Judge — February 25, 1928 — page 8: what you’re looking at

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

MY ESCAPE FROM THE panes Continued from Page Five Robinson) I was being borne off on horseback by ruthless Turkish nomads. 1 did not even have time to utter a Kurdling cry before we had swept over the horizon into the sand dunes. Half dead with fright I nestled in the arms of my captors and wondered where they were taking me. 1 was svon to find out. For the next three days my mind was a blank, and even now | often feel that same blankness stealing over me. The morning of the fourth day our motor-car drew up at the eastern gate of the mighty city of Bagdad, the portal of the Orient. There we were met by turbaned guards who bore me forthwith to the palace of the Sultan. My clothes were taken away from me and | was given a gauzy robe of richly brocaded scrim. And before | had a chance to protest or scream, | was taken into the presence of the Islamic ruler. Hudson Bey, twenty-ninth Sultan in the Soporific dynasty under the Moslem faith, was a tall, imposing man of a kindly nature, being fanned by two Bir- mingham boys whom I remem- bered vaguely from the Grand Central Terminal. I told him in rapid Turkish what I thought of the trick that had been played, and upon my conclusion we played the trick over, He bid two no-trump and I redoubled, as my strength was in spades. The result was a grand slam and I took simple honors. That night the country club was a blaze of lights, the soft cande- labra falling gracefully over the powdered shoulders of charming women and distinguished diplo- mats. It was a veritable fairy- land. But my happiness was short- lived. A few days later I re- ceived a curt note from Jack, telling me that Alice had left the children and that mother was ill wondering whether Bob had told Jack about the episode at the road-house. The first few days in the harem were uneventful, to coin a new phrase. Fortunately, several of the other captives in the seraglio were Vassar girls, and as I had often carried chains for my father when he was a blacksmith, the common bond united us. One of the girls. a pretty little thing named Alice Mack, became a (Above) amazing snap- shot of the Prin cess escaping by i t arroplane from I sat plunged in despair for days, the Zala Kighf. The harem may be seen to the left in the background (Insert) The Princess disguised as a Confederate Liberty Number of Judge fast friend of mine, and soon people would point at us and say, * Moron and Mack.” With the spring, life grew more ex- citing; there was always a brisk walk in the fields or a smelt-drive if we grew bored. I recall vividly the Nushed cheeks and shrill cries of the bewildered smelts as our smelt-beaters treed them in a young sapling and the excitement of the kill when one of them would wave aloft the smelt’s brush with loud shouts of *Tally-ho!” Then the evenings spent lounging be- fore the fire puffing lazily on my old clay while Mice cleaned and fried the now thoroughly exhausted albeit juicy An harem of soldier smelts. And the stories told under the haunting magic of the stars! Stories of life on the great African veldt, stories so realistic and thrilling that I veldt hot and cold all over when IT heard them. There was one story that Alice never tired of telling, about the time she took a sleeper from Pittsburgh to Wheeling and there was this traveling man + but why at- tempt to relate an incident which relies wholly on its Turkish idiom for flavor? Then, like a thunderclap, in the fourth quarter of the game, Amber- crombie was sent to the bench. the coach turned to me [ noticed that his lips were set in a straight, thin line. “Boy Fenwick,” he said softly. his voice trembling just the least bit as he handed me the pigskin, “for purity!” And he gripped my shoulder as in a vise of steel. The next thing I knew [was running down the field. my heart) pounding like mad, the rooters in the stands cheering themselves hoar When I re- ained consciousness, Mona was bending over me and there was a new light in her eyes. She slipped the er ment ring ten derly on my finger and averted her head shyly. On the fifteenth of March, five months after | had been contined in the harem, my food was brought to me by a little old woman whom I had never seen before. ‘To my surprise she lifted her veil and revealed that it was none other than my be trothed, Moron Khan, who had braved worse than death to come to me. He whispered that he would be waiting for me that evening in the Moorish Grill Sure enough, when | arrived both he and Ali Ben Bernie were there. They were both equipped with ropes; they offered me one but as I never smoke the weed, 1 declined. It was but the work of a moment to scale up the side of the steamer, as my steward had left a painter hanging there. 1 think it was a man named Ma tisse or Renoir, but | am not quite sure. However, dawn found me snugly ensconced in my stateroom, and eleven days later I was leaning over the taff- rail looking at the Land of My Dreams. Oh, how good it looked to me, with its waving palms and milky surf thundering on coral beaches! | found out later that what [ had thought to be America was really Staten Island, one of a barbarous group con- irolled by the Curtis publications, but that is a horse of a different color. It is seven years now since I escaped from bondage among the Turks, but it all seems like yesterday. I mean it actually seems like yesterday. comicbooks.com