Judge — September 6, 1919 — page 10: what you’re looking at

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

Drawn by VT. 5. Tovses Hat Checker—We hat for you, sir. table here next month to check de this line un- won't be Prohibition has m: Well, well, even that black cloud hag its silver lining. A Newspaper Story By Artuve C. Brooxs ACK FUROR SCRIBENDI leading reporter on J the Boston Bean, dashed nervously into the office and threw himself at his wreck of a typewriter. For the next ten minutes there was no sound, barring the usual commotion peculiar to a newspaper office, the asthmatic rattle of his ma- chine and the shuffle ot copy-boys’ feet. As the star finished his story and leaned back tiredly, the door of the managing editor's office banged open and = Chris Cranky, the city editor caroméd out to the cen ter of the floor, and ex ploded. “Where is that blank blank bonehead of a Scri bendi?” he roared. And every tired eye in the dingy room stared at Jack in mer- ciless curiosity. The c. e. Drawn by Beaxsoate Rocens fast, you know! Mrs. Weatherly—I'm surprised to hear Mrs. Featherty—Ob, 1 don’t know. 10 sent a searing look to him, and Jack arose andadvanced shakily “Sav, you pseudo-scribe,” raged the other, waving a crumpled copy of the Bean before Jack’s sensitive nose, “do you realize what you wrote in that feature story about Colonel Payne. the patent medicine and department store magnate Jack Scribendi was frankly puzzled. “Why, no,” he responded, picking at his ear. ‘*No—I mean yes that is, what do you mean?" He smiled wanly in simulated cajolery. “Why, you called him a slue-footed, pig-headed solution of the missing link, that’s what you did! And he takes sixty per cent. of our advertising! Oh, we're ruined, ruined He staggered back and sank heavily into a waste- basket “Tleavens!” drinking! “Darn it!” the city editor swore. “Don't know you shouldn't roast anyone—unless there's money in it!” Men cry but seldom, which bit of knowledge is common property; and when they do cry the condition presages hopeless defeat. The city editor, pitiful in his despair, sobbed bit- terly. “Aw, blaaa, blaaa! Wahaha ha! Ma-maaa! Waaaa!” he cried, beating a soundless tattoo on the floor with his rubber heels Dejected, Jack Scribendi moved away and sunk into his rickety chair. So this was the end of his career, eh? What was before him? Failure and a rebuilt typewriter. Then his dependable brain shrugged off its lethargy and tobacco smoke, and whisked into action like a mouse around a pantry floor. With a loud cry, he leaped onto the shoulders of a passing porter and was carried to the street. Unobserved, Belle Bohemia, a lady reporter, rose and stole to the window. With a reassuring tug to her exclaimed Jack. “I must have been you Maud being engaged to Mr. Gaymon, He's awfully Apparently he wasn't fast enough to get away from Maud.