Judge — January 1934 — page 16: what you’re looking at

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

Judge Make it a Game OUNG Dr. Ashton closed the behind him on ie bul Marvin. Mrs agitated paci Vell?” iled—an door bellowings of Morey ceased her Well she said. Dr. Ashton professional ma of equal parts of re: am ment and contempt. “He's got to eat, indulg s smile, com ou surance, that’s all. No eight-year old boy thrive unless he eats. Sut aid Mrs. More looking like ac ught guinea hen, “he sim ply refuses. He locks his jaws. He whines. He spills things.” Dr. Ashton spread his fine, pink pal “My dear lady, that is your Yours re sibility nd your hus- band’s. You can't force a child to € You must divert him into it Make it a game—a delightiul Mr. Morey cleared his throa hand over his pale, thinn ou happen to be a bache it, Doctor?” he inquired snapped his bag shut, “I be.” he said. 3ut I al omething about children. And appen know if you will take my advice nd make that youngster’s eating a game, you won't be needing me again. Good morning HREE rather exci days passed. Days fraught with gastronon mings and tension. ren Mr. Morey hit it, right on the button. “You're a genius,” sighed his wife. “However did you happen to think of taking a bite for every animal in the Zoo, darling?” Mr. Morey rattled the Sports Sec modestly. “Oh, just came to me. I can dig ‘em up. if I have to. I guess we're all set now—he certainly went for it!” Breakfast two mornings later, however, presented difficulties. Mr. Morey had no sooner sat down and ex- claimed, “All ready now, son—a great big bite for the grizzly bear!” than rebel- lion reared its ugly head. “Nothing doing,” said Marvin sullenly. “We had a bite of those carrots for the grizzly b last night By Stanley Jones You aren't going to double up on me » sir!” Mr hind his Morey blinked be- lasses, su nding a spoon iul of cantaloupe in shocked unbeliei ww, Marvin,” said Mrs. Morey gently. “Don’t get excited, dear.” Marvin thrust out his lower lip « puddled his farina with a stubb nin't excited. I’m just sick of for a lot of ole bears. This ain't the first time, either—he doubled a zebra on me yesterday. Any- ways, I'm not hungry This familiar dictum descended on the Moreys like a pall. Mrs. rallied first, feebly. “Please, Marvin don't spatter that cream all over the cloth. Daddy will think up a lovely new animal in a moment—c nd air Morey e who is positively starving for a bite of iarina. Won't you, Daddy Mr. Morey essayed a spurious con- fidence. “Yes. yes, of course. Ne let's h. How about the ah, the all.” said Marvin “Even those he ke “We've ate ‘em puddling moodily had to look up in the d Ubangi Gaz “Does the moon make you sad too, Major?" *Ves,—Reminds me of directors’ meetings and twenty-dollar gold pieces. 14 hungry. I think Tl go stamps in my album.” Faced with crisis, Mr. Morey gazed wildly about, like a man ina burning building paste Then, straight from heavy came inspiration. “Wait,” he said I've got it! We'll start on the fish. Say the halibut—read Naw,” uid Marvin, reducing in- spiration to ashes ina word. “I hate fish. Ole bones get in my te I think I'll go paste—” “Birds!” cried Mr. Morey, in the spairing tone of a barker who sees his crowd edging off to the next booth. “A duck—a wild duck! He'll fly twice a of farina i st with a nice hot dish side of him Marvin. “Twice —to get shot. don't eat farina. eah,” grunte: Besides, bire They eat bug dear,” Mar-vin, pl wailed Mrs. Morey ase sit down,” \ distant whistle bored t tense air. Mr. Morey sho Hat, dear,” he s ough the himself “Coat—l've sot to race for it again. Marvin paused in the act of jerking out his napkin His pale, precocious litt with ne face flickere: in- terest. “Rac he said. “All I'll race you, daddy on!” Three minutes later, Mr. Morey had bolted the 1 acrid grounds in his coffee cup, and pelted off for the tion. From the porch, his family waved enthusias- tic farewell. “Ya-ah, | won! I won!” followed him shrilly until he rounded the corner of Elm Street. “Ar I'll race ou again tonight. Dropping into a smoker seat, Mr. Morey swallowed a couple of times and prodded his stomach in a dubious manner. INNER that evening was a gala affair. He was met at the door by his son, capering with the zest of a sophomore on the eve of a letter game. “Really, Clayton,” beamed Mrs. Morey, “you're won- derful, the way you think up thi He's talked of (Page 29, ple ae comicbooks.com