Judge — September 3, 1927 — page 18: what you’re looking at

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

JUDGE The BLACK BUZZARD ® Further exploits of the foremost British ace, Major Sidney Derek Jeremy Perelman, K.C.B., as told to himself by S. J. Perelman II Flying low over the German lines in the late summer of 1916, the intrepid Major Perelman was forced down in a gully on account of a felon on his left thumb re- ceived in a friendly game of cards. He was immediately taken prisoner by the enemy, who im- prisoned him in a small fortress on the Rhine named Vicksburg. But let us hear of his experiences there in a letter which he wrote to his tailor. (The Major was very eccentric in this respect, and frequently wrote letters to his grocer, his butcher, and his tailor. Most of them read simply, “Go boil your face in hot fat; I don’t owe you a dime.”) “The food there was terrible,” wrote the major, ‘“‘nobody knows what I endured. The only thing I got to eat was Ragout 4 la Deutsch. Day after day the dish Ragout a@ la Deutsch. Finally I could stand it no longer, and one noon when the gaoler (get the spelling, boys, GET the spelling!) brought me my dish, I cried, ‘For God's sake, throw that Ragout!’ The turn- AA \ was “What's matter?” key was much surprised and in- quired what I would prefer in- stead. Here was the chance I had been waiting for! I told him to bring me a rope pie, one of those large p: beneath the crust of which is concealed twenty feet of rope and a small hand- saw. He gave the order to the chef of the prison, who made up a truly delicious pie and sent it to me with his compliments. I con- sumed the crust avidly and con- cealed the contents under my pallet. That evening I sawed through the bars of my cell and lowered myself into the Rhine. Unfortunately, the turnkey saw me and gave the alarm; but I swam under water three miles up the river to Plattsburg, where, upon my arrival, I posed as an itinerant barber hawking sh dip to the trade. The illusi was successful and in three weeks in Vienna, from which it OF BRITAIN was a mere train journey back to Paris and freedom.” After a short rest in a hospital where the Major a universal favorite with the nurses on account of his smart carriage— a Studebaker, by the way—and sonorous _ bass hurried for ac voice, he was summoned to the front » duty. His enemies have since said that there was a matter of a forged ch and some loaded dice, but the accusation was palp- ably untrue. And now black tragedy tints the war-clouds which hover over the Major’s head (not bad, boy, not bad!). He had been warned by surgeons never to ride a bicycle without pants-clips, but such ad- monitions were as nothing to the foolhardy ace. One night on a lonely country road near Buffalo his left pants leg caught in the gear of his Ivor Johnson bike and Major Perelman did a swan dive and landed on his ear, where he stayed for two days until he was picked up by a scouting patrol. Back to the hospital and Abagail! But what awaited him on his return? Read in the next instalment of this catchy serial about Abagail, the female iceman, and the Major’s cyclonic wooing. A thrilling climax in this epic of the clouds! “The dry agents were coming and if I hadn’t drunk it they’d have poured it in the gutter.” comicbooks.com