Judge — August 16, 1924 — page 25: what you’re looking at

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

“ASQUITH AND YE SHALL RECEIVE” by Walter Prichard Eaton NOTHER Asquith has broken A out into print! Being mar- ried to, or descended from, a British Prime Minister appears to predestine one to authorship. First Mother Margot tosses a scandal bomb in two volumes into the inner circle of Britain’s ruling caste, then her daughter, the Princess Bibesco, who adorns the society of our own national capitol, in a series of short stories illumines the dark places of Sex, then another Asquith tells us how to bring up children, and now, in “‘Wind’s End” (Charles Scribner’s Sons), Herbert Asquith, a son of the Liberal leader, presents a waiting world with a mystery story. To tell the truth, we are rather fed up on Asquiths, but we are always hungry for a good mystery story, so we waited till the family (our family, that is) were all abed, filled five pipes, lit one of them and laid the other four on the arm of the couch, slumped down till we were perfectly comfort- able, and plunged in. The story began well, in the tap room of a pub- lic house in rural England. We like stories that begin in public house tap rooms in rural England. We immediately get all the characters mixed up, because they all look and sound alike, and we have a mystery to start with. Presently a nice young fellow, on a dare, goes out to sleep in a haunted field, called Wind’s End. In the morning he is dead. There are no marks on his body, and no clew except footprints which came within fifty paces of him, but no nearer. By the time his body was found, we had to get up from our comfortable chair after all, in spite of our elaborate precautions. No, we had not forgotten the matches. We had to get up to shut the door. We were cold. We had goose flesh. Great! If a mystery story does not give you goose flesh by page fifty, it is a failure. We returned, and read on. By the time we had been introduced into the strange, lonely house of Shane, two miles from the haunted field, and met its strange, grim owner, we had to get up again, and put on a coat. Better and better! But then something began to go wrong. The story began to jump us about. First we were looking over the shoulder of one character, and then over the shoulder of an- other, and sometimes over no- body’s at all. We might just as (Continued on page 26) For protection against road hogs That Little Hand Last night I held a little hand, So dainty and so neat; I thought my heart would surely So wildly did it beat. I gazed at it with loving looks, I fondled it with joy— No other hand unto my soul Can greater solace bring, Than that one which I held last Four aces and a king! Bobby—Better catch you reading that book. Betty—And why not? “She bought it ’specially to brag One rat to another—Sure, go ahead and swipe the cheese out of that trap, it will be a snap. Woman’s inhuwomanity to woman is even worse. News Nole:**A tazi covers ninety *"Itdoesn't say how many pedestrians. comicbooks.com