Life — January 11, 1923 — page 9: what you’re looking at

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

Excess Baggage ITH so much family behind Wie you would expect Bobby Greshame to have either h or none. noes have it. In fact the problem of reaching juriel Grey’s country place for that clorious week in November had been a trying one for Bobby, and its solu- n had entailed parting with the vatch his grandfather had given him t before the old gentleman had urted for a kill-or-cure sani- um. He was not cured. return for the watch Bobby had eived twenty-eight dollars and a ce of paper on which was printed, ong other things, the precise rate interest insisted upon by a far- ceing and careful uncle. However, the week had been worth sacrifice. Iuriel had never been so engag- ni; she had come to the point of ac- cepting Bobby a dozen times and, ess you wanted to quibble about such things as a ring, virtually she was engaged. Bobby was not one to bble. Muriel’s father had been particu- arly cordial. Not once during the tire week had he asked Bobby where he was not working at pres- Anyone who knew old Simon rey would realize that the sacrifice his favorite pleasantry meant much, So, sprawled comfortably in the air in Mr. Grey’s drawing-room, ybby surveyed the scudding land- ipe with peculiar satisfaction. He en decided, looking occasionally pon his dozing travelling compan- mn, that there might be worse fa- thers-in-law, albeit not much worse. It was just as well, Bobby decided, iat old Simon Grey did not know to what lengths, or depths, he had sone to procure the money with vhich to pay his railroad fare. Such knowledge, he reflected, would ruin hat nowseemeda bright future. But, »f course, there was no one but him- elf who knew—and he could keep iis own counsel, even when deep in his flasks. Thus deep in contentment he fed his thoughts until the train rolled into Grand Central Station. Mr. Grey woke with a start. “Want you to come up with me and have a sniffer,” he growled. “Car’s outside. Should be, anyway. Sup- much “Isn’t the Near-East problem perfectly thrilling!” “Well, I suppose so. but of course, out in Columbus we're more interested in the Middle West.” pose you run ahead and see if Sim- mons’ on Vanderbilt Avenue, Bobby. Leave me the checks and I'll have a porter attend to the baggage.” With great alacrity Bobby dug into his coat pocket and handed his prospective father-in-law the oblong pasteboards. “Three! Right?” he asked. “I had two. You're one?” count- tered Mr. Grey. Receiving an affirmative nod, “Right,” he growled. “Trunks always a damn nuisance.” Treading on air, Bobby sifted through the crowd in the station and made his way to the Vanderbilt Ave- nue entrance. He saw the Grey leviathan, hailed it and stood waiting as the car warped into the driveway. His hand crept idly into his coat pocket. Still idly, it fastened on something. Then it froze into rigid- ity. The something was oblong. Slowly, in dull horror, Bobby fished it out. It was a baggage check. But he had given three to Mr. Grey. Surely there was not a fourth. No, he decided grimly, there was not. It must have been something else. And that: Only one thing in Bobby’s world resembled a baggage check in shape and substance. That was a printed slip of many numbers and explicit conditions. That was the card of the universal uncle. The Grey car slid to a stop as Bobby pondered on this. He leaned toward the chauffeur. “Tell Mr. Grey I couldn’t wait, Simmons,” he said. “Tell him I glanced at my watch and realized that I barely had time to keep an ap- pointment.” J.K.M. comicbooks.com