lustily. ‘Now my squawker is all dirty !"” “‘Never mind, dearie,’’ consoled a kindly old lady who hap- pened to be passing. ‘‘We’ll soon make that all right again!’’ And with her nice, clean handkerchief, the dear old soul care- fully wiped the little girl’s mouth. Why? Mrs. Thompson had no use for cats. With a frown of dis- approval, she watched her eighteen-year-old daughter caress a beautiful tiger kitten. At last she spoke her mind. “‘Mabel, you’ve kissed that cat more in half an hour than you ever did me in your life.’”’ “‘Why, yes, mother,’’ replied Mabel, with a fond look at her pet; ‘but, you know, you haven’t any whiskers.’’ comicbooks.com