Judge — April 23, 1932 — page 24: what you’re looking at

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

Vice-President Judge Jr. V ELL sir, I walked into my office the othe , around three P.M., flung my tile, dog-fender and handsheaths into a corner, and was about to kiss Miss Lorraine, my drink-notes secretary, good morning, when to my utter amaze, I found her fast in the arms of another gent. Since I do not encourage such things in my office—I am a one-sec- retary man—I grasped the cad by the epaulet and flang him almost violently into some wainscoating. Picking himself up and_ putting togethe in he said ‘I, young man, am the Re- ceiver. You and yours are in the hands of a Receiver.” “It looks,” I muttered, “like the arms of a Receiver.” “Don't quibble,” who are you?” “1,” I intoned, pulling myself up to my full empire state height, “am he said. “And HIGH JUDGE Judge Jr. Hadn't you heard?” “I’m sorry,” he smirked, “I haven't seen any excited knots of people around the corners discussing it. But then I don't get bund much—I work for my living. And with that he pulled out a book marked “Assets” and went to work. I had to sit by helplessly, quite un- able to do anything about it. First, he ran thru my mail with great gusto. Then he pocketed my best pencils and tried a few numbers out of my address book. (The one on Moshulu Parkway answered and made a date with him, the blonde whosis! Well, L remembered it costs about 50 to make her feel she is having f a good time, so I didn’t mind that much.) Then he tried on my rainy day rubbers, my spare Prince Albert and my beagling cos- tume. He also snuggled away a picture of Connie Bennett given me by Elinor Glyn in memory of an afternoon we spent together at Jean SORRY, JUNIOR — BUT IM IN THE OF HE RECEINERS , SMATHER IF \~ amit Harlow's. But when he went to the Filing Cabinet marked “Interior Decorations” and lifted out a hot water bottle filled with my very own i » stock, I curdled. uecan't h that,” I hissed “That is not legal and even if ye are a commercial-minded bully, you cannot go around being illeg In reply he poured himself a neat four fingers and smacked his lips. “You wouldn't,” I asked, my hood spreading dangerously, “like me te autograph that bottle?” He retorted by pocketing a handful of my paper clips. I got bitter. “What is the meaning of it all?” He said, “You don’t seem to al sorb quickly. You are in the hands of a receiver. What's mine continues to be min And what's yours i+ mine alse “Iam, in other words,” I said, slave. What would you like to « with the body? Sell it to a medic school?” He made a note in his book that effect. And, by Greta Garbo, I hadn't done something that instant I'm sure I would today be sur dered up to science. I saw a lary blue pencil. 4 Carelessly I picked it up and dan- gled it under his nose. His eye lit on it with a pecul gleam. It h awakened the editor, latent in every man. comicbooks.com