Judge — August 14, 1926 — page 30: what you’re looking at

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

Little Boy (from next house)—Plea Lady—Yes, with pleasure. Where “I think it's stuck in your eat!” The Rise of the Frank “TRAN Abruptly, I ended my peace- ful contemplation of the sea from the veranda of Sea View Hotel, and went in through the French windows. “Frank!” I tracked the call into the lounge, and there encountered a strange gentleman and a strange lady, eying each other vaguely. “Er—I beg your pardon,” said the gentleman to the lady, with a faint —er—was it you calling was,” the lady smiled was calling my husband.” “I'm so sorry,” murmured the gentleman. “I—er—my name's Frank, too. I thought it was my wife.” He turned to me. “Please forgive me!” And he bowed himself away. “Wait a minute!” I cried, slightly damp about the forehead. “I’m not her Frank, either!” It was not elegantly put, but the gentleman was departing hurriedly, and I felt that the misapprehension must be removed. This is how people get tangled up in farces. I se may I have my arrow? did it fall? Humorist turned to the lady, who was also slightly disturbed. “I'm most awfully sorry,” I said, “but—er—my name's Frank, too, and I thought you were calling me—” “Not at all,” she murmured, mean- ing either that it didn’t matter at all, or both. Now I, also, bowed myself away. and returned to the veranda. man had taken my chair. This was annoying. I had placed the chair in the only position from which anyone in Sea View Hotel could get a sea view and even had left my morning paper by the chair. This man was reading my paper, and showed no disposition to move. Sud- denly, through the French windows, I heard a voice calling: “Frank!” Undeniably, it was my wife’s voice this time. The man jumped up, and trotted indoors. And I resumed my chair. —London Opinion soe A man arrested for burglary re- cently tore all his clothes in pieces in the detention cell. He will, no doubt, be put in charge of the prison laundry. —Passing Show My Typist (On Monday Morning) H® eyes, though brown, are full of green. | They hold a misty woodland sheen, And dreamy scented vision lies Behind the iris of her eyes. No forced pretending can disguise That she has looked on better things Than office files, and heard the rings Of sweeter bells besides the good Metallic one of Underwood. And all that’s wrong with Mary Jane Is that she’s walked a country lane, And scraped her silken city knees In climbing stiles beside green trees, Because of this, the E’s and T's In all my notes are Ys and R's. Stumbling, her fingers miss the keys, And race among the stars. —London Opinion sae Taxi-driver—Where shall 1 drive you, sir? Reveler—I_ don't caresh; d’you know Jonson street? “Yes * “Well, don’ drive me there; thatsh where I live.” —Aussie ts Sam—When we reach that next bend in the road I'm going to kiss you. Sally—That’s going just a little bit too far. ~Answers The Saturday Evening Post Number was such a big success that JUDGE has decided to do some more magazine burlesques. Have you any preference? If so, check the magazine you'd like to have some fun with and mail it in to the Editor. JUDGE will burlesque those having the greatest number of votes. COVANITY FAIR (J LITERARY DIGEST <j LIBERTY (J GOOD HOUSEKEEPING (J COSMOPOLITAN (J POPULAR MECHANICS (J TRUE STORIES (CJ PHYSICAL CULTURE (POLICE GAZETTE (J PHOTOPLAY (J LADIES HOME JOURNAL comicbooks.com