Judge — September 3, 1921 — page 5: what you’re looking at

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

The Wife—My pear, [’v FOR NEXT TO NOTHING. . Drawn by GARNDER O. REA. JUST BOUGHT THE LOVELIEST SET OF FURS The Husband—My HEAVENS, MARY, YOU’RE NOT GOING OUT LIKE THAT, ARE YOU? Susie Sipley, the Soda Fiend A Sweet and Sirupy Satire, Sarsaparilla-Sad By GEL Author of “The Purple Cow,” “Goops and How to Be Them,” ETT BURGESS “Are You a Bromide?” Etc. HE day was so hot that several “ flies were completely pros- trated on Broadway, and had been hurried off to Bellevue Hos- pital. On Fifth Avenue, about the great, splendid feet of the traffic cops, the asphalt bubbled feverishly ; and down their noble foreheads the honest sweat poured like the Bridle Veil Falls. It was so hot, in fact, that every decent woman in New York was wearing furs. Susie Sipley trotted beautifully along in her blue fox scarf. Without it, in August, she would have felt almost naked. And to be naked in August, and on Fifth Avenue, at noonday—well, one hates to think of it. But yet she wasn’t so awfully bundled up, at that. Just above her knee one could occasionally catch sight of her emerald leg-bracelet— just often enough to realize, for in- stance, that it wasn’t really an emer- ald, after all. Only green sealing wax. It was melting a little, but then it was the best sealing wax. Susie loathed anything cheap. And yet, hot as she was, Susie wasn’t happy. It was two blocks— two long, rectangular blocks—to the nearest drug store, and she had had only fourteen sodas, so far, this morning. It seemed as if she could hardly wait to get a goo-goo sundae. That last strawberry-mucilage had been unsatisfactory; the clerk had put too much limberger in it. A pineapple paste would have stayed with her better. Hot! Hot! How hot it was! It seemed as if she were ploughing her way through a mass of perfervid caramels. Would she never get there? Susie began to run. Her silk stockings began to run also. So, too, the color of her Siamese sash. But thank God, at last she was there. Desperately she climbed a lofty stool, and leaned her nude, dim- pled elbows on a marble counter, sweetly-sticky. “Three vanilla perfections!” she demanded in a weak citron voice, “and be sure you don’t put in too much caviare!”” Why was it, she wondered, as she gulped them down, that fat women always took something rich made of chocolate, with whipped cream on top? Why did the old maids alw: order vinegar phosphates? Susie frequently mistook causes for effects. It: was three blocks to the next oasis on Broadway. How she ever 5 made that terrible journey, Susie never knew. She had only a vague memory of an appetite that scratched at her tummy like a playful cat. A parched throat, as if she had been eating alum. <A _ dogged crawl through the torrid canon of Broad- way . . . men without coats . . . women without even rouge . . . and then, oh joy!—a broad show window full of books and bead bags and sta- tionery and underwear. Dazed though she was, she knew it must be a drug store... “Three huckleberry flips—quick!” And Susie was saved for another ten minutes of that horrible day. But—even as she churned up her drinks with a long br: spoon and began to inhale the first voluminous swallows through a paper straw, Susie turned pale. There, looking mournfully in through the window, greasing a hole on the glass with his nose, was a crop of too-familiar whiskers. Her father! And above the slippery visor of his blue cap were the awful words, “Thunderbolt Building!” Susie tried comicbooks.com