Judge — December 31, 1921 — page 21: what you’re looking at

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

And so on. Back we go to Armageddon, “where we used to be so happy and so pore!” What did it avail Col. George Harvey to name a president, and the willing workers of Wall Street to elect him —what, save a joyful job for George Harvey? The elaborate fake issue of the League of Nations is forgotten, and we are headed pell-mell for the League. And with government wrested from the sacred hands of Penrose, Lodge and Moses, and turned over to Borah, Kenyon, LaFollette and Pat Harrison, why should not the New York Times borrow Freedom’s famous Kosciusko yodle? Your reactionary, rolling the unsteady rock of progress up the long hill of conservatism, had nothing in the way of grief upon Prometheus. The vaudeville of life presents no more side-splitting stunt. Get your ticket for the big show of 1923, when the 50 per cent inheritance taxes on $50,000,000 fortunes comes up. The Times’ spasms then will be worth all they cost. “WHEN THE MISTS HAVE CLEARED AWAY” HE Conference on the Limitation of Arma- ment has been frying in its own fat for nearly two months now, and with all the open sessions and communiques and in spite of the daily inter- views with reporters the people are confused as to what has happened. There has been a flood of pub- licity but little news. The publicity has not been intelligently interpreted; partly because the re- porters did not understand it, and somewhat because the publicity was delivered cryptically. The re- porters were not supposed to understand it. Big things have been going on behind the scenes— behind the scenes of lingual differences, racial aims, national temperaments. Half a score of veils have concealed the truth—some immovable veils; but the big black blanket of diplomacy has cur- tailed everything. By midwinter the blanket will come down and we shall “know as we are known.” And “there’ll be something doing in the good old summer time!” Drawn by Morris H. PANCOAST. THE BIG NEWS HE white race is ina bad way. The thing called credit has got the white race fairly sewed up in asack. For we have borrowed more than we can pay and more than our children are disposed to pay. Interest and taxes are the white man’s burden. He has been on one grand spree buying all manner of gaudy luxurious baubles, throwing bonds and mort- gages and bills payable about like confetti: pasted on his feverish brow he has displayed the motto, “Ain't it grand to be bug house!” and he has been having the time of his young life with wine, women and song, wars, looting and booms. And now the white man sits amid a swirling civilization which threatens to pass with the dawn of a new day and across this cold gray dawn he chatters to the grin- ning sinister face peering out of the dusk, “check your gun at the door.” And one of the white man’s troubles is that he has too many little gatlins con- cealed in his own clothes—the right to strike, for instance; the royal American privilege of the lock- out, for another instance; the blessed privilege of hiring industrial spies, for still another; and the ugly habit of calling out troops to fight private in- dustrial wars. Until we give a man a right to his job, something like a property right, and then affect the job with a public interest and require capital and labor to function for the public good we shall have no great results from military disarmament. Force—the strike or the lockout—is just as wicked and wasteful in the arbitraments of industry as war is wicked and wasteful as a tribunal in international disputes. And while we are planning for a shell- pink millennium among nations why not take inter- locking directories, in which we find amalgamated, associated and combined capital, by the slack of its suitable gray trousers and grab union labor by the scruff of the neck and tell them both the news about Christ on the mountain. It’s important news and also true. The public surely has some rights which warring industry is bound to respect. “The lips that touch liquor shall never touch mine.” 19 comicbooks.com