Judge — August 21, 1926 — page 26: what you’re looking at

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

I JUST RECEIVED THIS LETTER: Dear Jim: I'm a peddler—a paint peddler. Just plain paint. You know—house paint, barn paint, mill and factory paint. ‘Asone salesmanto another though, 1 want to tell you that your trio of Gloom Chasers isthe best ever. They ring the bell. y, ever since you've made 'em I've been Smilin’ Thru your lather, balm and powder every morning. Fraternally, LWw In one way, I'm practically a paint saiesman myself. I’m selling nature’s own face paint —a good complexion. Your physiog- nomy is my territory. Suppose tomorrow A. M. you begin the shaving sprint with a coat of Mennen lather —super-moist, triple strength. Mixes with any local water. Whips the fight out of the toughest, scrappiest crop of whiskers that ever bristled up to a keen-edged blade—and whips them until they purr. One round of the razor flips them off without a twinge. You get a shave that’s an asset—quick, close and flattering. Our scientists call this Mennen beard taming process dermutation. You'll call it transformation. Then try a few squirts of Mennen Skin Balm in the wake of the razor blade. At first it bites agreeably —that’s th ‘iseptic, astringent touch. Then it briskly stimulates the circulation—sets the skin a-tingling. You know you like it, right on the spot. Your mirror will convince you that you wantit. Your face looks healthy, smooth, un- blemished. Skin Balm comes in leak-proof form in handy tubes, Fifty cents a throw. For the final touch of good grooming, flick a film of Talcum for Men over all. Neutral intone. Doesn’t show on the face. So mildly perfumed, even an inquiring public won’t smell out your secret. That’s the Mennen Shave in toto. You'll want to be initiated. ° ee (Mears Selesmen) The Apt Word poecty at three forty-five that cold feeling, familiar to actors who miss their cues and speculators who miss their markets, took me amidships; suddenly I remembered that I ought most urgently to be somewhere where I wasn’t, miles and miles and miles away. Panic seized me. The world went round and round in oblate spheriods. Heaven crashed, and the sun_ practically ceased to shine. All the birds stop- ped singing in the middle of a bar, like a switched-off loudspeaker; time trembled on the edge of eternity for one long moment and then fell over. When I began to think coherently again, I remembered Wilfred. Wilfred has a car, the darling of Wilfred’s eyes and the curse of the neighborhood. Practically speaking, the neighborhood never gets any rest from Wilfred’s car: when Wilfred isn’t driving it, he is talking about YOONLICE it, and both are noisy proceedings. The car has no silencer, neither has Wilfred. According to him, it is the most wonderful goer, hill climber, record breaker, and mile devourer the world has ever produced; according to. old Colonel Gunn-Cotton, who lives opposite to Wilfred, it is—well, I'd sooner not say. But there is no doubt about it, the car can go. In the crisis which burst upon me at three forty-five, the thought of it was like the life- boat to the shipwrecked mariner. I hurried across, and found Wilfred doing things with a spanner and bits of incredibly dirty rag. I knew it was no use just saying, “Oh, Wilfred, I want to be at Littel Hopping by four. Do you mind just running me over?” Wilfred needs careful handling, like his car. “Hallo!” I said, terrifically casual, as though I had a whole lifetime to waste, and then eternity to get through somehow. “Hallo!” said Wilfred. MENNSn SHAVING CREAM Mother—Don’t take any notice of my Willie, ’e laughs at the most stupid things. Gaiety comicbooks.com