Historical Newspapers of South Carolina

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Beautiful Crocheted Doilies for the Table Pattern 1935 Add that touch of luxury that marks a well-kept home. Crochet a large lace doily for a center- piece—a large and two medium sized ones for buffet set—three sizes repeated for a luncheon set! The large doily measures 18 inches, the medium one 12 inches and the small 6 inches. Pattern 1935 contains directions for mak ing doilies; illustrations of them and of stitches; materials re quired; photograph of doily. Send 15 cents in coins for this pattern to The Sewing Circle Nee- dlecraft Dept., 82 Eighth Ave., New York. TAKE FOR MALARIA Get Relief From Chills and Fever! Don’t put up with terrible Malaria. Don’t endure the wracking chills and fever. At first sign of the dread disease, take Grove’s Tasteless Chill Tonic. A real Malaria medicine. Made especially for the purpose. Contains tasteless quinidine and iron. Grove’s Tasteless Chill Tonic ac tually combats Malaria infection in the blood. Relieves the awful chills and fever. Helps you feel better fast. Thousands take Grove’s Tasteless Chill Tonic for Malaria and swear by it. Pleasant to take, too. Even children take it without a whimper. Don’t suffer and suffer. At Ma laria’s first sign, take Grove’s Tasteless Chill Tonic. At all drug stores. Buy the large size as it gives you much more for your money. Absence as a Wind Absence diminishes little pas sions and increases great ones, as the wind extinguishes candles and fans a fire.—La Rochefoucauld. MEDICATED PROTECTION AGAINST CHAFE IRRITATIONS Relieves bq soothing-cools pricklq heat rashes MEXICANEeaI POWDER Aiding the Foe O that men should put an enemy in their mouths, to steal away their brains!—Shakespeare. bloodshot eyes are relieved in one day by Leonardl’s Golden Eye Lotion. No other eye remedy In the world as cooling, healing and strengthening for weak eyes. LEONARDPS GOLDEN EYE LOTION MAKES WEAK EYES STRONG Ntw Large Site with Dropper—50 cents a.a.L«o«rdl WC».l»c.,l'l«waoeh«n«.M.T. Worse for the Punishment If punishment reaches not tne mind—it hardens the offender.— Locke. BAmsv^ZgBCessedRetiet RHEUM ATIS M lumbago WATCH "V^OU con depend on the special sales the merchants of our town announce in the columns of this paper. They mean money saving to our readers. It always pays to patronise the merchants who advertise. They are not afraid of their mer chandise or their prices. Sk Ar THE SPECIALS THE SUN. NEWBERRY; S. C- FRIDAY, AUGUST 25, 1939 CHILD OF EVIL O OCTAVUS ROY COHEN WNU SERVICE By OCTAVUS ROY COHEN SYNOPSIS Beautiful, young Kay Forrest has been employed by Christine Maynard, photogra pher, to pose for a series of pictures, the background of which will be exquisite Cathedral Gardens, famous Southern resort. Unknown to them, one Jeff Butler, mean, unscrupulous "swamp angel," has led a friend to spy on the two women. Kay. of necessity. Is scantily clad while posing for the camera studies. Kay frequently stays with Mrs. Ruth Hamilton, her son Barney, of whom Kay is very fond, and her daugh ter Margaret. Mrs. Hamilton, a remark able woman, conceived the Idea of the Gardens following the death of her hus band. Kay has accepted an invitation to at tend a local dance with Kirk Reynold!, a ne’er-do-well gambler. CHAPTER n—Continued Tonight Kay Forrest put her wrap to the tiny room on the mezzanine which was marked Ladies. She left that room, walked out on the bal cony and gazed down upon the vivid scene below. The music of the Jazz Hounds rose to smite her, and a lady tourist, dancing indifferently, looked up and saw the girl on the balcony and said, “There’s a beautiful girl.” As a matter of cold fact, the com pliment was not entirely deserved. True, there were things about Kay which were lovely—and which you forgot. There were other things which you remembered—as for in stance the immediate impression of vital youth, of a great capacity for enjoyment as shown by dancing eyes and a wide, generous mouth. You could not fail to notice the deep brown tones of her hair and the way it was brushed back from her high, white forehead, and the natural wave, and the little curls which clung to the back of her neck and caressed the two tiny ears. You would notice that her hazel eyes were set wide apart and that they had a delightful habit of crinkling at the corners when she smiled. She was not blase, not critical. She asked no more of the moment than the moment offered. She met Kirk Reynolds on the stairway and Kirk’s customarily impassive face lighted. He said, “You look good.” He walked back downstairs with her, through the lobby, past the battery of approving masculine eyes, and into the ball-room. His arm* went about her responsive young body and they danced. Kirk smiled down at the girl. His was not a bright smile. It was a alight expansion of thin lips. But his voice was gentle enough. He asked, “Having a good time?” “Wonderful.” “You’re easily pleased.” “I can’t help it. I’m enjoying my self.” He said, “You’re a queer kid.” “Because I like this so much?” “Yes. And because you had the nerve to come with me.” Her eyes laughed into his. “You’re pretty nice, Kirk Reynolds.” “Maybe. But this town don’t think BO.” Kirk did not exaggerate. He was held in low esteem in Beverly, save by a certain masculine group which made its headquarters at Red Wil liams’ Bon Ton Pool Room. Care ful mothers shielded their daughters from contact with Kirk—much to the disgust of sevetal such daugh ters; fathers warned young sons that Kirk was a disgrace to the town and to his worthy parents— now happily deceased. And as for Mr. Reynolds himself, that young gentleman went his way unconcern edly, caring not one whit for the opinion of his fellow-townsmen save insofar as they afforded him a bit of amusement. He was of medium height and slender. His cheeks were pallid; his eyes arctic. He was sparing of speech and gesture. Born in Bev erly, reared in Beverly—Kirk Rey nolds was known to every citizen of the town and most of those who lived in rural parts of the county. As a youngster he had shown a superb indifference to such educa tion as Beverly afforded. Other lads had looked up to him as reckless and daring because of the flagrant manner with which he played hook ey. He was the despair of his par ents; accepting such chastisement as they inflicted upon him without whimper, protest or effect. At seventeen years of age he had disappeared, his farewell being coin cidental with the departure of a small, traveling street carnival which had spent six thoroughly un profitable days in the town. There after Beverly heard little of him. It was understood vaguely that Kirk had remained with the carnival only ■ short time, and that he then aligned himself with a larger, more prosperous and less scrupulous tent- show. Some one reported meeting him in New York and stated that he seemed to be doing well and had offered hospitality to his former townsman: liquor, feminine com panionship, gambling, or what have you. Then Beverly was shocked to learn that Kirk had returned. In his rooms at the hotel, enterprising persons, tourists or citizens, might roll dice for money. For fairly im portant money. No, they explained in shocked whispers, it wasn’t just a friendly game, but a real gam bling layout. Meetings were held. Protests were uttered by church committees and welfare organizations. Mayor Alex Roberts argued that he did not know Bflficially that gambling was in prog ress, which resulted in the immedi ate formation of a Defeat-Roberts- for-Renomination Committee. Sher iff Floyd Griffin denied vehemently that Kirk Reynolds owned and op erated a dice-game—but he com pleted his payments on a new sedan. The owner of the White Star Hotel also protested vigorously that there was nothing happening in that sec ond-floor suite which was illegal, and he denied further that liquor could be bought at the hotel, in de fiance of rigid State prohibition laws . . . all of which the good citizens knew to be untrue. Kirk’s dice-dealer remained in se clusion except at night. Kirk him self spent his days riding around in his little car or lounging on the ve randa of the hotel which faced Mon ument Square from the corner of Wilson Street. He vouchsafed no information. And so facts became less factual because of official de nial and every night certain tour ists more or less enjoyed a few hours at the dice-table, and Beverly raised its hands in holy horror, and the preachers of town and country churches called upon their congre gations to condemn this iniquity . . . which they did with commendable but ineffectual fervor. And there the matter dropped, except that it was generally agreed that if Ruth “There’s a beautiful girl.” Hamilton hadn’t returned to Bev erly and caused Cathedral Gardens to be built, Kirk Reynolds and his professional vice would not have come to contaminate the com munity. Kirk Reynolds was twenty-eight years of age, nine years older than Kay Forrest. She had heard of him, had known him, in the few years of her childhood before he had gone off with the carnival. She remem bered him as a handsome young man who had bought candy and ice cream and pop-corn for her at the carnival so that she almost died of indigestion . . . but she had emerged from the attack with a re gard for Kirk which she had never lost. She had introduced herself to him on the occasion of a chance meeting after his return, and he had professed to remember her. Kirk was attentive and pleasant. Two or three times during the eve ning, when young men from Chicora with whom she had attended high school asked her to dance—Kirk vanished. She suspected that he had gone upstairs to see how the dice- game was running and there was a guilty thrill in the idea. Kay was young, keen for life: she translated this night and this dance into terms of Newport and Monte Carlo and Palm Beach and Havana. The chicken sandwich on toast which Kirk brought her might have been a gala repast; the tepid orangeade, champagne. Then Bud Carter and His Jazz Hounds blasted into their final num ber. Enthusiastic couples gyrated madly, but Kirk danced slowly, cau tiously—as always. He continued to enjoy Kay’s naive delight, to re spond to the brightness of her eyes. She heard the final, blaring meas ures of the music, and then Kirk’s quiet voice, “Tired?” “No.” “How about a little ride?” “I’d love it.” “Good.” Kirk was never loqua cious. She crossed the veranda with him. Across the street, in the middle of Monument Square, she saw the red brick bulk of the Beauregard County Court-house. She was vaguely con scious of townsfolk who stared and commented. And then she was in the little coupe beside Kirk and he had swung away from the curb and was circling the Square. He drove west on Palmetto Ave nue to the place where Chicora Ave nue angled off to the right. He drove down this tree-lined street, somnolent in midnight moonlight; drove past Kay’s home; crossed Ferris Street where Chicora Avenue became the Chicora Turnpike. Then they were in the country, the lights of the town dropping behind them. To their left was rich farm coun try: fields of cotton and corn, and on the right crouched Big Moccasin Swamp, dark and sinister. They moved faster and faster and Kay asked no questions. It did not mat ter that the man beside her was Kirk Reynolds; it only mattered that she was here: that for this one night she Md been privileged to discard the Si.ggy mantle of provincialism. Kirk said, abruptly, “I had a good time." “You did? Why?” “Because you enjoyed it.” “Oh! Kirk—it was wonderful. I’ve always wanted to go to one of those dances ...” “They’re lousy. But if you don’t know it, why that’s all right, too.” She said, “You've been mighty nice to me.” “And I got a great kick out of you.” He smiled at her, briefly, im personally. “Where’d you get your nerve from?” “What nerve?” “The nerve to go with me . . . and to get the whole town talking about you?” She explained, “They’ve always talked about me, and I reckon they always will.” “When I was younger than you are now, I checked out. Couldn’t stand the gaff.” “But you came back.” “Good pickings.” Kay wondered why she was not apprehensive. Kirk’s reputation was so unsavory. She wondered wheth er he intended to stop somewhere . . . and then, as though in response to her unasked question ... he looked down at her. He said, “Don’t worry.” “About what?” “Me. I’m not aiming to park any where.” She was silent, and he laughed shortly. “Thought I was, didn’t you?” “Well . . . the boys around here ...” “I don’t play that way, myself. Not with kids.” She felt absurdly safe. She lost all sense of time and of distance. Her eyes were closed, so that she did not even see the headlights of the car which whirled toward them. The road they were traveling had been cut through piney woods. It was of broad, smooth concrete and Kirk was driving fast, and on the wrong side. His own head-lamps stabbed into the post-midnight blackness and crossed those of the approaching car. Kay heard the sudden warning shriek of a horn. She heard a hoarse oath from the young man at her side. She felt his figure lurch against hers and stiffen as he jerked at the wheel. Then there was a sickening swerve and a breath-taking skid. She opened her eyes to see another car skidding, to find headlights blaz ing into her face. It was over in stantly—yet it seemed to take hours. The approaching car swung off the road in the effort to avoid Kirk. Kirk jerked his to the right . . . and there they were, these two cars, running-board to running-board—the getiileness of their contact a mock ery of the tragedy which might have been. It had been an awful moment, a terrifying moment. Kay experienced some difficulty in breathing. In the glare of their own headlights she recognized Harvey Jackson, a young civil engineer who had lived in Bev erly all his life. She saw that his cheeks were pasty. He seemed frightened—and angry. She knew that Kirk was trembling with fury and nervous reaction. She heard his voice, cold as snapping icicles. “Why the hell don’t you look where you’re driving?” Harvey Jackson’s face flushed. He said, “It was your fault, Reynolds.” The girl glanced at Kirk, and was frightened. She heard him saying things to the other man: insulting things, profane things. He was bit ter and unfair. His words knifed into Harvey Jackson and Kay real ized that even so placid a person as the young engineer was losing con trol of himself. Jackson said, “Lay off that, Kirk. I don’t like it.” “I don’t give a damn what you like.” Kay put out her hand. “Please, Kirk . . .” He shook her off. Roughly. Other wise, he gave no hint that he knew she was there. “I told you to quit talking like that,” said Harvey Jackson. “And I tell you . . .” Kirk was in the grip of an unreasoning rage. “When you say it was my fault, Jackson, you lie! ” Harvey Jackson climbed out of his car. He said, "I don’t take that from any man, Reynolds.” “You’ll take it from me.” “Not if you get out of that car.” “I’ll get out all right.” Kay’s protest was lost in the night. She knew it was all Kirk’s fault: the original accident, the bitterness of the unnecessary quarrel, tne im pending fight. And it was going to be a fight. Kirk was beyond control. Harvey Jackson was flushed and angry. He stood in the road with fists clenched, waiting. He looked competent—and dangerous. He was larger than Kirk: taller and broader. He said, “I’m warning you, Reynolds—” Even in that moment Kay knew that Kirk was at fault. She could not blame Harvey Jackson. He had sought to avoid this clash, his pa tience had been stretched beyond the point of resiliency. Kay w»i sorry for both men. She knew that this crisis had flared from nerves strained oy the shock of imminent disaster. The impending conflict was senseless—and inevitable. She wanted to look away, but shs couldn’t. The scene fascinated her: the quiet, deserted road; the dread ful accident which had so miracu lously been averted; the deadly fury which had metamorphosed Kirk. And then the awful thing hap pened. Suddenly. Unbelievably. Sh» had read about such things. Sh« had seen them in pictures. But nev er—until this moment—had she be lieved they could be. Even now when she saw Kirk’s hand snap out from under his left armpit; when she heard the sharp, vicious crack of the little automatic; when she saw flame spit into th« night . . . even then it was unbe- lievable. It was only when she saw an expression of startled incredulity appear on the face of Harvey Jack- son, that the thing became real- even in the slightest degree. Never before had she seen a hu man being die. It was nauseating, the way his body sagged, slowly; then slumped to the ground. Sha jumped from the car and bent over him, eyes wide with horror and dis belief; brain refusing to credit the evidence of her senses. She was conscious of the horrid thought that Harvey Jackson couldn’t be com fortable, lying all sprawled out that way. She reached out to touch the body but strong fingers closed on her arm and an icy voice said, “Let him alone.” She was sobbing when Kirk jerked her back to the car and flung her into the seat. She said, “You’re not going to leave him there . . . like that . . .?” His voice was sharp. It was like no other voice she had ever heard. It said, “Shut up! And get yourself under control.” CHAPTER III It was difficult for Kay Forrest to realize that she had been wit ness to a murder, to remember that back yonder at the edge of the road was an empty car and the body of a man. It was even more difficult to make herself believe that the stony-faced person at her side had just taken a human life. Her nerves were shattered, her eyes clouded with a terror of ap prehension. Her thoughts darted off at tangents, but returned always to that sprawling figure by the side of the road back yonder. She found herself thinking, “Harvey is dead ...” “Kirk will be punished ...” Then, out of the silence came Kirk’s voice. It was detached, impersonal, casual. It frightened her. He said, “Sorry, Kay,” and when she tried to answer him, the words would not come. He said then, “Pull yourself to gether.” She moistened dry lips. “Oh, Kirk . . .” “It was lotten. But I couldn’t help it. I lost my head.” “Yes . . .” “It’s done.”’ His voice was flat. “There ain’t anything we can do to* undo it.” She dabbed at dry eyes with a bit of handkerchief. He asked, “Still scared?” “Yes.” “Got to get over It. Right now." He was right. Of course. Then words came from her, words freighted with hysteria. “Oh, Kirk . . . what will they do?” He said, “Nothing.”' “But when they find out . . .” “They won’t. Nobody saw. Ex cept you. And you won’t tell.” “I’m afraid . . .” “Of course you are. I’m afraid, too.” Queer how his calmness was steadying her jagged nerves. Sha heard him speaking again. “Thera are certain things you’ve got to ra- member. The first one is that wg never went near that road tonight. We never saw Jackson.” “But if they ask me . . . ?” “They won’t ask you.” His voice was low. Insistent. Beating through her terror with a strange, hypnotio effect. “They’ll never think of us ia connection with it.” “But if they do . . . ?” “They won’t. Unless you give yourself away.” He drove on in si lence. Then, “Feeling some bet ter?” “I—I don’t know. I’m sick . . .” “Sure you are. But there are some things you’ve got to under stand." It was an adult talking to a frightened child. “Try to under stand this: right or wrong—Jackson is dead. You are the only person who saw me do it. And you’re not going to talk. Understand?” “No . . .” “If the truth ever came out, they’d hang me. Harvey Jackson was popular in Beverly. I’m un popular. I wouldn’t have a chance. But remember this: hanging me isn’t going to bring him back to life.” He was quiet. Logical. She had a fleeting vision of Kirk on the gal lows . . . the same Kirk Reynolds who had danced with her that night, who had been a part of a gay eve ning. “They’d hang me,” Kirk was say ing, “and it wouldn’t do Jackson any good.” A simple statement. An unanswer able one. He spoke again, “Can you keep it to yourself?” “I’ll try.” “That’s not enough.” “But if they should suspect . . “Get this!” His voice was sad- denly sharp. It knifed into her, “And get it straight: you’re goinf to string along with me.” (TO BE CONTINUED) !OP° SEW 4- Ruth Wyeth Spears pans should have their own tow els. Here is a simple way to make that logic work. Write across the corner of each towel with a soft pencil the purpose for which it is to be used. Use a soft pencil and your best script with the tall let ters at least two inches high. If you want to trace the words from paper, blacken the back of the paper with your pencil, place it black side down on the material, then draw the outline. Work over the hand writing with heavy, bright colored embroidery thread. Chain stitch, as shown here at the upper right, gives a good strong outline and may be done quickly. Use a different color for each kind of towel. Colored Intelligence Classified A classification of the popula tion of the United States according to varying degrees of intelligence divides the population into the fol lowing groups: Class A, 3 per cent, capable of professional training; class B, 20 per cent, capable of col lege training; class C, 54 per cent, capable of high school training; class D, 20 per cent ( high and a few low grade morons; class E, 3 per cent, hopelessly feeble-mind ed and lower morons. facings of prepared bias binding used flat as shown at the lower left make a practical edge finish. If you use flour and sugar sacks for dish towels, these suggestions for adding color will be especially useful. GOOD NEWS is here for every homemaker. SEWING BOOK No. 3 is now ready for mailing. It contains 32 useful homemaking ideas, with all directions clearly illustrated. You will be delighted with it. The price of this new book is only 10 cents postpaid. En close coin with name and address to Mrs. Spears, 210 S. Desplaines St., Chicago, 111. Try THIS for Malaria! When Malaria hits you or your family this year, get a bottle of Wintersmith’s Tonic the first thing. Wintersmith’s has been proven by over 70 years of use. It has helped thousands upon thousands of peo ple. Ask for Wintersmith’s by name. It your dealer doesn’t stock it, he can get it for you. Ask himl WINTERSMITH'S TONIC Honest Labor Honor lies in honest toil.—Grov er Cleveland. A GREAT BARGAIN VESPER TEA PURE ORANGE PEKOE 50 Cups for lO Cents Ask Your Grocer i Greatest Want He that wants hope is the poor est man alive. , Judge Not Forbear to judge, for we are sinners all.—Shakespeare. Father of Pleasure Novelty is the great parent of pleasure.—South. Use Acid-Free Quaker State Motor Oil egularly. Your car will run farther before ou need to add a quart . . . you save on epair bills. These results are assured be- ause every drop of Quaker State is acid- ree. You get only pure, rich, heat-resistant abricant specifically refined to give you are-free driving. Quaker State Oil Refin- ag Corporation, Oil City, Pennsylvania.