Judge — November 30, 1929 — page 12: what you’re looking at

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

Bob Ruxton’s Thanksgiving By S. J. Perelman I was the night before Thanksgiving, and everywhere in the heart of New York's great shopping district people with shining eves hurried about buy ing holly with which to stuff their turkey and stge dressing to hang in their windows. On all sides joy and rejoicing reigned supreme. But to Bob Ruxton, youngest cub reporter en the st Star.” Thanksgiving was only a name. As he sat moodily puffing on his old corn- cob pipe in the city room waiting for an assignment, a group of veteran JUDGE newspaper men in expensive astra- khan-trimmed coats nearby joyfully unwrapped the Thanksgiving” pres- ents they had received from the pub- lisher. “Look, look, a turkey!" cried one whom we will call “Heywood Broun,” in charge of the frank sullivan de- partment of the paper. nd see what I “Frank Sullivan,” heywood editor of the journal, holding blue slip of paper labeled “And I!" exclaimed “Walter Win- chell,” a gray-haired old cartoonist named Bud Fisher, displaying to the admiring gaze of all a shiny blue Cadillac roadster. “Well, what did you get, Bob?” in- exulted broun The lady who built a balcony in her house to hear Rudy Vallee sing. 10 guired “Arthur Brisboom” kindly placing a fatherly hand on the young ster’s curly head. don’t despair, ‘better luck next time,’ as the saying goes!” And with many a merry quip, rally, and unprintabh jest the party adjourned to a con venient “blind pig” for the weck-end Bob cursed his luck as he watehed them and thought of the lonely sixty-cent luncheon he would have on the morrow. He was aroused by the the red-headed and irrepressible otfice-boy. “Like to take a chance on the big $5,000 raffle the paper's running, Mr. Ruxton? You know we draw the winning number tonight and still have f chances left.” Bob pessimis chose a number and gave “Rags” his dollar. A moment later the city editor called out his name. “Ruxton,” he said, “a very im- portant tip has just been phoned in on the Farmers and Plovers Bank robbery. The thieves are reported hiding in an abandoned shack at 46 Pratt Street on the waterfront. All our star writers have gone home for the week. Can you get the story A newspaper man by instinct, Bob's eyes flashed as he scented a big “scoop.” His chance, the one he had be He drew hi n awaiting for months! If erect. I'll bring back the story, chief.” he said quietly as he quickly slipped the automatic pistol without which no journalist ever travels into a poc' of his ulster. His nerves tingled as he hailed a cab. Already he could hear the newsboys shouting the head ines “Star Reporter Captures Bank Bandits” as the taxi sped toward the isolated dock seetion Pratt St was deserted silent as the car drew up before 16. From within Bob could hear a snatch of song or coarse oath as the robbers caroused in their stronghold His heart in his mouth, Bob moanted the rickety steps and cautiously opened the door. He was in a dark hall feebly lighted by a gas jet. It was but the work of a moment to yen the door of the robbers’ hide- with the skele key without which no real newspaper man ever leaves his office. Through the crack in the door Bob saw four desperate- looking individuals seated around a table playing cards and dividing loot. He drew a deep breath and opened the door, “The jig is up, gentlemen,” he said in level tones as he pointed his pistol at their heads. ‘They sprang to their (Continued on page 32) comicbooks.com “Oh, come now,