Judge — January 16, 1926 — page 13: what you’re looking at

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

In the Days of the Shortage HEY were down to their last match box. Soon that would be con- sumed and nothing left for these two young married children to do but, clasped in each other’s arms, go down with the thermometer. Everything had gone up in smoke—the hope chest, the bread board, the kitchen flooring, and all of the wainscoting. The furniture,too,had been sacrificed (the furniture that they had bought at a fire sale—how ironic it seemed), even the metal beds had been tried, but with no success. But they had lived and been happy, these two. Thanksgiving Day had they not made merry with the turkey while the flames of the newel post flickered cheerily in the hearth. And never would they forget the red-letter day when they had remembered the dog box, just as the last of the coat hangers was dying out. Something had always turned up. But, now—now, it seemed as if the last straw had come, that is the last match box. She seemed bright, though, in the face of the crisis, and he thought that he detected a mis- chievous gleam in her e: s he sat there sneezing and rubbing his chil- blains. She was trying to help. That was it. What an ace she was as she stood there, her chapped hands resting on his bare neck (his celluloid collar had gone the way of all fuel), Re N INTIMATE PORTRAITS James Watts, apartment house dweller, fails to discover steam. smiling between her shivers. He looked up at her. “Well old girl,” he chattered, “TI gue all over but the shout- ing.” The match box had flickered its last, and the hearth was as cold Monday night roast beef. She said nothing, but leaving the electric bulb in whose warmth she had been basking, walked over to the dining- room door, opened it, and beckoned to him. He rose and shimmied over Susursan Reattor—And you mark my words there's going to be a big boom here very soon! to her. She pointed. He looked, and started back in astonishment. There, piled half way up to the ing were stacks upon stacks of letters, pamphlets, booklets. “How—what—” he became in- coherent. Fuel! Fuel enough for the worst of the grim weeks that lay ahead. “And that’s not all—that’s only the first ms she said. “We are saved, for it will come every day.” Saved, Nell,” cried the bo: “Saved!” He was almost hysteri but finally calming down, he de- manded brokenly how she,a frail little goose-fleshed woman, had accom- plished the impossible when he for weeks had been unable to buy even a newspaper. She threw her arms about his neck, glorying in his wonder, his admiration. “T wrote a Florida Realty Agency,” she said simply. George A. Paravicini Try to register grief for T. Ronald Van Loan The Gods of loquacity got him. He was still as the “Sphinz” till he holed out in one. Well— Tocut along story short we just shothim. ede Fras Ut ete anles nse pays's5 for each One prints lh Jud! comicbooks.com