Judge — October 21, 1916 — page 14: what you’re looking at

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

THE HARE AND THE TORTOISE UP TO DATE a club. Suburban life with his bride—who was now a bride of a full year’s standing—had been a very full year indeed for Chomley: his esteemed mother-in-law had made them a cute little visit of about a month and a half when the honeymoon had partially ended; Chomley's own mother had then dropped in for a month to see how the young cou- ple were getting on, and this episode had speedily been followed by the vacation- izing, at Chomley’s home, of his father- in-law, a very fine old gentleman indeed who had lost his job. This vacation lasted two months, and Chomley barely lasted. A dear, delightful maiden aunt of Chomley’s, a lady with charming but marked eccentricities, had been in the bosom of his family from April first until June thirtieth, inclusive. Just prior to the Fourth of July his wife’s two sisters had dropped in for a month; these young ladies were active, agile, agitating, alert, conversationally strenuous, nervous, whimsical, assertive, and simply loved to be taken around by “brother.” Brother certainly had his work cut out for him. The third day after these dear young ladies left the convenient domicile of Chomley, Myra’s brother, a youth of an active, fertile and inquiring mind, blew in; blew in fecbly characterizes this event. The boy had certain proclivities which would hav made a tornado seem tame and lazy. Chomley thought he had been some young devil himself, in his early youth, but he was hurt and shocked to observe the way in which, indubitably, his own boyhood record went to pieces by con- trast with the fierce and furious life that was regularly lived—without seeming effort—by his wife’s brother. Yes, Otis was some boy; Chomley could Cire. felt the need of joining WHY -IS A CLUB? By FRED LADD hardly believe that a boy named Otis could so belie his name; he had always conjectured that a boy named Otis would be a very quict, thoughtful youth —a boy who would often steal away from his rougher playfellows and read good literature, and plan for his future; never had Chomley associated the name of Otis with a boy who would count it an achievement to be sought bythe po- lice, and consider it a crime to be well thought of by the neighbors. Otis’s visit cost Chomley thirty-cight dollars, and a couple of anxious moments be- sides. When Otis had gone, Chomley was what you might call weary, and, as it were, ready for rest; nothing doing. The next day but one Mrs. Chomley informed her dear husband that the morning mail had brought a letter from one of her college class- mates, the sweetest girl she had ever met, said Mrs. Chomley. “Myra,” said Chom- ley. “Yes, darling.” “What does she look like?” “Well, Gladiola isn’t a really, in fact she real- ly isn’t a good-looking girl—but she’s very in- tellectual.”” “Say,” said Chomley, in a hoarse tone. “Well, dear.” “Er—nothing, dear—nothing at all.” “Yes it is—you were going to say some. thing.” Chomley arose from the supper table and stood on his corn for about a minute “T'm going down to the Club.” “Club?” queried Mrs. Chomley “Why, I didn’t know you belonged.” “I'm going to,” said Chomley, with a ting in his tone. “All the men belong —that is, all the married men.” The Club Colors Ethel—Why does papa come home sometimes with such a red face? Mama—That, my dear, is what is known as a club flush. MOTORCY-CLING! comicbooks.go