Judge — May 22, 1920 — page 5: what you’re looking at

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

Drawn by P. D. Jouxsox As We Imacixne Her Wuen Sue Says: “Here's Your Party” and “Busy” The Great Yellowish Mystery By Ge.etr Burcess Author of “Are You a Bromide?”, “Goops and How to Be Them,” “Love in a Hurry,” “Ain't Angie Awful!” etc. Everybody, including the ashman, is writing mystery stories. But everybody doesn’t make a good job of it—we'll say they don't. There is so much, you know, in the selection of the theme and the manner of telling—the structural form and basic motif—if you - get what we mean. It has remained for Gelett Burgess, however, st HAVE stent for you,” said the President of the Jitney National Bank, inking the fried egg stains on the front of his vest, “to solve a mystery—it is very much, and yellowish, with a violent perfume.” ‘ Ferrett, the Albino Detective, was a shrewd man— he could see through almost anything, even his own *wonderful pink eyes; but he failed to understand the~ President. That was why he was called a detective. He contented himself, there ore, with merely breath- ing, in which art he was an adept. “Yesterday,” the President continued, “our vault contained billions. This morning, when we opened the doors we found—only this mass of somethingness, and a two-ton odor. But the door was bulged out like the stomach of an old, old man who has drunk much water after eating heavily of dried apples.” Ferrett was still calm. He was still, anyway. But an X-ray specialist would have told you, for a small fee, that his toes were working convulsively. “Whom do you suspect at?” he said finally, trying , to sneer. “Nobody. Everybody. Anybody. Somebody. You, perhaps. Maybe I did it. It’s for you to find out. That’s all. Good day. Miss Gamut, take— John R. Godde, Foolish Banking Co., sir, yours of the goth at hand re Beethoven Common and Jazz Preferred would say ——” to put the mist and stir in the mystery story and in this, the first of a brilliant series of deteckative narratives, our author will thrill you like the news of an available new flat, a drof in the price of headgear and clothing or a rebate from your butcher for an orer- charge.— Editor. But already the Albino was, as they say, gone. And already his terrible mind, the mind that had turned his hair white in its violent attempts to conquer a prenatal idiocy, was working like a girl who has caught her heel in a trolley slot after the traffic police- man’s whistle blew—only more silently. He was seek- ing a clue. Cuarter I] The Cashier's Story ONLY the tellers, protected as they were, in their stout wire cages, could endure the intoxicating arama that proceeded from the vault in a general outwardly direction. Ferrett, however, found a catcher’s mask and boldly approached the vault. Boldly, too, he plunged a hand—his own (any child would have known that by the finger nails; they were his only brunette feature—but there were, alas, no children there) into the yellowishness. Something squealed. It sounded like an astronomer. explaining the Linstein Theory. Something struggled in his fingers like a metaphor in an old maid’s love letter. Something that fete dark blue, but might possibly have been purple, and wasn’t. Softly he drew it out. It was a 4th Liberty Baby Bond, so emaciated that it had lost all interest. Ferrett concealed it hastily in the depths of his