Judge — September 18, 1915 — page 19: what you’re looking at

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

re you haul out your book. I want to show ‘ Wait a minnit befo y ’ on. beats anything ever—I got ’em out in the anew kind of heel-plate tha! ee You set here a minnit. Hitchen ee che returned he had ceased to “set” and was not in sight. - Loe t a glimpse of him turning a corner and she said, She caught him if he ain’t got nothin’ better than that book to sell. I got iy me when I was sellin’ it. Sorry he lit out. would “os lel he six copies left from t in T'was sellin bo : rou ff the heel-plates an’ a pair o’ these inside soles if he had stayed vee . L. Harbour, till I came back.” THE OLD BACH beter GN'T it fierce to be alone, huddled in an upholstered horror set in a Re the I fifeless room? Here I sit surrounded, saturated, and suffocated by emt | owe Nothing to look at but an evening paper edited by imbeciles, Coat, pothing to gape at but framed frumps on the walls, nothing to watch but mn” t doppy sunset thrown like a watercolor splash against a steamy sky and Ie seen across chimneys vomiting smoke. ' yes, suffer my seething intellect to subside, and prepare my int ions for the provender to come. Rest—peace—bah!—w hen is this house thing elsé but still, quiet, dead? Here comes Bates, stepping like a funeral mute. Rouse up, idiot! What d'ye mean stealing into my room like an assassin? Didn’t want to disturb me when I’m resting? Burning brimston I'm not as stiff and ark as all that! Might as well be a corpse for all I get out of life but I’m denied that compensation, Will you lay out my evening togs? You will. Wil [go forth after grub? What in thunder makes you think I'll stay longer in this quagmire of quict? Yep, I'll hike forth to the club and simper at the same old fatheads I've hated for years. Don’t “very-well-me-sir.” Slam the door when you go out so this place will stop sounding like a morgue. Fall down stairs, bump the furniture about and wake up this old tomb. Pinch the cook and let me hear her squeal. Can't you whistle once in a shile, you old machine cog? Isn't good form? Bosh! what I want is a angled ne This is the hour I still my mad tooch of humanness, a spark of life, a spurt of action, But all I get are ie muffled voices and muzzled mugs. What in creation are you staring at? d@ Ff Get out with your smothered smirk and deadening deference! de! There, I'm glad he’s gone. Humph! ’tis the sunset hour when according Ne Pio the vapid versifiers we old altar dudgers devote ourselves to mournfill ft Fnemories, miserable mopes ancholy mush. "Tis now we sigh for 18 | shetouch of taper fingers, the silken swirl of skirts. Gad! there may be some- WT hinginit. I'd like blamed well to hear the whisk of even a ghostly garment. bw | just my plaguey luck to have memories mostly of cocktails, cards, cads and ba J creature comforts. Wish I could dig up a dead or distant Dora desperately = desired. Gee! the benedicts are the blue ribboners after all! 7 There’s Banks now. No suffused silences for him. Kiddies shouting GF sed running, a rose-in-the-hair wife smiling and chatting. Rot! I'll get = a phonograph and train it to say “Welcome home, hubby dear!” and tt J “Daddy's come! Daddy’s come!” ‘That would help some. Maybe there's t too with a kind of home some baby-cooing and wife-singing records e9 punch to them. Good to drown out typewriting and telephoning office s me the weeping echoes anyhow. Lord! the loneliness of this hour gi willows. I'd cut it out if it wasn’t for my pill purveyor. Doc insists on my going into the silence for my tummy’s sake. Oh, Ido it all right! When I step into this room I can hear the stillness splash and then it rises slowly like water over my fect, up to my knees, up to my waist, up to my chest— to my neck—Gosh! those flood sufferers have nothing on me but wetness. Well there’s one light blinking out of the darkness. Time's short any- way. In fancy I can see a single marble shaft rising up like a white finger from the soft green sod. The sunset shines on it too and shows in golden ketters the simple inscription “ James Jimson”—Nobody'll come to look at it but Bates and my great-aunt Sarah. There's a kind of pathos to that. There, Jim, don’t be a blithering idiot and turn on the salt taps! But still I'm the only one to weep when I'm gon It probably won't be long. Indigestion, Doc says, but how does he know? They’re all prime guessers. Bah! there's the bell for grub. What's the use of eating just on the edge of the grave? Well I'll have to go and make a pretense— 3 (One hour later), 1! this is a boss cigar! Well, I’m off to enjoy myself! Gee! but I’m glad I’m still running single. No team business for me with a wife wanting me to y in and pl checkers. Tra—la—la—! Must telephone Doc and tell him I feel bully! od-bye, Bates, old chap. There's nothing like having a faithful servant like you—willing and ready and unobtrusive! Tra—la—la—! We're all jolly good fellows— (Exit) —Orcola W. Haskell. ae lee ee PM ee eo ee A Magic Carpet good motor tire is a magic carpet to whisk you swiftly and comfort- ably where business calls or pleasure waits. It should never destroy the magical illusion by intruding upon you its own mechanical personality. The instant a tire calls attention to itself it ceases to be a good tire. And the best thing we can say about Kellly- Sprimgfreld Tires is that you scarcely ever have to think about them. It is a matter of record that ninety- nine per cent of Kelly-Springfield Tires run their full mileage without the slightest necessity for adjustment. 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