The sun. [volume] (Newberry, S.C.) 1937-1972, October 22, 1937, Image 2
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THE SUN, NEWBERRY, S. C„ FRIDAY, OCTOBER 22, 1937
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UNDE
RESSURE
A Mean Eye
Little Joan was learning to sew,
and had been trying for several
minutes to thread her needle. At
length, losing patience, she said
crossly: “I do believe the nasty
eye isn’t looking for the cotton.”—
Windsor Star.
Resourceful: The man who
promised his wife a circular tour
—and took her on a merry-go-
round.
Wrong Darling
"Is that you, darling? M-may I
bring three friends home to sup
per?”
"Why, certainly, dear.”
“I say, did you hear what I
said?”
"Of course, dear: you asked if
you could bring home three
friends!”
“Then I’m sorry, madam, I’ve
got the wrong number!”
LEADING MAN
"Has that would-be actor ever
gone before an audience?”
"Yes—at a 2:40 gait.”
"Wooden - headed drivers are
best,” says a golf expert. Not on
the road.
Safe
"Can you crack nuts?” inquired
a small boy of his grandmother
as she sat mending his clothes
at the window.
"No, dear,” was the reply. "I
lost all my teeth years ago.”
"Then, please,” said the young
ster, producing a handful of nuts,
i’would you hold these while I go
out for more?”
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C George Agncw Chamberlain
CHAPTER I
—1—
Joyce sat on a leather puff beside
her smaU-paned window looking out
and down at the turning maple
leaves. She was nineteen—tomor
row she would be twenty. Nobody
living knew it but herself—nobody.
She had lied about her true birthday
since she was eight and owing to a
single overwhelming catastrophe it
had been easy enough to confuse her
father. Twelve years—twelve years
in Elsinboro, six of them without
him, terribly alone with her step
mother. Yes, you could be alone
with somebody else—far lonelier
than if you were by yourself. She
was alive—tremendously alive in
side. That was the trouble; it had
to stay inside. She palpitated with
dreams of what might be—the se
cret dreams of a young girl who
longs to believe in life as something
warm, something you can hold in
your arms. But when she looked
outside herself she stared at a wall.
Elsinboro has its counterpart in
Clean or Elmira but not in Wilkes-
Barre, Scranton or Pottsville. Forty
thousand strong, it has known no
overpowering foreign infiltration
and presents a cross-section of the
American scene, old style, from a
miniature Tammany to an elite who
read French, talk liberalism and
discriminate between one dollar
and another. There are plenty of
dollars, gathered by adventurous
sons from the four comers of the
earth, but there were no fabulous
fortunes until Bolivar Smith got an
idea 15 years ago. Six roughnecks
believed in it and became multi
millionaires almost overnight. They
took over the section now known as
Platinum Hill and built their incon
gruous chateaux in a huge circle.
But Joyce Sewell was not of
them; in fact she had no part or
parcel of Elsinboro, new or old. She
was pure North Shore, descended
from generations of the Sewells who
christened more clipper ships when
the American merchant marine
overtopped the fleets of the world
than any other tribe. Her presence
in the town was an accident—one
of those tragic accidents that leave
their mark for the whole of lif*>.
The scene—so far away, so long ago
—lived in her leyes, shut or open
She would listen too, her ears trem
bling lest they hear. But memory
is silent, part of its terror lies in
silence.
No crash of guns reached her
now, only the remembered flash. No
thud of bullets on stone, wood and
flesh, no choking scream—only the
indelible, the unforgettable scene.
Her mother unspeakably murdered.
A pause—the eternal pause that had
lasted but a second. Her father
snatching her up under one arm, a
petaca under the other, to rush
along interminable corridors, fol
lowed by shots and the derisive
jeers of the marauders who be
lieved he could not possibly escape.
Stairs—wooden stairs, stone steps,
the secret door and the garden,
black beneath towering cypress and
spreading ash. Hurry! Hurry! The
postern, unlocked, then locked. The
starlit open night, immersion in the
icy lake, a dugout and finally refuge
in a humble peon hut. No—not
finally. Followed days in a pannier
on the back of a mule, hours in a
crowded train, a week on a refugee
ship bound for New Orleans and on
that ship Mrs. Irma Thorne, of
Elsinboro, New York.
Irma Thome, then three years a
widow, believed it was her mission
to do people good whether they liked
it or not. She was not a refugee
but a returning traveler with a well-
filled pocketbook. She had soft to
bacco-colored eyes, but there the
softness ended; though the truth
would have surprised and wounded
her, her chin, her stocky body, her
will and her conscience were as
tough as rawhide. The mere sight
of Cutler Sewell’s lackluster eyes,
gone dead in his head, staring at his
little daughter but eternally seeing
something else, was a supreme
challenge to her peculiar aptitude
for service and abnegation. She
took charge. She gave Joyce her
first bath in ten days and made her
a frock out of her own best skirt.
She rushed father and daughter to
her home in Elsinboro. She was
undoubtedly a good woman and by
every rule in the copybook Joyce
should have loved her. Gently ad
monished by her father she tried
pitifully to do so and failed. It was
no use. She was too young to think
things out; all she knew was that a
barrier of ice stood between her
heart and her benefactress.
“Daddy, let’s go away.”
“We can’t, Joyce; not just now.
At present I haven’t a cent.”
"Please, papacito. I don’t like
her.”
"You mustn’t say that. She’s a
good woman—a very good woman.”
“I know,” quavered Joyce, be
wildered by her own detestation but
face to face with a fact. “Oh,
please, papacito, please!”
He compromised, yielding to the
endearing pet diminutive that had
never yet failed her. On the ex
cuse she ought to keep up her Span-
By George Agnew
ish as a possible asset for the future
he took her into his study for an
hour every afternoon. That hour
had been sacred, proof against any
form of interruption from the day
when a knock on the door had
thrown Joyce into a paroxysm of
screams followed by prolonged sob
bing. Yet she was no cry-baby;
that one convulsive protest was her
last, but it had been enough. She
and her father talked Spanish in
peace, not always for the full hour.
Sometimes, quite content to be at
his side, she watched him write let
ters—long painstaking letters—al
ways to one of two addresses.
When the answers came he filed
them away, ever more and more
sadly, in the petaca. It was a funny
little trunk covered with rawhide
stretched on the frame while still
wet. The hair was mostly worn off
but there were still arabesques of
brass-headed tacks to which he had
added a card bearing the following
signed inscription: “Upon my death
“What’s the Matter
With Joyce?”
this box and contents become the
property of Joyce Sewell, my
daughter and sole heir.” With each
addition to the dossier he weakened,
became less the man of property
and more the chastened sacrificial
goat. The day came when Irma
Thorne married what was left of
him for appearances’ sake and for
his and for Joyce’s—not for her
own. Perhaps he knew the surren
der would kill him, but at least his
orphaned child would have a roof
over her head. She was sixteen
when he died.
Helm Blackadder was a rock of
a man, forty-nine and virile, with
bushy brows, steely eyes and crisp
gray hair. He was a native son, a
product of Elsinboro so interwoven
in the town’s pattern it had never
occurred to him to consider any
other place as a base. Yet in his
capacity as an excellent engineer
and a daring promoter he had bur
rowed in South Africa, combed Ko
rea and lived in Chile with varying
degrees of profit. In the intervals
he had known Irma Bostwick, Irma
Thorne and finally Irma Sewell. Part
of him frankly admired part of her;
she had a bulldog quality and so
had he. Now she had sent for him
and as he entered her very com
fortable living room he wondered
why.
“Well, Irma, what’s on your
mind?”
“It’s Joyce, Helm; but do sit
down. Take that big chair. It looks
as if it had been made for you.”
"What’s the matter with Joyce?”
Mrs. Sewell frowned and then sub
stituted a look of patient resigna
tion. “You know all I’ve done for
her. Don’t think I mean I begrudge
it since it was my duty and there’s
no greater satisfaction in life than
seeing one’s duty and doing it. But
can you believe in spite of every
thing she actually dislikes me? She
does, though; I think she always
has.” She waited, but since Black-
adder refrained from comment she
continued. “But that’s not the worst
of it; she’s harming herself, de
liberately destroying her great
chance.”
“How?” he asked bluntly.
“Oh, all this extra-curriculum
studying she’s been doing. She’s
kept up her Spanish so you’d think
she could teach it anywhere but now
she wants to take a business
course.”
“Secretarial?”
“No; she doesn’t give it any fancy
name—just plain stenography and
typing.”
"What’s wrong with that?” de
manded Blackadder. “It’s the way
several of the highest paid women
in the world got their start and I
can name half a dozen cases where
it’s been a royal road to marriage.
So I don’t see how it could hurt
Joyce.”
“You don’t?” said Mrs. Sewell.
She edged forv ird on her chair.
"Listen, Helm; I wouldn’t tell this
to anybody but you. Howard Semp-
ter, Emil Schaaf and Michael Kirk
patrick have all proposed to her
over and over again.”
"Half of Platinum Hill!” said
Blackadder, scowling. "Well, she’s
no business woman and never will
be.”
“Why? Why do you say that?”
“Because if she were she’d marry
them all, one after the other, and
retire.”
“Oh!” gasped Mrs. Sewell, truly
shocked.
"Which one of the three do you
think she’d find it easiest to fall for
and to handle?”
“That’s what I wanted to ask you.
It’s got to be one pretty soon or
none.”
"Why? What’s the hurry?”
“Can’t you think it out for your
self? If Platinum Hill goes after a
girl with no money it’s largely be
cause she isn’t a stenographer.”
Blackadder’s scowl deepened. "I
hate to agree wit!) you but I guess
you’re right! R’s a shame one town
should be saddled with three of that
brand of snob, but if she’s so at
tractive, what about a boy or two of
the good old stock? Aren’t any of
them hanging around?”
"They would if they could afford
It, but they know they can’t. The
nice boys she knows are all in col
lege with years to go before they’ll
begin looking for a job. They’re
too young. I have enough income to
manage on and wait, but I know
Joyce—she won’t stay with me
much longer and she hasn’t a pen
ny.”
WNXJ Service
“What about her father? I re
member hearing he owned one of
the show places in Mexico. Do you
know what that means? A hacienda
that doesn’t run over 20,000 acres
would be at the foot of the class.”
“He lost it—everything he had.
He wasn’t even compensated for the
murder of his wife though his law
yer assured him he would be. Cut
ler used to speak of it as blood
money and wouldn’t have thought of
taking it except for Joyce. And it’s
she that matters now. She’s got to
be saved from herself and you must
help.”
"I? Why me?”
"Because you’re real. Helm, and
the only man I know well enough to
turn to. There’s something in her
frightens me. Sometimes she’s a
burning bush and the next instant
she’s quicksilver. Please, Helm.
This child was put in my charge by
a direct act of God. Whether she
loves me or not it’s my duty to
guide her life along the lines of
common sense. Which do you want
her to do—go around looking for a
job at $15 a week or be the first to
bring a little culture to Platinum
Hill? Which gives her the best
chance for a full life?”
“A missionary, eh?” said Black
adder, his lips quirking oddly. He
lifted his heavy shoulders and let
them fall. "Well, Mike oughtn’t to
be so bad. I remember his father
as a ditch-gang foreman with a
laugh and plenty of punch besides.”
Mrs. Sewell sighed resignedly. “I
would have chosen Howard Semp-
ter, but trust a man to pick a man
is a good rule though we women
seldom follow it. So it’a to be Mrs.
Michael — not Mike — Kirkpatrick.
Anyway it sounds a lot better than
Mrs. Schaaf.” At that moment there
was a sound of somebody entering
the hall. “Joyce, is that you?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
"She’s never once called me
mother,” whispered Mrs. Sewell
Blackadder, a hurt and bewildered
look in her liquid brown eyes. Then
she raised her voice. “Come here,
dear; we want to talk to you.”
Blackadder disliked being rushed
and felt he was being drafted with
out his consent, but immediately
Joyce entered he was conscious of
an odd reaction as though all his
gears had gone suddenly into re
verse. The girl was more than hand
some. There was ardor in her bear
ing, her eyes and her half-parted
lips that not only aroused his com
bative nature, but promptly con
vinced him that Irma was right—the
sooner this potential dynamo was
married off, the better for all con
cerned.
She nodded to him and turned to
her stepmother. “Well?”
“Oh, do sit down, Joyce. Can’t
you sit down and talk reasonably
for once in your life?”
(TO BE CONTINUED)
French Nobleman’s Will Provided Body
Be Seated in Room to Face Angry Sea
The Marquis d’Urre d’Aubais was
a curious man when alive, but when
his will was read after his death the
court was astounded. It was sur
prising enough for a marquis to
leave $60,000 to the French postof
fice, but the conditions accompany
ing this gift were a little too much
for the court, writes a Paris United
Press correspondent.
First the marquis demanded that
his body be embalmed. That was
simple enough and the undertakers
had done so before the will was
unsealed.
Then the marquis demanded that
a small house be constructed on the
shore of the Mediterranean, placed
on a high point, with the walls of
glass facing toward the sea. The
body should be placed in this room
with a radio set and family portraits
to keep him company.
Authorities decided that the mar
quis must have liked the sea. They
constructed the little house at the
little port of Carro and equipped it
with a special radio set which gives
signals to passing ships to avoid the
dangerous rocks that endangered
the coast at this point.
The lifeboat at the Rogues de Car
ro was named after the marquis.
But the final request was too
much for officials, for the marquis
asked that his body be placed seat
ed in the room from where it could
look out on the angry sea. Per
haps the men who executed this will
were suspicious and feared the bale
ful effects of the dead man’s eyes.
Anyway, the marquis’ body re
clines now, with only a glass win
dow in the coffin above his face.
Seamen in the tiny port are thankful
for the marquis’ gift to them, but
they feel better knowing he is asleep
and not sitting watching them.
VJWOElt
By, Aqmw CkatoMUu4%
STARTS IN THIS ISSUE!
You’ll enjoy the unique story of Joyce
Sewell’s escapade in romantic old Mexico.
Follow her through unparalleled adven
ture as she copes with political intrigue to
regain possession of LaBarranca, the
secluded hacienda where she was born.
Watch the developments that place her in
the center of amusing international com
plications . . . and watch L >er fall in
love with Dirk Van Suttart, the handsome
undersecretary from the American
embassy, assigned to guard this young up
start! Read today’s installment of “Under
Pressure” ... and read the following
chapters of George Agnew Chamberlain’s
gay new serial!
GOOD TASTE
TODAY
fcy
EMILY POST
World’s Foremost Authority
on Etiqustts
Ip Emily Post
oooooooooooooooooooooooooo
Cutting Wedding Cake
Calls for Real Skill
Gay Hostess Apron
With Poppy Motif
Flit from pantry to parlor in this
“hostess” apron, so gayly ap-
pliqued with poppies, and guests
are sure to ask how it’s made!
Choose bright contrast for yoke,
border, poppies. One poppy forms
EAR Mrs. Post: I was at s very
miniature wedding reception
recently. In fact, there were only
ten persons present. Bnt it was one
of the loveliest after-wedding par
ties I have ever known. It was
late afternoon and almost dark, the
dining table was set with a lace
cloth and candelabra, there was a
small bride’s cake ornamented with
the wedding couple’s first names
and a bride and groom figurine set
on top, and there was champagne to
drink the traditional toasts. Unlike
all other weddings at which I have
been, at this one I sat close enough
so that I could watch the wedding
cake being cut, and I never be
fore realized that this conld be such
a task. The bride pierced the cake
with the point of the blade bat when
she tried to bring the side of the
blade down through the cake, the
slice broke into many pieces. One
of the gnests took the knife then
but her Inek was lust about the
same. 1 have wondered sinee the
wedding whether there was any
right way to ent a wedding cake, or
is it, as in this case. Just a matter
of chance?
Answer: Of course you don’t tell
me whether the cake was not very
fresh, or perhaps the knife very
dull. In any case, the best way to
cut wedding cake is to spear it
first and with the knife in this same
point down position, continue to stab
the slice all the way across. If
after the first stab is made, the knife
blade is brought down as though it
were a lever, the piece invariably
crumbles even though the blade is
very sharp.
• • •
Write Note of Thanks
to Sympathetic Friends
Pattern 1495.
the pocket. Pattern 1495 contains
a transfer pattern of the apron
and a motif SV* by 10% inches; a
motif 6% by 9% inches and the
applique patches; illustrations of
all stitches used; material re
quirements.
Send 15 cents in stamps or coins
(coins preferred) for this pattern
to The Scv.'ing Circle Needlecraft
Department, 82 Eighth Avenue,
New York City.
READT TO HUNG
T~\ EAR Mrs. Post: Is It proper to
acknowledge notes sent in sym
pathy with a thank yon card? I be
lieve that friends and acquaintances
should eventually be thanked by
note no matter what the extent ef
their expressions of sympathy, but
my daughter feels that for slighter
expressions a printed form could be
used. In fact, she thinks that these
times, and birthday and anniver
sary occasions are the only ones
when printed cards of thanks would
be suitable. Will yon give ns your
opinion.
Answer: Ih return for a card an
other card la suitable. But thanks
for a present or a real favor or any
thing as serious as a letter of con
dolence must be answered by a note
or at least a handwritten message.
Sympathy shown to a family in deep
mourning can be answered with
fewest handwritten words on a vis
iting card. This limited answer is
obviously permitted because of the
effort that any longer reply would
be to one in sorrow. Moreover, less
near members of the family may
write in the places of those most
nearly concerned.
• • •
Mourning Husband's Death
F\ EAR Mrs. Post: I have lost m>
1 ^ husband and will shortly leave
to make my home with a sister on
the West Coast. (1) I wonld like to
send a written note of resignation to
a local club of which I have always
been a member and wish yon wonld
suggest what I write. (2) Also, will
yon tell me whether It wonld be in
correct to wear black satin slippers
with a black dinner dress while I
am wearing mourning? 1 find it im
possible to get suede ones that are
comfortable.
Answer: (1) You write to the sec
retary of the club, wording your
note more or less like the follow
ing: “Dear Mrs. Green: Owing to
the changed circumstances in my
life and the uncertainty of my ever
returning to XX-town to live, it is
with very deep regret that I must
ask you to present my resignation
at the next meeting of the board of
governors. Sincerely. Mary K.
Blank.” (2) Black satin is not suit
able for mourning but any dull silk
would take the place of suede.
• • •
Birthday Gift Puzzle.
r> EAT. Mrs. Post: My sister and
I are invited to the birthday
party of a neighbor’s son. Mother
and this neighbor are dear friends
but we hardly know the son. Are
nre each supposed to take birthday
presents to the party? We always
take presents to other birthday par
ties bnt in those cases we knew the
hostess or host very well. And yet
ive would hate to arrive at the party
the only ones to be empty-handed.
V/hat do you suggest that we do?
Answer: If I were you I would
take a trifling present from both of
you together—not because it is nec
essary, or even customary to taxe
a present to one whom you scarcely
know, but because he is the son of
your mother’s friend.
Teacher on Telephone.
P) EAR Mrs. Post: When a teacher
l-p announces herself on the tele
phone, to a student I mean, what is
the proper form?
Answer: "This is Miss Green” or
‘This is Mr. Blakely.”
WNU Service.
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Let It Be Pleasing
Of all the things you wear, you
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