10-Story Book, February 1928 — page 29: what you’re looking at

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

THE SOUTH SEA ISLAND NUMBER 27 wheel of the family flivver. These, of course, could choose just about any girl they pleased to take home. They played Postoffice, first of all. A boy would go into an adjoining room, in which the kerosene lamp was turned very low, and would whisper to the door keeper the name of the girl he wanted to kiss. Then the girls would come up to the door, one at a time, until the chosen one came. She would go in and get kissed at some length, then the boy would come out and the girl would choose another boy to come in and kiss her; then she would go out and the boy would choose another girl and so on ad infinitum, ad nauseum. Marvel yearned for her old school parties, with their whist and Rook. She didn’t dare let anyone in Endicott know she played cards; gambling was so immoral. And if she had to stay here, she must do as everyone else did. If only the boys would not call her in so often! Al- most every time, the boy she chose would call her right back, and then she would have to choose another boy and be kissed again before she could get out; and then, more often than not, she would get called once again into that dimly lit room, smelling of kerosene, cheap perfume and mothballs, to be mauled around some more. She had been kissed more times tonight than in her whole three years at school. The boys who.had brought her home from basketball games sometimes insisted on a goodnight kiss, but it was nothing like this feverish, loutish mauling, and hard, painful kissing. She hated it, and she hated to be called in so often while the other girls stood around so obviously not enjoying their kissless state. She was embarrassed by her unsought popu- larity, made to feel silly and conspicuous. Coming out of the dark room, her cheeks flushed and lips smarting, she knew she would have to do something about it. Ask some older person what to do. The banker’s wife, whose bosom swelled out from under her chin until she could have eaten a meal off its level top, was standing in the middle of the room looking about for signs of impending re- freshments when Marvel came up to her. “Mrs. Juggles, isn’t there some way to keep the boys from calling for me so often?” she whispered anxiously. “Some rule of the game, or something like that? I’d so much rather they’d call the other girls—” Mrs. Juggles had never hoped for such an opportunity. The elite of Endicott were listening in. The bare-armed hussy was Standing right in front of her as bold as brass. And what made Mrs. Juggles the maddest of all, her own twenty year old son had called for that girl every time he had gone in the other room. She coughed. || “I’m sure there is no rule preventing it —the boys asking for you all the time,” she repeated ponderously, to be sure that everyone would know just what the con- versation was about. “There is no rule. But you can scarcely blame the boys for wanting you in there. Scarcely blame the boys. You see, you have that reputation: A good girl—to be alone with in the dark!’ A good girl—to be alone with in the dark! That was a time honored, hoary joke in Endicott, was what people said about girls like Jessie Parrott. Marvel dragged unbelieving eyes from Mrs, Jug- gles’ smug, shining face and looked pit- eously about. Faces swam in a circle around her; she was within a merry-go- round of faces. Jealous, envious, sneer- ing, unkind faces—female faces. Leering, greedy, curious, grinning—male faces. Animals on a merry-go-round. Merry-go-rounds always made her sick. She felt nausea. In a daze she walked from the room, went out into the narrow CONINCELOOOKS (C@) mn