hn i
Democratic Wald,
a
Bellefonte, Pa., March 4, 19382
DREAMING OF HOME.
It comes to me often in silence
When the firelight sputters low—
When the black, uncertain shadows
Seem wraiths of the long ago;
Always with a throb of heartache
That thrills each pulsive vein
Comes the old, unquiet longing
For the peace of home again.
I'm sick of the roar of cities,
And of faces cold and strange;
I know where there's warmth of wel-
come
And my yearning fancies range
Back to the dear old homestead
With an aching sense of pain.
But there'll be joy in the coming,
When I go home again.
When I go home again! There's music
That never may die away.
And it seems that the hands of angels
On a mystic harp at play
Have touched with a yearning sadness
On a beautiful, broken strain,
To which is my fond heart wondering—
When I go home again.
Outside of my darkening window
Is the great world's crash and din,
And slowly the autumn shadows
Come drifting, drifting in.
Sobbing, the low wind murmurs
To the splash of the autumn rain,
But I dream of the glorious greeting
When I go home again.
rm ———— A en am.
TOURISTS ACCOMMODATED
First came the wind. It whooped
down out of a bunch of black eve-
ning clouds and swept across the
earth in a stampede of sodden leaves,
broken branches and all the miscel-
lany of a November storm. Finding
Mr. Thomas Tichenor alone and un-
protected in his runabout on a coun-
try road which he had ill-advisedly
assumed to be a short cut to some-
where, it blew his wind shield full
of debris, and when he got out to
clean it, snatched a wooden sign
from its mooring place in the dark-'
ness and banged it ruinously upon
his new hat. “Just for that,” said
Mr. Tichenor to the sign, “maybe
you'll tell me where I'm headed.”
The sign told him nothing to the
purpose. It was not that kind of
sign, but this kind of sign:
TOURISTS ACCOMMODATED
Nice Room with Bath
“Souvenir,” said the wayfarer.
“Maybe Polly will like you for her
room." Polly being a schoolgirl
sister. “Anyway, you can't bash
my ten-dollar lid and get away with
it. Come along with me!” He threw
the two feet of wood into his car
and went on his dubious way.
Eventually the road orought him
back to a known highway, as roads
will if followed far enough. Once
there and relieved of geographical
anxieties, Mr. Tichenor loosed a rov-
ing mind to other considerations. He
had, he reflected, always put trust
in signs and they had, in the main,
treated him right.
It seemed unlikely that this one
would come unheralded out of the
night and commit a felonious as-
sault upon an innocent
without some ulterior motive or
me But what? It might be
useful for firewood if the Hollands,
to whose week-end party he was
bound, put him in the old farmhouse
which they had bought and left un-
improved out of respect for its an-
tiquity, building a snappy modern
bungalow over the hill from it.
Probably they would. Bachelor's
luck.
That's what one got for being a
a young cousin, anyway. Why had
he let himself in for this party?
There wouldn't be anyone there
whom he particularly liked. Only be-
cause he was regarded as a sort of
utility man had he been asked. A
dull prospect. Much better have
gone to the football game.
Then——idea! “You may have dish-
ed the lid,” said Mr. Tichenor to his
wooden cargo, “but you haven't
dented the old brain.” Examination
showed that the nails remained pro-
truding from their places. “You
and IL” he concluded, “we'll mebbe
catch us a fish,”
Pulling up at the entrance to
Montoaks, he got out and nailed the
hospitable announcement firmly toa
conspicuous tree. “Whatever comes,”
he prophesied, “will be an improve-
ment on those already present. Or,
if it isn't actually an improvement,
it will be an excitement.”
The ancient farmhouse showed one
dim light as he it. “I knew
it,” he lamented. “That's me.” He
went on, to receive an eager wel-
come at the new house; all too eager,
in fact.
“Here's Tick.”
“Hello, Tick. Did you come in un-
der reefs?"
“Just in time.” This last from
his hostess, Bernie Holland. He
knew what that meant.
“What's the job?” he asked re-
signedly.
“The radio's gone wonky and we
Jo want to get the football scores.
Be a dear and fix itt And would
you mind taking a peek at the
pumping engine?”
“Gimme some dinner, a drink and
bystander '
it.
‘be some trade. Do your stuff.”
but did not deafen it against a vast
| roar
‘by seconds.
| Then the rain. It came in three
dimensions, all at once. Most solid-
/ly it fell upon that small arc of the
| battered earth where a large and
magnificent car wabbled along, and
‘drove it to the dubious refuge of a
roadside maple. At the wheel sat
a youngish man of obvious import-
ance to himself.
him. Two items of luggage oc-
cupied the rear.
“This is becoming impossible,”
said the man, with a severity direct-
ed at the misbehaving weather.
J Where are we now?” asked the
girl.
“I must admit that I have no
idea.”
“Why not go somewhere and find
out?"
“I have been hoping for an abate-
ment in the weather.”
“Does that look like it?” A thin
and pallid ray of lightning flickered
through the murk. “Oh! Look! Isn't
that a sign? On the tree.”
Her companion looked, but with-
out enthusiam. “Do you wish me
to get out and consult it?”
“If you don't, I shall.”
With an expression of sublime
self-sacrifice he gingerly edged him-
self out into the uproar, followed by
a muttered exordium which, fron
less innocently curved lips,
have heen mistaken for the injurious
term, “Stuffed shirt!” He returned,
gasping for breath.
“Does it say anything?”
“Nothing. Merely ‘Tourists Ac-
commodated.’
“Well, that's something What are
you going to do now?”
“I am going on.”
“Where to?"
“Heaven knows.”
“Well, I'm not. We've been lost
for two hours already. This was a
considerable though perhaps not
wholly inexcusable exaggeration. “]
don't intend to spend the night in
this car. It's leaky.”
to make firm and uncompromising
the youngish man stepped on the
starter, for the engine had stopped.
The car spat. He tried again. It
spat three more times. It was an
excessively expensive and high-bred
car and was supposed to be trained
not to spit in public places, but per-
haps it was disgusted with the situ-
ation. Certainly the girl was.
“And now what?” She put the
question, after the starter began to
show signs of exhaustion, with cur-
fosity plus a tinge of scorn, for she
had read upon that self appreciative
countenance a suspiciously blank ex-
pression and she was interested to
see how her escort, accustomed to
have everything done for him that
| serviceable millions could perform,
| would meet the compulsion of hav-,
ing to do something for himself.
Helplessly, she judged.
“What do you suggest?” he in-
quired after thought.
“Following the sign.”
“I fear that would be hardly suit-
able,” he murmured.
“It means shelter, doesn't it? Why
isn't it suitable?”
“It specifies ‘Nice room with
bath,’ said he with an effort. “The
inference is that there is but one
room.”
“Well 7" said the girl.
Mr. Barton Hollingsworth weight-
ily pondered the situation and hit
upon an expedient for which he ac-
corded himself great credit. “Doubt-
less there is a barn. All. farm-
houses have barns. I might —er--
lodge in the hayloft.”
“You would!” thought the girl
Not that she would, in any circum-
stances, have had it otherwise; the
silent commentary was merely a.
conventional and unenterprising
(though of course worthy and re-
What he should’
have said was, “Farms have hens’
and hens have eggs; we'll sit upall | a
pitiful sop of masculinity whom Mr.
liable) character.
night and scramble the eggs.”
“Perhaps,” he continued with cau-
tious embarrassment, “it would be
best if we-—er—I am sure you will
not misinterpret my motives, Alice
-—er—gave ourselves out to be man:
and wife.” .
“Why 7?" she demanded.
“The agricultural populace of this
vicinity is, I am told, quite puritan-
ical and even suspicious. To pro-
tect ourselves against misunder-
standing and possible refusal of ac-
commodations, you will agree that
' the measure I suggest is a wise pre-
caution.
engaged"
“We're not,’ 'she returned crossly.
“Oh, well; I don't care. What does
it matter?
see the people again, if anyone does
actually live in this ghastly hole.”
She suspected that she was going to
give in some day and marry Barton
Hollingsworth, though she racher
“hoped not. “We have got to do
| something.”
There had fallen a lull in the
(tempest. He advised that she wrap
herself up and make for the dim
light on the hill top, leaving him that some work might be effective.
ito lock up the car; meantime he
would attempt to attract the atten- ments more might adjust that. Then like it,” admitted Winchie.
| tion of he farm people.
| “Br-r-ronck! Br-r-rronck! Bronck-
: down-wind. With
a burst of speed he beat the deluge
A girl sat beside
might |
With an expression which he tried
And as we are practically
jaw when an unexpectedly soft voice
‘inquired breathlessly:
. "Are you the farmer?”
“Omilord!
astounded Mr. Tichenor.
“I'm drowned,” lamented the girl.
“Come to the house.”
“Where is it?"
“I don't know.”
Clinging desperately together, they
groped in a general direction of
ascent and butted their way through
' the hurricane until the light guided
man was visible, but the girl, prop-
ped up on her elbow, her eyes wide
| them to shelter.
By the glow of the feeble lamp
he considered her. She was small
and pink and wet. Her clothes
were lamentable blobs. Her hat
‘had gone forever, the spoil of the
storm. Her hair was stringy and
diffuse. There was a smear of mud |
on one firmly curved cheek. A
soppy leaf was plastered across her
temple. In her eyes the invincible
gleam of mirth and youth and ad-
venture clearly advertised to all and
sundry that she didn't give a hang:
in fact was rather enjoying it.
Nothing like that had ever before
emerged from multimate darkness in-
to the astonished arms of young Mr.
Tichenor. He would have liked to
take her back there immediately, but
nothing in her independent bearing
suggested that such procedure would
be well received.
“We're tourists,”
The purloined sign! He recalled
it with a shock of realization. He
had caught his fish. "We?" he.
rjueried. “You and who else?”
“I and-—er—Mr.—er—my husband. |
“Your what?"
“My husband.”
“Gee! That's terrible,”
impulsive Mr. Tichneor.
She stared. “What's terrible?”
“Your having a husband.”
“Oh, it may not be as bad as you
might suppose,” she began unthink-
ingly, and broke off to inquire, “See
here; do you always work as fast
as this?"
“Fast! I'm hopelessly behind the
' parade already.”
“You seem a queer sort of farm-
er,” she observed.
said the
ing overalls. “I'll explain that later,”
he promised hastily. “What I mean
is that I've only just caught you
that is, we've only just met, you
know, and here you have to go and
have a husband. Where'd you leave
the darn thing?” he concluded mo-
rosely.
“Well, really!” But it was no use
trying to be dignified; the attempt
‘broke off in a laugh which ended in
a shiver and a sneeze.
her into his room, stirred up the
fire, got her a warmly padded dress- |
ing gown and offered a flask. She
nestled up to the blaze.
“Is this the nice room as adver-
tised 7”
“Yes.” .
“But it seems to be occupied.”
She had noted with a gleam of!
suspicion his silver-mounted toilet
' thi
“I'll move out at once.”
“Is there another room?”
“Not too habitable. But that's all
right. I'll do very well.
“I wasn't thinking of you,” she
returned calmly. “I was figuring
out what my-—er—Mr, Hollingsworth
would do. Perhaps you have a barn,”
she added.
“Naturally there is a barn. Is
your husband addicted to barns?”
“Mr. Hollingsworth is quite ner-
vous,” she explained volubly. “He
likes to be alone. He often sleeps
in the haymow at home. Hehe
‘loves hay.
“It's high this year. D'you think
he could be trusted not to eat any of
it on me?” he inquired, and receiv-
“Shall I go out and hunt him?"
‘he asked by way of apology.
“Yes. No. IthinkI hear him now.”
There was an instana impact
the outer door, followed by a
gust of wind and the entry of
Tichenor hated at first sight.
“Have you seen a young lady?
hum. Is my wife here?” inquired
the arrival,
“She's inside.”
to my car and bring in our luggage.
"And please be quick about it.”
“Yes, sir,’ assented Mr. Ticheror
with commendable self-control and
presence of mind.
Two hours later peace had de-
scended upon that household but not
in justly apportioned measure. The
masculine tourist with half a bale
of blankets for company was asleep
(in the barn. The feminine tourist
| was asleep in the “nice room.” Mr. '
We'll certainly never Thomas Tichenor was wide awake
{in the kitchen.
| He was thinking persistently and
| his thoughts, centering upon the
| slight figure that had been blown
(to him on the wings of the storm,
‘were confused, excited, inconsequen-
‘tial and extremely disturbing. He
‘didn't know what to think and
| therefore thought the more.
| As an antidote it occurred to him
{ There was the raido; a few mo-
‘he remembered that he had left the
mechanism in his surrendered room.
It's a girl,” gasped the
she informed him. |
He became conscious of his work-
He bustled
ed areproving. “Don't be frivolous.”
“Then, my man, you may go down
window of the guest chamber
takably feminine. Tichenor stuck
his head and his flash unceremoni-
ously througn the window.
“What's up?’ he demanded.
“I hear a man t-t-t-talking.”
“Wasn't it your husband?”
“Certainly not!" she retorted,
with a violence which seemed su-
rfluous.
“I don't know. It frightened me.”
The light swept the room. No
and fearful, was picturesquely evi-
dent to the eye. The unseen owner
of the voice said:
“You have just been listening to
the San Francisco orchesween—arp
—WRA0W-W-W-W-y00000000 -—quap
quap-quap-quap -— WUurrrrrrreeeeya-
ow!”
“Old Man Static himself,” observ-
ed Tichenor. “That confounded radio
has come to life. I'm sorry.”
“Please take it away.”
“Certainly. I'll cross it off
bill.”
When he got around to her door
she had lighted the lamp. He pick-
ed up the offending instrument and
| was about to bid his tourist good
night when the soft voice said hesi-
tantly:
“Do you
it?"
“Huh? What? No; I don't mind.”
“Please don't misunderstand.”
“It's all right. You're scared. Nat-
ural enough.”
“It was a jar to be waked up by
that ghastly voice. If you wouldn't
mind sitting out in the hall, just till
I get my nerve back—"
“I'll sit there all night.”
“Oh, no! I'll be all right in a little
while. You might”—she chuckled
“be a nice nursie and tell me a bed-
time story.”
“I've got a better one than that.
Let's beguile the hours with a few
plain truths about ourselves. You
begin, Mrs. Hollingsworth.”
“Don’t call me that!"
“Why, It's your name, isn't it?"
the
mind not going--just
She had an inspiration. “I'm a
Lucy Stone Leaguer. My friends
call me Winchie.”
“Isn't this rather sudden?’ said
he primly.
“You needn't call me that if you
don’t want to, Mr. Farmer,” she re-
torted.
chell.”
“Winchie fits perfectly,” he as-
sured her. “I'm Tick.”
“That's a funny name.”
“I'm a funny guy. I'm so funny
that I've been sitting down there for
hours wondering about you.”
“There's nothing to wonder about.”
“There's lots to wonder about. I
don't much believe it, you know.”
“Well, I don't believe in you eith-
er. So that makes it even.”
“Oh, I admit I'm a fake. These
clothes are temporary. The house
is borrowed, and I found the tourist
sign on the road.”
“And look how it's turning out,”
said the girl in a voice that sorely
(tempted him to peek and see the
expression accompanying it.
“So that explains me. But it
doesn't explain you,” he stated.
| “Do I need explaining?”
| ‘“Are you going to go away and
leave a complete vacuum behind?”
“I do have to go away, don't I?"
she reflected. “First thing in the
morning, I suppose.”
“I seem to observe,” said the
shrewd Tick, “that you say ‘I' and
not ‘we.’
“And what, my little pupil, does
this teach us?”
“That you're in the wrong pew,”
‘was the blunt response. “Do you
‘want to know my theory?”
“If it isn't too long and compli-
cated.”
“The gentleman about to address
you,” began the radio, which had
! been left by the entrance, “is one
who-—-""
“Shut up!” growled Tick, and did
| something violent to three knobs.
“-—who theorizes about matters
that are out of his line,” concluded
the girl sweetly. “Go on. I'm listen-
“First possibility: you have run
‘away from home and got married
which I don't believe.”
“Why 7”
responded with deliberation, “the
price of hay would be irrelevant, in-
competent and immaterial.”
“Never mind that,” she broke in
“hastily. (It was rather a pity that
‘he couldn't see around a corner at!
' that moment.)
! “Possibility number two:
which I believe still less.”
| “And why?”
“You lack the assured matronly
i
'air, and you haven't got the patter.
| Possibility three: you've run away
| without being married, which I be-
| lieve least of all.”
| “Once more, explain.
| “Ome good look at you is enough
| to answer that,” he replied with con-
viction.
“It isnt such swell logic,
“What
| do you think about me, then?”
| “There isn’t enough of the night:
bronck bronck bronck-brrrr-rronck!” He hoped that it wouldn't suddenly left to tell you!”
| blatéd the horn, its wails of appeal
| come to life and speech. They some-
a flashlight and I'll see what canbe accompanying her forth upon her times did.
done,” assented the utility cousin.
He patched up the radio for the
lquest, and upon that signal all the
'evil genii of the air gathered them-
time, but decided to take it over selves for a renewed and reinvigor-
with him later and go after it inthe
morning. Then he put in a useful
and profane hour at the garage,
where the engine was located. Af-
ter that and some polite conversa-
tion at the house, he put the radio
in his car, deposited it in the rather |
clammy farmhouse and decided to
give a look to his sign, to make sure
that all was in order. He found it
standing firm.
| ated onslaught and swept down up-
on her.
| Warming himself by the open fire-
| place of his ground-floor room, Mr.
Thomas Tichenor heard the sum-
| mons with surprise. He ambled re-
Instantly 30 the door aug called. Was
there a faint response
Picking his steps along the slip-
| pery slope, he was laid low by a
| small, compact figure which came
| Well there was the unprepared
pumping apparatus. If he put inan
‘him to get to sleep. At least, it
{would divert his mind. The rain had
stopped. He got his flash and went
to the garage.
With unexpected amiability the
ten minutes of attention. What to
do now? He wandered around the
remises until his feet were soaked,
| “Then it's time I went to sleep.
‘I'm all right now. Good night.”
She heard him move away with
| ostentatious clatter. She did not
hour or so on that it might enable hear him creep back cautiously and |
| settle into the far cold corner of the
hallway for the remainder of the
| might in case—well, in case of any-
| thing.
Bribery of the most liberal sort
cious cook at the bungalow to pro-
vide the materials and utensils for
three early breakfasts at the farm-
k a look at the barn, where all | house where only one was indicated. |
was quiet, and was passing the The rest Mr. Tichenor and an aged tell her something.”
“What did he say?” asked Tiche-
“My full name is Alice Win-
“If I were married to you,” he.
you've
been married for quite a while,
but I;
| “Tonight isn't so good,” said he to hurtling out of the void and, after corner of the house, when from the but hale kitchen stove achieved be-
“But tomorrow there ought to a creditable tackle slid muddily with open
‘him to the foot of the declivity. As | floated a strained voice of unmis- Mr. Barton Hollingsworth i
| A blob of water landed in his ear a measure of precaution he was takably barytone quality. Therefol- ed in a glum temper and took his
about to soak the unknown on the lowed a low wail of alarm, unmis- place
! tween them.
close to the fire, where he
and sulked and sneezed.
go on, he announced,
felt better.
fixed up and warmed anoth-
er for him while the third
gu looking altogether bewildering
(in the Tichenor dressing gown,
! pressed her clothes.
|” Reporting at the bungalow,
‘He
- when
the h
1
fir
the
you would all keep away from
the farmhouse today.”
“What for?”
“What's vp?”
“You've got a nerve young, Tick.”
“Who or what are you harboring
there?”
“A bridal pair. Marooned by the
storm. Plucked out of the jaws of
night by the gallant Tick.” He
thought it superfluous to mention the
sign. “Privacy would be appreci-
ated,” he added.
“Who are they?”
“When did they come?”
“Are they nice people?”
“A peach! Kelly's eye I mean—
she is. He's all right, I guess.”
“Do you know their names?”
“I think it's Hollingsworth.”
“Not Barton Hollingsworth!" *
“Something like that. What
it?
“Haven't you heard of him? He's
of
the inventor of some new kind of
statistics.”
“He looks it.”
“That's his fad. He's the son of
old Ezra Hollingsworth and so rich
that he doesn’t even carry mone
with him.” y
“Maybe that explains it. I
don’t believe it does, either.”
gut ails the lad? Explain your-
self.”
But the amateur tourist-accommo-
dator was already on his way back
to the other house. There he found
only one guest on view—the right
one.
“Where's hubby?” he inquired
with a distinct lack of respect.
“Asleep on the lounge.”
“Leave’'m lay! Finished your press-
ing?
“Yes."
“Boots dry?”
“Reasonably.”
“Then we're going for a long,
long walk, and we're going to come
back very, very well acquainted,
and,” he added formidably, “you're
going to like it.”
“Oh, all right.”
Of that long, long walk through
the colors and odors of a warm and
misty November day, they recalled
afterward warm and misty mem-
ories of much light-hearted fooling
and profound comparisons of notes
and tastes on life, liberty and the
pursuit of happiness, and one clear-
ly personal passage which began
when he asked brusquely:
“When are you giving up
No;
the
‘ bluff?”
“What bluff?”
“Being married to Hollingsworth.”
“You feel quite certain that I'm
not?”
“I've told you already.”
“Well, what is the rest of your
theory, professor?”
“That you two had been to a foot-
ball game"
“Are you a mind reader?”
“No. I'm a score reader.
score card was in the car.”
“Next.”
“You'd spent the night before with
friends, or maybe with his family,
as he's been wanting to marry
you--"'
“Where do you get that?”
“Anybody would who'd seen you
more than cnce--or even once,” he
averred.
“Marvelous! Proceed.”
“You were headed for home when
you got lost in the storm. And
here you are.”
“ ‘Why, it's perfect,’ as the smali
boy said to the teacher. Now, about
that sign.”
He told her all that he thought
The
necessary about the house party and
his idea for livening it up. At the
end of five miles and back she ob-
served:
“Barton will want to go on this
afternoon.”
“And you on
“Of course. That is, I don't ex-
actly say I'll want to, but I'll have
to.”
Somehow or other they were run-
ning, hand in hand like two children,
{down the last hill back of the farm-
‘house, when they saw a feminine fig-
(ure at the turn of the driveway re-
garding them with . Winchie
wrenched herself free and bolted for
the back door. Tick went on. Said
Mrs. Burnham Holland.
“Is that your bride, Tick?”
“Yes. Er-—not mine, you know.
The other fellow's.”
“It looked to me remarkably like
Alice Winchell. It must be a run-
away match. How odd!”
“Not at all,” defended Tick. “It's
frequently done.”
“And how extremely unlike Bar-
ton Hollingsworth.”
“Well, it's their own business. And
I shouldn't say anything about it
if I were you.”
This was a forlorn hope, for Mrs.
Holland had on her conscientious
expression. Invariably this meant
trouble for other people.
“Did she see me?” inquired
guest upon Tick's rejoining ,
“I'm afraid she did.” gr
“And did you tell her that Barton
—that I—that we"
“I'm afraid T did.”
“Then I'll bet she goes straight
off and telephones Aunt Jessie.”
his
| “Tm afraid she will. Who's Aunt
| Jessie.”
| “My great-aunt. T live with her.
machine yielded to treatment after induced the gratified though suspi- What will she think?”
he
murmured helplessly.
“The worst!”
“Then you'd better telephone and
| “What do great-aunts think”
Ever obliging,
utility cousin proffered a request: “I
wish
“Something? What?” said Win-
chie wildly.
| telephone there. It's only two miles.
| Hop in the car. Maybe we can beat
' Cousin Bernie to it.”
The runabout made good time. But
no speed can overcome the head
start of a conscientious woman with
‘a bit of troublesome information to
impart. The girl emerged from the
booth wth a mottled sort of expres-
sion.
“Oh, such a mess!” she said,
began to laugh. one
“Had she telephoned?”
“She had that! Before I could
start my neat little explanation Aunt
‘Jessie said in a terrible voice that
she was fully informed and was it
‘true, and I said in my most sooth-
ing manner that it was true. Bart
and I were staying here, but it
wasn't true we were married-"
“Which must have helped!”
“Oh, a lot! Then, while I was
still floundering around in that mess,
she— What do you think she did?”
“Cut you off,” he surmised bright-
y
“She did. In more sense than one.”
He waited for further information,
but the girl fell silent. Assuming
that her thoughts were private, the
tactful Tichenor druve without fur-
ther remark unil she looked inquir-
ingly and, he thought, rather be-
seechingly up at him. He answer-
ed the unspoken question.
“It seems to be in order now to
consult friend husband.”
“What can he do about it?”
“Marry you.” It was a gallant
attempt to make his tone matter of
fact.
“Not me!” retored Winchie with
an emphasis which enormously re-
lieved him. She then burst into
tears. “Tomorrow's my birthday,”
she sobbed.
“You must be terribly old,”
the startled Tick.
said
“I'm not. What do you mean—
old? I'm just twenty-one.”
“Providential,” he commented. ‘Me,
I'm twenty-eight, but do I afflict
high heaven with my grief every
Sime a birthday comes around? I do
not.”
“It isn't that,” she sniffed. “But
I expected to be home and--and—"
“And get a nice present. Never
mind. T'll give you a nice present.”
“Oh, Will you? That cheers me
up. What kind?”
“What kind do you like?"
“Oh, some nice little plain, inex-
pensive thing; something real and
personal.”
“Like a package of chewing gum.
yen see what can be done about
“Here's home and fireside,” she
said. “Now to rouse the sleeping
beauty.”
But the gentleman thus ineptly
characterized was not there for
rousing. A note informed his con-
sort that he had gone to the nearest
city, twelve miles away, to get ex-
pert help for his car, and would. be
‘back by dark. This was an error,
albeit an excusable one, on Mr. Hol-
lingsworth's part.
Upon arrival at the goal he suf-
fered a sharp chill and, being con-
scientiously solicitious as to the
health and well being of his im-
portant self, he went to a doctor,
thence to a hotel, and thence to bed
under the care of a hastily summon-
ed nurse. Irn such conditions he
could hardly be expected to worry
about the girl he left behind him; he
was far too concerned in worrying
about himself.
After dinner, was prepared by the
not unskilled hands of Mr. Tiche-
nor, it occurred to the pseudo-bride
that she ought to show concern for
the absentee.
“He had a horrid cold this morn-
ing, she recalled. “Su some-
thing happened to him!"
“I hope it's nothing trival,” said
the brutal Tick.
“What shall I do if he doesn't
come back?"
“Don’t you like your humble lodg-
“I can't v well stay here, you
know.” oy y y
“Why not? I'll sleep in the barn.”
“And leave me alone in the house ?
I belive it's haunted, anyway.”
“Not since I tamed the radio. I'll
tell you!" he pursued with inspira-
tion and animation. “If the errant
hubby isn't back by midnight, I'l
scramble some eggs and we'll sit up
all night. T've got a lot of conver-
| sation that you haven't heard yet,
‘both new and used.”
Midnight came and ‘the
eggs were scrambled and eaten, and
no intrusive Hollingsworth inter-
rupted the contented duet. Aftera
‘gallant fight and in spite of much
strong coffee, the guest gave up at
four a. m. and went confidently to
sleep.
At seven, young Mr. Tichenor, stiff
and heavy-eyed but game, was al-
ready on a pious quest for the miss-
ing tourist who was, to tell the
| truth, a little on his conscience.
| At nine o'clock the little sleeper
. awoke, to be greeted with weighty
‘mews. Mr. Hollingsworth had been
located. He was in considerable
| fear of death and would be out and
around, the doctor asid, in two days.
| Would Mrs. Hollingsworth come to
(him at once?
Mrs. Hollingsworth (with her nose
at an uncompromising angle) would
i see him further first and in a spe-
cific direction. So that was that
Very good. Would Miss Winchell
{have some breakfast? Mr. Tichenor
| was darn right Miss Winchell would
have some breakfast! She would
| even aid and abet in its preparation
{if Mr. Tichenor would give her Br.
y
| teen minutes to freshen up.
ate in peace and amity.
| “We will now,” announced the
| host, “proceed to business. First
| order of the day, many happy re-
turns.”
| “So it is. I'd forgotten. Where's
| my present?”
(Continued on page 3, Col. 4.)
’