Judge — October 15, 1921 — page 31: what you’re looking at

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

Midnight . . . Twenty- third Street By HELEN HYSELL. "THE white light on the Metro- politan tower flashed out and the red light winked the hour of mid- night. Marion walked homeward alone, thinking of moonlight, dream- ing of romance. She had never before been on the street at so late an hour without an escort. Exper- ience had taught her that the mere presence of a man does not neces- sarily,enhance the beauty of moonlight or bring romantic dreams to fulfillment. she was alone. Anything happen! In the glare of a restaurant sign, a square-jawed, pale youth kissed a girl’s hand. As Marion approached, the youth whispered tensely, audibly, “T can’t bear to let you go home— to him!” arion glanced at the girl. Her head tilted backward, looked deep into the youth’s To Marion, his eyes were shallow, saw only a pair of slender shoulders and the crown of a rain-spotted hat; but perhaps to the girl— Three men strolled ahead of her. Suddenly they stopped. Marion thrilled perhaps . . . One of the men turned, “Where are you going?” he shouted. His voice was old dead. The two men with him turned, too. They were laughing harshly. Marion v sure for a moment, that their eyes rested upon her. But the old, dull voice rasped on, and she realized that he But to-night might Drawn by Harvey Prake. If we could have our names on our hats the grown-ups would not have to ask us our names so often. had been speaking to some one be- hind her. Purposely she passed close to the three men but they ig- nored her. A surface car rumbled along, going in her direction. She decided to take the car. The conductor saw her ap- proaching and smiled. It was evi- Madame Squeaks, the Mouseville Medium, gives a demonstration of “table tipping.” dent that he anticipated an amorous conversation. The car looked lone- some. The conductor needed a shave and his teeth appeared discolored in the yellow light Marion pretended that she had started to cross the street and walked on. The night was too beautiful to be wasted in discouraging a street-car conduc- tor who needed a shave. Fifth Avenue, avenue of Romance! A taxi crawled along, slowly, lan- guidly. Within, a man was kissing a girl—his manner that of a married man philandering with a fool. A limousine dashed by. Two people oc- cupied distant corners of the wide, upholstered cushions. Marion glimpsed a broad expanse of white shirt-front below a clean shaven chin and a filmy bit of chiffon twined about a discontented little face. She crossed Fifth Avenue and walked on. A gleaming moon, sur- rounded by tiny white clouds cast shadows even in the artificially lighted street. From the dimness, darker shadows loomed up. A man was talking loudly, repeating some profanity for the benefit of his flat- teringly attentive companion. His voice was odious with pride. “I told her—and believe me, she—” Marion felt a trace of kinship with the woman who listened. She knew the torture of listening to a braggart. An all-night restaurant squatted in the middle of the next block. Glancing inside, she saw a man and woman sitting at a hard, white table. The woman’s eyes stared vacantly at nothing. The man teetered back upon bending chair-legs. His face was 31 turned expectantly toward the kitchen. He was thinking. of the food and Marion, outside, passed on, her mind fixed upon romantic ad- venture. A policeman nodded to her pater- nally and she smileeé. Homeward she walked, wishing for the perfect he, a man facinating and wealthy ; bold yet not offensive, handsome yet not effeminate . 5 The door of her home waited si- lently to receive her. One last glance about. . . To-night she had not met romance —but after all— was itromance that she wanted? Yas it not a de- sire for a change that had prompted her to hope for adventure? Adventure—why, it was an adven- ture, just to walk home alone at mid- night and not to meet Romance! They Ain’t By Cyrit B. EGAN Who are the People? Surely not we! Bee if this include not me, Include not you—who can they be? The. Ask ’em and see! are the People— I searched each house from cellar to steeple; Of them I asked “Are you the Peo- ple?” “Oh, no!” they ery— Wherefore I sigh: The People are not—just exist For candidate and journalist. Then God didn't make '’em— The divil take ’em! comicbooks.com