Judge — January 29, 1927 — page 27: what you’re looking at

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

JUDGE The Pact EN you refuse?” asked the man bitterly, The woman nodded, and there was. no trace of compassion in the set of her mouth. “T come to you,” pleaded the man, “and I offer you everything I have. Always you turn me down.” The woman made a negative ges- ture. “Always I shall do,” quiet firmness. she said with “I cannot, shall not, take your proposals really seriously ret!” echoed the man, eagerly. “Then there is hope for me!” The woman regarded him coolly. “There may be. It must depend upon yourself.” “But—" “Oh, what is the use,” woman. broke in the “I tell you your perspec- tives, your actions, your very style is repugnant to any modern woman. The woman of to-day wants love. Love, real, rich and sustaining. She needs men who are tender, gentle, forceful but Who forever enfold their women in an ecstatic em- brace—who kiss with burning lips, and whose eves, lit with the divine fires, send forth their messages of worship—” The man recoiled, and regarded the woman almost in horror. “Am I the type of man,” sweet. he ground Owner—I say, can you drive a car? Stranger—No, boss. “Splendid fellow; will you?” Parson—And is that bottle of whisky your sole consolation in your bereavement? Widower—Oh, no, parson, there’s RACY. NERIANGCKS) Hilberating™ “My — doctor says Hibernat- ing too much.” then stay here and mind my car for a little while, —Passing Show a couple more in the cupboard. —London Opinion out, “for that sort of thing? Do you think that sort of thing is in me? Me!” The woman’s face softened a trifle. He saw the softening and was quick to continue. “Can't you take what I have to offer you?” he pleaded. “It is all yours for the asking.” The woman shook her head. “I refuse,” she said, firmly. “My de- cision is irrevocable, unless...” “And,” said the man thoughtfully, “if Ido these things you have said” — his cheeks flushed, and an eager light was in his f I do as you ask - what will be my reward?” He waited with parted lips. “Two guineas per thousand words,” said the woman. “Try your hand at it!” ”* said the struggling author, brightening. Taking his re- jected manuscript from the hands of the editress of Mona’s Monthly, he nodded determinedly. “Right! I'll try my hand at the love tripe on those terms.” —Passing Show Rael Visitor—Your husband gets a lot of sentiment out of his pipe, doesn’t he? Mrs. Richquick—Indeed he does. It’s perfectly disgusting to see him clean it. —Tit Bits comicbooks.com