Judge — February 1935 — page 22: what you’re looking at

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

The Story of the Arrow By Hugh MeKay HE club hore put down his paper and cleared his throat in a manner older members have come to know. Several of those within earshot suddenly looked at their watches and dashed off to keep appointments. He addressed a new and somewhat younger member, who had not known when the escaping was good. “I see here,” he remarked, tule forbidding touts from operating on any of the race tracks of this state. Harumph! They had a rule like that at Churchill Downs, in Louisville—but it didn’t keep ‘em out “that they have passed 3 Is that so?” asked the younger her, stupidly. A case comes to mind,” continued the club bore, “of a couple of colore boys that worked as a team. The little tout, Roscoe, dug up the suckers for the big boy, Clarence, to skin. Then, as luck would have it, Roscoe got caught and wasn’t allowed on the track any more, “However, Clarence finally agreed that he would try it ‘through the gate’ em- “Hey, close that window—ya think I’m an Eskimo?” “There goes Granatti, riding in his sleep again!” just once, but if that didn’t work, he was sorry, but he'd have to get another guy. It was Roscoe's only chance and he determined to make good. So he watched the gate this particular afternoon until he saw a cornfield darkie with a month’s pay burning holes in his pocket, and stopped him just as he stepped up to buy his ticket. He did his stuff, and as the cornfield boy passed through, he saw Clarence step up and start to close the sale. “Eager, and excited, Roscoe climbed up on one of those little shacks that fringe the track, and through his field glasses, saw Clarence separate the victim from a roll of bills that would choke a horse. After the race, happy in his sue- cess and in continued partnership with Clarence, he waited outside the gate. Clarence finally debouched, resplendent in his checked vest and pearl derby spats. ‘How much do we split, Cla’e Roscoe was eager to know. Claren drew a long ‘My friend,’ he i toned kindly, ‘I’: d it’s no go. All [ got out of that baby was a two-dollar bet. Here's yours.’ And he hands Ros- coe fifty cents. ‘ B RAYED by his rascally part- ner, disillusioned with life—his job gone, and only four bits in his pocket, poor little Roscoe walked de- spondently toward town. His melan- choly thoughts were interrupted by the sound of And_ looking around, he espied a negro street carni- val running full blast. Here was a side- show, over there a merry-go-round. Various attractions drew him irresistibly into the grounds. But the mightiest at- traction of all was a great tall ladder towering skyward and small tub of comicbooks.com