Historical Newspapers of South Carolina

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t Thursday, August 18,1932 McCOHMICK MESSENGER, McCORMICK, SOUTH CAROLINA RAGE NUMBER^ / AAfiGOUQT twai.cp FELIX RI9SENBERG v v v v v SIXTH INSTALLMENT his illusions, watched over Breen. John rose at six, John horses were really at fault, and the with Morning Advertiser carried a long story of his doings. It seemed as if the Van Horns would always be in the public eye. In the meantime, Malone, guard ing John with the care of a father, placed his winnings in the Bowery Savings Bank and John, at the time ^ j a of the reform wave, engineered out at dawn—and into the string of boys at the rear door of 1 from the inside, had saved over beat ^nd^has^Wnf^ ^e^escanes thG ClUb and ran hard f ° r ar ^ other four hundred dollars and had also into a basement doorway where he hour before the awakening of provided himself with an eleganc bides. The next <|ay he is rescued fbe city traffic, coming back to the wardrobe. The lapse in the fight- fehfatnily IWngSi the'rear^of th5r a C ° ld Sh ° Wer and a rUb in S Same pleased him for he was second-hand clothing store. He aown - I beginning to hate the contests. A work? in the sweatshop store—and Malone and John then break- is openly courted by Becka—the fasted alone, in a card room back young daughter ... The scene shifts the bar on larcrp howl^ of oat— to the home of the wealthy Van OI me Dar ’ on large Dowls 01 oat had^spent^dl'of h^ Malone, Jumping up in the brisk «fe aboard a Hudson river tugboat air when he skipped rope, swung plying near New York, is tossed in- the clubs and shadow boxed under wwthe river in a terrific collision the eve of the trainer whn cat rm which sinks the tug, drowns his ey ° 01 trai ? er w ^° sat ° n mother and the man he called fa- tlle ed S e of his cot smokmg his ther. Ignorant, unschooled, and morning pipe. After a half hour of ore F h « dra ? s bbnseif ash- this John turned out the blankets ore, hides in the friendly darkness a. i j * ^ of a huge covered truck only to be a ^ r ’ and master and pupil met Homs—on 5th> Avenue, where lives meal, bacon and eggs, rolls and,cof- feeling of hopeless unrest seized him. He became moody, discon- ! tented, pettish. Malone studied the bachelor—Gilbert Van Horn— in whose life there is a hidden chapter . ’ That chapter was an af- faj^Hyith his mother's maid, who b'Wpe house when he was accused. Tl^ives of Johnny Breen and Gil bert Van Horn first cross when Van H#m sees Breen win his first im portant ring battle. HOW GO ON WITH TfiE STORY Malone, in the dressing room with the fighters, saw Sol Bemfeld xlowly count out three five dollar bills and offer them to John. They were standing in a comer, partly shielded by a locker. “What’s that?” Malone demand ed sharply, approaching the boy and his manager. “What I won. I get fifteen and Sol gets ten; He’s my manager,” John explained. ‘Say—you dirty crook!” The (trainer glared at Sol, blanched to a [deathly pallor at the discovery of his duplicity. “You give that boy his money.” Malone, with a sud den grip, pulled the retreating Bemfeld backward. “Dig, fee. The day was spent in taking the boy and wondered what poison was entering into him when they ca?e of a string of fighters, boxing, were engulfed in the heat of the rubbing and punching the bag, or working at the chest machines. Regular meals, clean air, and early to bed filled out his frame with an abounding health that glowed and sparkled through his clear skin in startling contrast to the sodden wrecks of men and women drifting all about. After two months of training for condition, Malone initiated John into the science of pugilism, coaching him behind closed doors in the art of jabbing, hooking, and great municipal campaign of 1901. Malone sensed something strange in John, just what he attempted in vain to discover. But the boy, not ing a barroom loafer sitting at one of the tables thumbing a newspa per, knew that he was looking at a superior being. The bum’s clothes might be foul; he might be filthy inside and out, but he possessed a key, the great key to all; he could read. John had grasped a word or two in causal contact with letters I you—dig!” and he drove his elbow sharply into, the middle of SoL’s soft back. Bemfeld, wincing with pain, hesitated, John eyed him with suspicion. "Dig, you rotten crook,” ana Pifg Malone gave him a second and much ti&rder hook in the back as a crisp fifty dollar bill came to light. Malone snatched this and handed it to John. * “Take that, son, you earned it. An’ you,” turn ing to Sol, “fade, an’ fade fast, be fore you get what's coming to you.” Bemfeld took the hint without de- lay. “What’s your name, son?” Malone asked. “You look white.” “Brefen, sir, John Breen,” the “sir” slipping from some dormant cell, recorded, perhaps, while ovrehear- ing Captain Breen address some wharf or ship officer. Pug Malone, compace, gray haired, and pink, looked like a God to the boy. “Where do you work?” Malone knew that John was not a profes sional. “With Mr. Lipvitch in the Cloth ing Emporium.” key bottle he turned to the boy Tears glistened in John’s eyes anc stained his cheek where he hac roughly dashed a sleeve across hi face. A great lump rose in thr throat of the trainer. He went tc the end of the bar, poured out a large drink of cold black coffee and tossed it off. When the customer left he returned to John. “Why in the. name of didn’t you tell me this before?” “Too busy, Pug,” the boy explan- ed haltingly. “I wanted to make good at the scrapping. I ain’t had no chance. I figured I was too old. So what’s the use?” John’s voice held a note of hopeless ma turity. Time, the master, had pass ed him by. On leaving the bar Pug and John walked into the gym and donned gloves for their usual 1 fast round before supper. Malone, scoring a hard left to the nose, drew blood. “There, son, you see you got to go to school now.” He carefully wiped the red smear from his glove with a towel, while John laughingly held his bleeding nose. “It’s night school for you. Night school with them kykes’ an’ Polacks. You start to morrow, kid, at the beginnin’,” Pug was positive. “I’ll bet you’ll be readin’ the Police Gazette in a month,’ he added hopefully. John Breen knew no more where he was heading than did the first voyagers who sailed their crazy caravels across the waters of a vir gin world. He plowed ahead with an energy sustained by his mag nificent vitality. In six months’ time he had burst his prison bars In his feverish research he ran be yond the limits of the school. In a year he carried on his quest to sci ence and philosophy. The day John Breen first stumbled into a second-hand book store he became aware of a vast mine of incalculable wealth. John trembled as he walked off with his treasures, and then spent the night searching the pages, wringing from them the ecstasy that went into their making. (CONTINUED NEXT WEEK) BftUCf BAftTON • • -it)rites of "TH F^VMSTER EXECUTIVE” Supplying a week-to-week inspiration (or the heary-burdened who will find every human trial paralleled itnhe experiences of ,, The Man Nobody Knows." Brace BOYHOOD BACKGROUND A- <& Xi! ■ v v»5,< i WQ V % Malone initiated John into the science of pugilism. blocking blows. He impressed up on him the great value of infight ing, and the secret of terrific punches tvith the crooked" elbow, throwing the full force of the body into the blow by applying the fund amental principles of mechanics and dynamic force. One day, after a long go with He knew that RYE spelled rye whiskey and that BEER spelled beer, but the label Pilsener Genos- senschafts-Brauerei was utter mys tery. He did know that there were such things as letters and an al phabet. But he knew of no way in which he could go about the task of acquiring the art of reading, or of what he might find out Malone himself, the trainer, wiping a bleeding nose, and out of breath, [ should the gift come to him like remarked shortly, “You’ll do to take magic in the night. For he did a crack at a few second raters.” dream Such miracles, often, that he “Pay?” demanded Malone. John flushed. “Sure—you must ai- 1 could read, and just as he was “Yes, sir, he pays me.” John felt ways win. Don’t forget that, John, about to gain some mighty truth his benefactor was under criticism. Get the habit of always winnin’— j his fairy gift faded away. Then, “Of course he does, son. How much? What do you get a week?” “Three dollars—and board,” John added, by way of good meas ure. — always. It’s the principle of suc cess.” And then John polished off a half dozen “set ups,” third and second at times, he consoled himself with the thought that it was no great gift after all. None of the readers he saw were particularly wise, ex cept, of course, his idol, Pug Ma lone. John’s inability to read was — rate boys disposed pf with startling “Board! Board!” Malone ran his rapidity and with cold calculating hand over the body of the boy. precision. Almost over night the “Board—rats!” And then, seeing the name of Fighting Breen, the welter brought to light one day. “Here’s alarmed look on John’s face, he weight, became known on the Bow- the story of my scrap with Stiftt. I went on in a kindly tone. “What ery from Chatham Square to Coop- just dug this up in my old trunk, you need is feedin.’ Better stay er Union. The Grogan Gang claim- Lookit over, Jack, an’ you’ll see here. I’ll give you a job, five a week an’ real board. Rubbin,’ that’s the work, an’ I’ll train you, son, an split right. Are you my boy?” And so John Breen left the Ghetto to enter the Bowery of the Greater City of New York. ed him as one of their original members and boasted of his re- Stiftt topped me by ten pounds,” and Pug held out the paper to John. nown. Fighting Breen was on the 1 John took the paper, glanced at road to championship honors and ' the full length wood-cut of Malone, rewards. [middle weight champion, etc., etc., And at most of these fights, sit- his eye roaming over the figure of ting near the ringside, alone or A year passed over the head of with Judge Kelly, was the well John Breen, a year of ampler free dom and of physical development, a year charged with the elements of crime, of drunkenness and braw ling. John saw, without knowing, the dregs of the city. Blear-eyed victims of the sodden slums of Chinatown drifted into the bar at McManus’ for a bowl of beer and a his friend in fighting pose. Tears welled into his eyes; the picture known sporting man, Gilbert Van blurred; the red tinged sheet was Horn. He always bet heavily on not so crimson as he. His blush of Fighting Breen. shame, and his tear-bathed eyes, “No,” Malone was positive, “that!^ 00 ^ n ® straight at Pug, halted the mind trainer in bis recital. “Pug, I can’t read a word!” he said. “Can’t read! Can’t read the Gaz ette?” Malone almost dropped a bottle of seltzer he was about to squirt into a highball, a customer having appeared before the bar at “Well, I’ll shot the boy’s under my care. Never about meetin’ him, now. He’ll be a champion, then you can all meet him. The kid’s too young—don’t give him bum ideas. You sports snatch of lunch, then to sink back spoil too many good fighters.” again to the drug-soaked atmos- strangely, it was Marvin Kelly phere below. He saw these things w ho wanted to talk with John through the swinging doors be- Breen. Gilbert merely looked on. ; that agitating moment. tween the gym, at one end of the He had bought a Panhard, and on be !” and Pug dance hall, and the private parlors days following the fights roared , water with such force it splashed and the bar. It was merely an- through the countryside in clouds I the bar, drowning out the Scotch, other picture of the over-powering 0 f white dust, tearing up the water j “Here, take some more,” and Pug city, so tremendous in its contrasts, packed macadam. People thought passed the bottle back to te cus- Pug Malone, ex-prize fighter, he was crazy in his goggles and tomer who spiked the drink liberal- trainer for the Samson Sporting mask. He hardly knew whether ly. wondering what the excitement Club, a hard, honest, medium- he was or not. At Dobbs Ferry he was all about. sized, middle-aged man, shorn of upset a farmer’s truck cart, the When Malone recovered the whis- Making Cottage Cheese Advised And Explained CLEMSON COLLEGE, Aug 6, Cottage cheese, a simple dairy pro duct delicacy in common use in farm homes and widely sold com mercially in the north and west, is suggested for more general use in the south by C. G. Cushman, ex tension dairyman, as an economi cal addition to the family menu. A gallon of skim-milk, he states, will make about 11-2 pounds of cottage cheese. To make cottage cheese, says Mr. Cushman, place sweet milk in a pan and let it stand in a clean warm place at about 75 degrees Fahrenheit until it clabbers. Ord inarily this will take about 30 hours, but when it is desirable tb hasten the process mix a small quantity of well flavored sour milk with the sweet milk. As soon as the milk is firmly clabbered cut it into pieces about two inches square, and stir thoroughly with a spoon. The next step is to heat the curd, which makes the whey separate readily and aids in giving the cheese a firm texture. Place the pan of broken curds in a vessel of hot water so as to raise the tem perature to 100 degrees Fahrenheit. Cook at that temperature for about 30 minutes, stirring gently at in tervals of 5 minutes. Then pour the curd and whey in to a small cheesecloth bag (a clean salt bag will do) and hang it up to drain, until the whey ceases to drain in a steady stream. Longer draining might get the curd too dry. Empty the curd and work it with a butter ladle or spoon until it becomes fine in grain, smooth, and of the consistency of mashed pota toes. Sour or sweet cream may be added to improve the flavor, and salt to suit the taste. If the cheese Many leaders in history have had a superiority to personal resent ment and small annoyances which is one of the surest signs of great ness; Jesus infinitely surpassed all. He knew that pettiness brings its own punishment. The law of compensation operates inexorably to reward and afflict us by and through ourselves.- The man who is mean is mean only to himself. The village that refused to admit him required no fire; it was al ready dealt with. No miracles were performed in that village. No sick were healed; no hungry were fed; no poor received the message of encouragement and inspiration—that was the penalty for its boorish ness. As for Jesus, he forgot the incident immediately. He had to work. Theology has spoiled the thrill of Jesus’ life by assuming that he knew everything from the beginning—that his three years of public work were a kind of dress rehearsal, with no real problems or crises. What interest would there be in such a life? What inspiration? You who read these lines have your own creed concerning him; I have mine. Let us forget all creed for the time being, and take the story of Jesus’ life just as the simp’e narratives give it—a poor boy, growing up in a peasant family, working in a carpenter shop; gradually feeling his powers expanding, beginning to have an influence over his neigh bors, recruiting a few followers, suffering disappointments and re verses, finally death. Yet Jesus built so solidly and well that death was only the begin ning of his influence! Stripped of all dogma his was the grandest achievement story of all! If we are criticized for overemphasizing the human side of Jesus’ character we shall have the satisfaction of knowing that our overem phasis tends a little to offset the very great overemphasis which has been exerted on the other side. Books and books and books have been written about him as the Son of God; surely w^ have a reverent right to remember that his favorite title for himself was the Son of Man. Nazareth, where he grew up, was a little town. In the fashionable circles of Jerusalem it was quite the thing to mike fun of Nazareth—its crudities of custom and speech, its simplicity of 'manner. “Can any good thing come out of Nazareth?” they asked derisively when the report spread that a new prophet had arisen in that country town. The question was regarded as a complete rebuttal 6f his pretensions. The Galileans were quite conscious of the city folks’ contempt, but they bore it lightly. Life was a cheerful and easy-going affair with them. The sun shone almost every day; the land was fruitful; to make a living was nothing much to worry about. There was plenty of time to visit. Families went on picnics in Nazareth, as elsewhere in the world; young people walked together in the moonlight and fell in love in the spring. Boys laughed boisterously at their games and got into trouble with their pranks. •> . And Jesus, the boy who worked in the carpenter shop, was a lead er among them. Next Week:—The Eternal Miracle Copyright, Bobbs-Merrill Co. THE FAMILY .DOCTOR JOHN. JOSWiGAINCS. M,a A FRIENDLY CHAT Our editor and I are trying to give our public the very best service that is in us. We must accept the popular opinion of our effort, whether it be good or bad. It is well sometimes to pause and “check up” on results. In this letter I try to do so from the family doctor’s quarter. , That honest boy away up in Vermont, among the grand old maple trees; he likes “Family Doctor,” and says so; he says it with some fine maple syrup by parcel-post. r And an Oklahoma reader—he has gained 27 pounds, his last letter explains; his neuritis almost abated. And the dear woman over in. New Hampshire—in her wheel-chair for four .years,—it’s arthritis. She is improving on common-sense principles. There are so many—one 1 this morning, from California; she is too fat, and asks some questions. All good people, I tell you. I cannot help loving them. I almost hate to tell you of the ugly-minded crank from Indiana; he bemeans me with every vile word he can lay his tongue to—all because I am a friend to coffee . He even calls me a liar and tells me I am doing it consciously . . . seven pages of awful, scurrilous abuse. I hope his tirade made him feel better—and it did me no harm whatever. In my library of nearly 3,000 volumes, and with nearly forty years of practical experience with caffein, I almost know what I am talking about, because I can prove my assertions. There is not a word in this is not to be eaten promptly it may abusive letter that my scorbutic friend can prove; so let him pass. I do not ask anybody to believe my statements if they prefer not; and I do appreciate many more friends than enemies, as I pass in re view among my fellow-creatures. Bless you all! be stored in an earthen or glass vessel and in a cold place will keep for several days. txt Of all European countries Bul garia is most richly stocked with game, partly because little hunting was done under Turkish rule, and partly because the mountains af ford natural sanctuaries for wild life. txt The flame of an acetylene torch burns at 4,160 degrees, whereas an oxy-acetylene torch, using pure oxygen instead of air, produces a flame reaching 6,000 degrees. Firearms accidentally kill about 3,000 persons a year, the majority of the weapons being “unloaded.” Experience Service Facilities Those are the important things in measuring the worth of a funeral director, and should be borne in mind when you have occasion to choose one DISTANCE IS NO HINDRANCE TO OUR SERVICE and there is no additional charge for service out of town J. S. STROM Main Street McCormick, S. C.