Judge, 1931-09-12 · page 12 of 36
Judge — September 12, 1931 — page 12: what you’re looking at
What you’re looking at
# "Holed-Up" by Ben W. Pelton — Judge Magazine This is a humorous short story illustrated with cartoons about Homer P. Dunk, a sickly man confined to bed with various ailments (quinsy, neuritis, sinusitis). When a burglar breaks in downstairs, Homer is torn between his doctor's orders to stay in bed and his desire to protect his home. The joke's irony: Homer is secretly *pleased* by the burglar's selections. The red hanging he "despised," the problematic family portraits, the defective silver and salt shakers, the carving set that won't cut—all items Homer's wife ("the Little Woman") has annoyed him with get stolen. Only when the burglar reaches for an apparently worthless small vase does Homer finally cry out in protest, suggesting it holds sentimental value his wife treasures. The accompanying courtroom cartoon (bottom) is a separate joke about mistaken identity: a judge asks who the complainant is, only to be told "I'm the fellow that stole the car"—a simple mix-up for comedic effect.
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JUDGE HOLED-UP By Ben W. Pelton Hs" nr P. Denk didn't feel well; in fact, he felt rotten. ‘The doc- tor heartily « dered him to bed as the best cure fora reed with him and or- touch of quinsy vit of sinus, neuritis in the left arm and a strained tendon in the right leg. Once home, although Mrs. Dunk was away, he dutifully d his throat, sprayed his nose, ate his laxative and drank his seda- ter which he tumbled into bed ally to sleep. nly he awoke. Tey fingers of dread traversed his taut’ spine fastened about the pit of his ston i. He glanced at the radium dial. Mid- night. in that smothered clink from the dining-room. Burglars! He shivered. Well, let ‘em bu The insu » was paid. Besides, the doc- tor had said not to leave bed under any circumstances. He buried his d in the pillows. The next moment he was bolt up- right. Suppose— He leaped up without a twinge and, seizing a putter from an old golf bag, tiptoed to the door. Peering into the dining-room, he beheld a bulky, hard-faced individual in the act of stripping a gaudily em- broidered red han from the wall and spreading it upon the floor, Fair enough, thought Homer. He had always despised that hanging, al- heit secretly. Red was no color for a dining-room—delayed —digestion—the Sunday papers said so. He hoped the man would take the portrait of Mrs. Dunk’s relatives, who frowned pom: pously from cither side of the butfet. Apparently the burglar felt a simi- lar distaste for Art, for his next sclec- tion was the “best” flat silver, which he piled silently upon the improvised tarpaulin, The shivering watcher smiled. How often had the Little Woman admonished him in its han- dling. His glee at the burglar’s next choice, the silver salt shakers, from which no salt could be coaxed, fanned to an unholy joy when he be- held the silver-handled, but never sharp carving set, added to the pile of booty. At last the roasts would be ved in the kitehen—maybe. The visitor was now glancing over the denuded buffet. Homer's innate salesmanship almost drove him to an € impassioned plea for the cut glass coasters, which so enlivened the meal by sticking to the bottom of one’s glass long enough to precipitate them- selves and contents into the lap. It was then that the burglar’s nee rested upon an exceedingly small, vase-like affair, until now un noted, although centrally located. Homer stiffened, his hand tighten- ing over the putter the burglar grasped the glittering trifle. ‘The man seratched a desecrating thumbnail across the gleaming surface and, with pil With an inarticulate cry of red (Continued on page Jepor—Here, let me get you people straightened out. Are you the complainant in this case? “No—I'm the fellow 10 ze that stole the car.” audible sniff, tossed it, too, on the comicbooks.com