Judge — September 24, 1921 — page 5: what you’re looking at

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

Drawn by R. B. Fuiier+G. D. Mother Graham—So vo I, (bathing her For Author of “The Purple Cow,” JT) EGIMERE DE TRYLLION was rich. So rich R that birds seldom ventured near his home. They were afraid he’d throw money at them. Kvery time there was a fire alarm the neighbors would say, “Oh, that’s only Reggie, disposing of a few billion dollar bill A handsome lad was Reggie, although he did wear 18-karat suspender buttons. He was as popular man could expect to be who wore light blue neckties. Women, indeed, adored him and told him so, often upon heavy monogrammed stationery, as if he were a real movie star. But still Reggie was not happy. Rich people seldom are, in stories, or else they wouldn’t be rich. It wasn’t, however, merely because he was a tenor that he was unhappy. ‘The competent phy n treating him for it promised a radical cure, and that there would be no serious after-effects. No, he had another dise: one prevalent among heroes of our highest-priced fiction. He wanted to be loved for himself alone. Not for his fabulous fortune would he be loved, but for his freckles. Not for his in- come tax, but for the meat on his bones. But all the girls had his number; and it was $9,000,000,000,000.00. The fact that he had curly eyelashes and ingrowing teeth didn’t seem to figure at all. Splash! What they wanted was to splash in his diamonds. One and all, they wanted to nestle comfortably among his gilt-edged securities. They wanted to marry a Great Author—not of mere fic- little MOTHER. Mother—(greatly encouraged) Graham—BECAUSE IT MAKES YOU “Goops and How to Be Them,” “Are son's ears) -GRAHAM, I CERTAINLY DO HATE DiRT! AND WHY, DARLING? WASH ME. Himself Alone By Geverr BurG You a Bromide?” } tion, but one who could provide them with good, solid reading that they could take up seriously. A valuable book, for instance, commencing “Pay to the Order of...” ® And so, like all thoroughbred and magazine-brokei heroes, he decided to disguise himself as a common per son and learn What Life Really Is. He didn’t yet know that to a workman it is only Just One Damned Thing After Another. For to the Idle Rich, you see, it is all too frequently Several Things at Once, including cigars, drinks, and Four of a Kind. In the great parallelipipedal Macaroni Works at Hoboken Centre, the vermicilli was rly squirming with the heat. The air was so thick with the odor of hot raviolis that, with a fork and a little tomato sauce, it would have been almost edible. Yet wheels, many wheels, moaned and hiccoughed, spun round and round as if oiled with a 9°% brew. At a power-lathe, in a row of similar mammal De Tryllion, in red silk overalls, stood, bor long holes in spaghetti. It hard work: The hardest work Reggie had ever done heré- tofore was to try to shave himself, while his valet was off being vaccinated. Even then he had had to give it up before his left mous- tache was razed. That was why he called it his left moustache. Eight hours a day Reggie worked and was worked. In eight hours he could get his hands pretty dirty. It was an exciting sen- Mr. ug