4
SYNOPSIS
James Lambert tries in vain to dissuade
his beautiful foster-daughter, Leonora, from
marrying Don Mason, young ‘rolling
stone.” He tells her, “Unless a house is
founded upon a rock, it will not survive."
Leonora suspects the influence of her half-
brother, Ned, always jealous of the girl
since the day his father brought her home
from the deathbed of her mother, aban-
doned by her Italian baritone lover. Don
arrives in the midst of the argument, and
Lambert realizes the frank understanding
between the two. Sitting up late into the
night, Lambert reviews the whole story,
of Nora as a child, at boarding school,
studying music abroad, meeting Don on the
return trip. In the morning he delivers his
ultimatum, to give Don a job with Ned for
a year's showdown. When Nora suggests
the possibility of running away with Don,
Lambert threatens disinheritance Don
agrees to the job, but before a month is
over, his nerves are jumpy, he cannot sleep
at night, he is too tired to go out much with
Nora. Nora soothes him with her music
Nora grows quieter, and broods over Don,
complains to her father of Ned's spying
on him, and decides that rather than see
Don's spirit broken, she will run away. She
urges her father to put an end to the futile
experiment. James Lambert is obdurate
and angry.
quits she will quit with him:
be through with her. He
tires of her bargain it will be
come to him for help. Later Don and Nora
discuss the situation.
that he
CHAPTER III—Continued
anne
“For you, Nora!
course, sweetheart.
For you,
For me—Well,
left, nothing at all.
I’ve never made you cry before. It
hurts me. Things will go better
after this.
take life more calmly—try to
if you don’t despise me. The big-
gest part of the year is over now.
We'll stick it out, as I said before.
We must, you know."
Nora looked up, winking away the
tears as she said gently: “We must
try, of course.
ble to hurt Father. But it's
last small straw that breaks
camel’'sback, Don. Don’t forgetthat.”
the
CHAPTER IV
It seemed to Nora that things did
go better for a time.
less tired. He even accompanied
with some show of enthusiasm; and
was, according to their hostess, "‘a
perfect life-saver’’ at a dinner given
in honor of a renowned explorer,
recently returned from the Arctic.
complete washout if your young
man hadn’t been here, Nora,” she
said with gratitude.
heart, you know.
That evening was something of a
triumph to the girl. As she watched
her lover conversing so easily and
naturally with the guest of honor,
comparing experiences, putting
questions, answering others which
the great man put to him, her eyes
shone with happy pride. Even Ned,
sitting across the table, was obvi-
ously impressed though he essayed
to hide the fact. And Corinne, ob-
serving that others appeared to be
listening with interest to ‘that queer
boy Nora has taken up with,” lis-
tened herself, and wondered if her
ears deceived her when she heard
the distinguished guest invite Don
to dine with him next night.
“And can you tell me,’ she asked
Ned petulantly as they rode toward
home, ‘what a man like that can
have in common with Don Mason?”
Indeed, she had to repeat the ques-
tion before her husband, who was
deep in thought, roused himself to
reply:
“Possibly he wants to book him
for his next expedition.”
Corinne brightened.
“l wish to goodness he would!
Don could never resist such an op-
portunity; and an absence of that
sort would settle Nora! Did you see
that Kemp Corless acted extremely
struck with her tonight? They say
he’s worth ten million.”
Ned shrugged.
“I can't see our fastidious sister
falling for a bald head and fifty
years, my dear.”
“She'd be a fool not to, with all
that money into the bargain,” Cor-
inne retorted.
“Nora is a fool more ways than
one,”” observed Ned with brotherly
candor, “but she's perfectly aware
that Dad’ll never let her suffer from
want of cash. And there's more
to Don Mason than I supposed, Cor-
inne. He's got uncommonly good
manners, too. Did you notice—"’
“Oh, yes, 1 noticed,” broke in
Corinne impatiently. “He simply
monopolized the guest of honor, if
you call that manners.”
“It appeared to me,” maintained
her husband with honesty which
would have astonished Leonora,
“that the guest of honor was mo-
nopolizing Don!”
For a while there was silence, a
thoughtful silence on the part of
Corinne before she ventured: “I
wonder if the man would dine with
us if he understood that Don would
be there.”
Being not utterly blind to his
wife's social ambitions, Ned threw
her an ironic glance.
“Better not try, my dear,” was
his advice, ‘‘and save yourself a
disappointment. I've heard he turns
down almost everyone.”
So things went better for a time.
What Nora did not suspect was the
heroic effort Don was making to
conceal his unhappy state of mind.
He was bitterly ashamed to have
her know how let-down he really
was—how intolerable the situation
had become to him. Often he felt
that could he talk freely—get the
sense of rebellion at this way of
living out of his system, it would
ease the strain; but Nora was wor-
ried enough as it was, he argued.
Why add to her troubles? Let her
think, if she could, that he was at
last becoming inured to this hectic
existence which his fellow men re-
garded as the natural thing.
To Don, filled with spring wander-
lust, the long days seemed
minable, and the office little bet-
ter than a prison cell. There came
an evening when he could not go to
Nora for fear she would suspect the
terrible unrest that had possession
of him. Instead he tramped for
into the country, trying to
of evening—the wild, sweet scent of
growing things.
It was late when he turned
steps toward town. Peace had elud-
ed him. He could not find it. Reach-
ing a bridge he paused to rest a
gazing down into the in-
blackness of moving water.
must be there, he mused.
and coolness;
ghastly treadmill
called Life
finite
Peace
Peace
release
that
did they look
ywiully
somewhere beyond
back regretfully,
ing they'd played the game—wisl
ing
“Thinkin’ ab«
came
Don started
SOI”
114
us
3
a voice close at ie.
guilt having been
No
light showed him that a girl
thin, pointed face
looking up at him without fear, yet
without boldness
“Not seriously,” he answered, as
if there were nothing unusual in her
question ‘“Is that what you were
cynical
an
The girl shrugged, the
shrug of a bored flapper:
tation, possibly, of some cheap ac-
imi-
screen.
“lI tried it once,” she
quite simply. “Honest 1 did;
but a
Don turned to look at her more
closely, his interest rising.
‘So you find life as desperate as
that?" sstioned.
I do. Some days 1
don’t care nothin’ about livin’
Say!’ she broke off suddenly, "have
you got a girl—I mean a steady?”
He nodded, thinking how Nora
would appreciate the appellation
“But you ain't married. Anyone
with half an eye could see it. You
don’t look tied."
“Don't I?” Don
that persist in dancing before my
eyes when I want to sleep, and
getting into the wrong columns day-
times, just to be spiteful.”
“You better be thankful they don't
smell bad,” the girl retorted. *1
work in a dye house. Some days 1
can't hardly eat my lunch. How
long you been goin’ with your sweet-
ie, anyhow?"
Don was beginning to enjoy him-
self. To be revealing his life his-
tory to an utter stranger,
thought of the conventions, brought
back the days of easy vagabondage
that had once been his. Besides,
this encounter would be something
to tell Nora-—something amusing.
He answered, dropping with ease
into the vernacular of his compan-
ion, a habit which endeared him to
chance acquaintances: “We've been
sister.”
“And you ain't tired of her?”
“Not so’s you'd notice it!" grinned
Don.
The girl drew in a breath which
seemed, somehow, laden with dis-
couragement.
“l bet she's got a lot o' swell
clothes then, boy.”
Not moving his head, Don turned
his eyes a little. The moon had
come from behind a bank of clouds,
and he saw distinctly the much-
washed, sleazy frock the girl was
wearing. Even a patch under one
arm was visible as she raised her
elbows to the parapet, and, looking
down into the dark water, repeated
the statement she had just made:
“l bet she's got a lot o' clothes.”
Don said, a vision of Nora's silver
clippers and gay chiffons rising be-
fore him: “I'll say she has! But
believe me, girl, I'd think as much
of her without 'em."” '
“A lot you would!"
She laughed, a dreary, yet some-
how brave attempt at mirth that
hurt Don strangely.
“Maybe you think you would.
Maybe you nevér seen her till she
was all dolled up. 1 bet she don't
work in no dye house anyway.
What's her job?”
““She—"" Don paused, then finished
PARMENTER —
with sudden inspiration, ‘‘She plays
--plays the piano, and-—-""
“The piano! Say, are you tryin’
to kid me?
when the talkies come in,
Didn't you know that? I had a chum
that could pound the ivories to beat
the band. Played in a movie thea-
ter and dressed like she was Gloria
Swanson. Why that girl had
nails fixed up in a beauty parlor ev-
ery Saturday.
din’.
stained fingers clutching the rail.)
‘““And then the talkies come in and
she lost her job. Tough luck, wasn't
it? She worked in a bakery for a
while after, but 1 guess she hated
it most as much as I hate the dye
house. I never see no one so crazy
the piano Used to
herself nights after she
play to
The office was little better than a
prison cell.
rk 3ut she lost her
again and had to sell the piano
pay rent; ‘and after that
I guess she thought there was no
u tryin’ and "
use tryin
come from wi
job
to room
girl's trailed off, her
seeking the water, and Don
“What happened? What hap-
Lt?"
The
eve 9
aid
pened to her after tha
would ha' happened to a
like her?" Hopelessness deep
the water below them was in
» answer. ‘‘She ain't respectable
more, that's all. My
she'll turn me out
s me talkin’ to her again;
you, honest, what could
? Sometimes 1 donno
be respectable
voice
“What
as
the
io
about) a day last
was freezin’, and b'lieve
she was wearin’ a fur coat!"
Don advised soberly:
spectable just the same,
I were you.”
sister, if
decent rag to wear when he takes
me out?’ she retorted furiously. “It
as if I could spend what I
on clothes, like some girls
My old man don’t work steady
have to help my
make
can.
and 1
for a new dress. Thought it was
safe under the newspaper in my bu-
reau drawer; but—but my old man
smelt it out and took it.
trick to play on yer own
kid?"
“I'll say it was!"
Don feit a consuming desire to
lay violent hands on the ‘‘old man.”
Stirred by a sudden, compelling
impulse, he moved nearer,
WANU SERVICE
»-
| grasping the girl's thin shoulders
turned her about so that the moon-
light fell on her bitter, upturned
face,
“Look at me, girl," he said. "Are
| you on the level? Not kidding me?
| No, don't get mad” (as she shook
his hands off roughly). “I'm going
to help. Honest-to-goodness, I'm go-
ing to help you, kid.”
For he had read the answer to
| his question in those indignant, an-
gry, tear-stained eyes, and knew
that the girl had talked so freely
only because she was lonely to the
point of heartbreak. He reached in
a pocket, thankful that his eccen-
tric landlady (who was once the
unfortunate recipient of a forged
check) insisted on receiving her
monthly stipend in cold cash. Don
had intended paying her that night.
A roll of bills met his expectant fin-
gers. After all, he was thinking, it
whether the fickle Joe
girl's was worthy of
not loved him, poor
She wanted to be beautiful—
{ for him; and—ti he could
! make her true. His
| hand slid from the pocket, and lift-
those work-worn
the
or
{| of
{ her
forw
story
She
ank God!
dream come
dye-stained,
of greenbacks.
“That's yours, sister ”
line!" The girl stared down in
stupefaction at
ea
i
the money, her
breath coming in quick gasps. She
said, her v aking on a shaky
laugh: ""Say!—who are u, anyhow
| John } hy
{ Don “I'm
hat where
it and-""
vin’ up to get
+ protested.
rou
ing
gently
ery
want you 1o
to
understand
cry. It's
ry about
i fucking his . head
he blinding glare of head-
big car moved slowly
across bridge Not until later
{ did he the fact that as those
powerful lights picked him out of
the darkness, the car had wavered
for a moment, 108t stopped, be-
fore it went on the night.
darn
look swel
cease
recall
aln
into
A week dragged by, one of those
first hot weeks that sap the energy.
| Even Nora wilted, and wilting,
thought compassionately of Don,
| sentenced to spend those enervating
| days in the correct attire of a busi-
| ness man. How, she asked herself,
could he ever stick it out until Oc-
tober? And if he didn't
She came in early one afternoon
to find her father at home, minus
| his collar and seated by an electric
He said, smiling. an apology:
{ “It's so blamed hot down town I
| couldn't stand it. Don’t think I've
ever known it so warm this time of
year. What do you say to getting
into the country earlier than usual,
| my dear? You look—"
| “Don’t say how I look!" begged
Nora, slumping down limply beside
the fan. “1 was hoping there was
| something wrong with the hall mir-
| ror! Such early heat is downright
wicked, isn't it? I—I'm not going to
the country, Father.”
“What do you mean?”
In his amazement James was ob-
livious of a bead of perspiration
that trickled persistently down his
nose.
| fan.
(TO BE CONTINUED)
Science has cast serious doubt on
the old belief that persons can fore-
cast the weather by the aches in
their bones.
The popular theory that pains are
associated with certain kinds of
weather is disputed by Dr. W. P.
Elhardt of the department of physi-
ology at the University of Illinois.
Dr. Elhardt collected data for a
six-month period and set it down on
one long graph chart, chronological-
ly arranged.
And across this long, correlated’
chart of meteorological conditions
Dr. Elhardt plotted a record of pain.
The pain records, finally trans-
ferred to the chart, were kept by a
veteran severely wounded in the
World war, who, until he was shown
the result of the experiment, be-
lieved he could feel bad weather
coming by a recurrence of pain.
The soldier had suffered a gunshot
wound in his hand; another in his
shoulder. He had lost a little and
a ring finger of one hand, and nu-
merous other injuries.
His pain, after the war, struck him
at all-too-frequent, irregular inter-
vals. He blamed the weather. From
| Dr. Elhardt’'s data, however, it was
| shown that changes in the weather
were not the cause of the recur-
rence.
During six months of observation
the pain struck the veteran thirty-
nine” times on a decrease of tem-
perature; but there were 172 drops
in temperature during that period,
so the correlation was only 22.7 per
cent. Furthermore, the temper-
ature ranged fromm -—10 degrces to
98 degrees, while the pain occurred
only between the ranges of 23 and
92 degrees.
The correlation between pain and
increase in humidity (which oc-
curred 170 times) was only 22.4 per
cent; between pain and decrease in
humidity, only 7 per cent.
Mountains Keep Norway Warm
Guarding the coast line of Norway
is a range of underseas mountains
which effectually turn back the icy
currents flowing down from the
Arctic circle; but the warm Gulf
stream, flowing higher in the water,
passes over the peaks and brings
the country a moderate climate for
a great part of the year,
[Hoo STORY
Lord Macbeth
Found Similar
r y
To Gangster
By ELIZABETH C. JAMES
F YOU were to take the man Mac-
beth out of William Shakespeare's
| play, he would make a modern
gangster. He strongly resembles Al
Capone and John Dillinger.
Macbeth was unfit for organized
society, he did not adapt himself to
the scheme of things, but rather he
tried to fit the world around himself.
Selfishness ruled his thinking, he
wanted that which belonged to ota-
ers. His ego desired
to be the head of the
outfit. After he had
gained his position
of power, life
continued to parallel
that of a gangster.
He suspected all
men of beihg mur-
derous. To protect
his life he employed
the most
system of spies
his days were
} constant
eon
thi
nis
extensive
Yet
1 a1 i
Jved Elizabeth
James
Ag
Ho
many
thou;
Wife Leads
acbetln,
Plotters.
eral in the king's
hal
der the king
and no one will
the her
HE DIED RICH
The life span of William Shake-
speare, from 1564 to 1616, was
almost identical with that of
Queen Elizabeth, great ruler of
the English Renaissance.
Of his life not enough is known
to satisfy the world's interest.
There are legendary tales, be-
sides written evidences left by
his friends. To his boyhood be-
longs the incident of his poaching,
to his youth the relationship with
Ann Hathaway, and to his man-
hood, his rise from lackey at the
play houses to owner and produc-
er of plays. He accumulated over
quarter of a million dollars. Of
his contemporaries, some envied
him, some loved him.
wished to be king. She prepared all
the details of the deed, even drug-
ging the yguards. She said that
she would have stabbed the king
herself, but he resembled her father
as he slept
Macbeth killed the sleeping king,
and was the loudest in his surprise
and sorrow when the deed was dis-
covered the next morning.
Banquo, close friend and fellow
officer, dared to show Macbeth that
he suspected the truth. Macbeth
later had him taken for a ride and
murdered because he knew too
much.
Life as king did not bring joy to
Macbeth. Fear mounted in his own
heart, and he increased the number
of spies in the homes of his noble-
men. Murder followed murder. As
soon as he felt that any man dis-
liked him, he notified his killers.
Hatred of Macbeth grew on all sides
of Scotland. Finally the time
seemed ripe, and Macduff went to
England for help. From personal
spite, Macbeth had the helpless wife
and children of Macduff murdered.
Lady Macbeth Dies.
Life for Lady Macbeth was one
long punishment. She had to watch
her husband's degeneration, know-
ing all the while that she might
have prevented it. Finally, her sub-
conscious mind got the upper hand.
Sleep was not restful, but was dom-
inated by thoughts of the murder of
King Duncan, whose blood she kept
seeing on her hands.
totally insane.
news he said, “She should have
died hereafter.
been a time for such a word.” She
would have died anyway!
might have been at a more conve-
nient time!)
Justice and revenge work togeth-
er, when in hand-to-hand fight, Mac-
duff kills Macbeth.
If Shakespeare lived today, he
movie. In “Macbeth” there are
witches who prophesy direful hap-
for murder.
bats, a fire smoulders beneath a
cauldron.
The elements of tragedy are
many. Macbeth violated every du-
ty: to his king, to his subjects, to
his wife, to God. As hatred and
murder increased in his soul, love
and sympathy decreased, until his
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