SACRIFICE
By JOEL HARNETT
SAM LEWIS sat in the circular, little park in City Hall and threw peanut shells to the pigeons that fluttered around him. The pigeons would hop over to where the shells were, look at them, and then turn their beaks away and fly off. Sam knew very well they wouldn't eat that stuff. "Damn boids," he would murmur; then he would bite into another peanut.
Sam, occupying the entire bench, had his legs spread straight out in front of him, his arms, perpendicular to his body, dangling on the back of the thing, and his chubby body half-sitting halflying on the seat. There was a scowl on his ruddy face. "Damn boids," he would mutter, "they're a helluva pain."
Just then the peal of church bells interrupted Sam's contemplation. "Dere's those bells eight hell! back to that stinking stand hell! He pulled his disjointed frame together, yawned and after hurling a few parting expletives at the "boids," he ambled off to his stand.
The stand was on a corner two blocks south of the park, opposite the BMT subway entrance. It was a box-like structure decorated with antiquated and battered bills, except for a new "Read the New York News" sign nailed to the bottom of the counter. When Sam approached it, a redhaired man was waiting in front of it for him.
"Seventy five NEWS, sixty TIMES, seventy MIRRORS," was his greeting.
Sam nodded.
"Be back at twelve with the rest."
"All right, but for God's sake don't be late."
"Don't worry. See you later."
"So long."
Sam fished a key out of his pocket and opened the side door. There was a loud squeak and the door flew open. "That's a helluva a door," he complained.
Once inside the stand he set to work putting everything in order for the nine o'clock crowds. Then he walked outside and hauled in the papers the red-headed boy had left and began to arrange them in orderly piles. After he finished all of this,
he drew three iron weights from the bottom of the counter and placed them on the piles of paper.
Then he leaned against the wall of his stand, drew a pipe from his pocket and propped it in his mouth. Drops of perspiration coursed their way slowly down his forehead into his eyes. He spent a moment cursing the heat; then he produced a large, coarse handkerchief from his pants pocket and mopped the sweat. In his effort he knocked the pipe out of his mouth. There was a dull thud of wood meeting corncob. He fumed.
"NEWS please," a sweet voice requested.
"Huh-Oh Sure! . . . Here you are lady."
She dropped two cents on the counter and walked off.
He watched her body sway as she disappeared. "Well ain't she a sweet one?" he commented.
The crowd had begun to form; so Sam kicked the pipe into a corner and prepared for business . He had no trouble getting rid of his papers so that by twelve o'clock he needed more. The redheaded boy arrived punctually, gave Sam the afternoon editions together with some foreign papers , and left.
"Be back at eight," he flung over his shoulder as he walked off.
Sam nodded.
Sam sorted the papers given to him. Then he sat down behind the counter and gazed at the people who passed by. ·
"Geez would you look at that woman! Those whores must make a fortune. Boy! that dress really hangs on to those coives ! There's the dude again. Spats and cane-who the hell does he think he is!"
"Post please," a stoutish woman said as she laid a "five" on the counter.
"Here's your change lady." He dropped three cents in the collection cup.
"You'd think she was the queen of Sheba . . . fat damn women! She had the rocks though. First five I've seen here in a long time. There's Murphy Hell, I better no dat' s right, I paid him last week. 1Dat' s the last time I give him
( 3 ]
a hand-out. Damn, dumb flatfoot jerk! Wish some gangster would poke his teeth out. Dumb flatfoot!"
"Pardon me sir, but do you have the HERNDON MERCATOR?"
"What!"
"I said, do you have the HERNDON MERCATOR?" the voice persisted.
"The Hernia Mere. . . . "
"No! no!" the voice insisted just a trifle embarrassedly, "Herndon, H as in Hannah, e as " 10.
"I know, e as in my mudder-in-law. No, and we don't have the Emporia Gazette either."
"Gee, that's funny," the voice mumbled sadly as it faded off into the crowd.
"Damn dumb characters Herndon Hah!"
At twelve o'clock the crowds filled the streets and walked out into the road. Sam's stand was like bargain day in Macy's basement.
After one o'clock business was very slow and Sam generally slipped out from behind the counter in order to grab some lunch at the "Chockfull-of-Nuts" place next to the subway entrance. He was able to watch his stand since the place had an open-air counter; but there weren't any customers anyway.
About three o'clock Sam began to get a little weary and he began to dream. He leaned up against the wall of his stand and smoked his corn cob pipe. The smoke curled in front of his face and floated out into space, and his heart went with it. For Sam genuinely hated the city. He had lived in it for sixty years, and he hated it more and more with each passing day.
He would never dream of his own life; for his life was colorless as the sidewalks in front of him. But he would see himself cheated from success. He saw himself, in a vague way, mounted on a great steed leading legions of men on to great victories. He saw himself a powerful writer-he could hardly write his own name-a creator of masterful and poignant dramas. He saw himself an athlete waving at thousands of admiring "kids." He saw himself a hero in countless ways, a master of men, the ideal of woman.
Above all, Sam wanted ·exaltation. He wanted people to stop and single him out, to point to him with admiration and exclaim,""See that man, that's Sam Lewis - one of the greatest men the city
has." But nobody would; nobody ever would. So Sam was bitter. He blamed every conceivable thing for his obscurity-his parents, his friends, the filthy city. But he hated the people he saw before him every day the most. They were the ones that scorned him, ignored him. It was they who held him in bondage behind this wooden prison and forced him to serve their needs. He even believed it was they who were responsible for his heart condition.
Sam used to think himself comparable to the lions in front of the big, public library. He was always there, in the same place, and everybody took him for granted; yet nobody noticed him. But stone lions never got heart attacks. So Sam was bitter. But the sharpness was a cloak for the yearning of the man.
"Vende Ud. la Prensa."
"Huh!" Sam said. He was now fully awake.
"La Prensa," the other iterated.
"Oh . . . Oh!" he muttered and turned to some papers lying in a corner of the stand. "That will be five cents."
"EH!"
"Five," Sam said. "See." He held up five fingers. "Savvy."
"Ah si, si. He deposited the coin on the counter and soon disappeared into the subway entrance.
"Damn foreigners," Sam said.
Sam had just gotten up from his seat in the park, and he was strolling over to his stand down the street. Over his head there was a low, whining sound. Glancing upwards, he saw a huge bomber cruising through the sky. As he lowered his head his gaze fell down the avenue and rested on his battered little stand. Then a funny thing happened, something Sam never experienced before. He felt a wave of satisfaction sweep his body, and he felt like an artist who, after many weeks of arduous labor, steps back and views the true beauty of his efforts.
All at once he saw himself the center of a huge network. He saw himself the distributor of knowledge to the people of the city. It was he who depended upon them, no, it was they who depended upon him. A smile creased his lips. He felt like shouting, like yelling to the world how great his happiness was. He was a successful man, (Con.ti4med 01~ pa.ge 16)
DelilahandtheProdigalSon
Anonymous
The sun was setting.
Irresolutely the Prodigal Son walked down the rough pathway which led to what had once been his home. Home! Again and again he repeated the word. Nothing had ever affected this man so much before as did this homecoming. Bathed in the glory of the dying sun ' s reflection, the surroundings reminded him of that evening fourteen years ago, when, only a headstrong boy, he had run away. Now, jaded and disgraced, he was returning, leaving behind him a past that would ever rise to convict and condemn him.
Yes, here was homeland-dreamland. Here he had spent the happiest days of his unhappy life-days of illusions, days of kindling visions, days of ambition and hope, days crowned with a halo of glory, days gone, but never to be forgotten. Familiar objects touched a tender chord on the harp of his memory. He gazed at them wistfully, tenderly, and associated them with some incidents in his life The old dead pine was still standing. Well he remembered the time the lightning struck it, killing it. Once he had performed the difficult and hazardous feat of climbing to the top of this limbless tree to cut his initials in the soft decayed wood. There was the brook, still leaping and sparkling and quarreling with its pebbly bottom. Often he had waded and swum in its cold crystal waters and sent small boats, outfitted with paper sails and loaded with sandy and pebbly cargo, on perilous voyages. Here and there was a post of the fence he helped his father build long ago.
A cool, keen wind, just sprung from the west, bringing with it the salty odor and dampness from the bay , fanned his flushed cheeks. A mosquito whined in his ear. Another landed on his neck and injected its quill. Afar off a dog barked . In the woods back of the house a barnyard owl, realizing that its day was dawning, began rejoicing in its dismal , nerve racking manner. Home! Reminiscences! A tear stole from the Prodigal' s eye, crept down his face and splashed against his hand.
As was the case with the Prodigal Son in Christ's parable and has been f he case with subsequent Prodigal Sons, this young man had sinned, thrown
away his manhood , and now, filled with shame and repentance, was seeking reconciliation with his parents. And like all Prodigal Sons, he feared that his crime was so great it made the separation between his parents and him beyond any reasonable expectation of reconciliation. He would grovel at his father ' s feet. And his mother-he had a sickening feeling his mother was dead. Poor thing, she had always suffered from poor health, and surely his youthful folly had brought her to a premature grave. But now, God and father willing, he would make amends
When he entered the yard he was seized with a nameless fear . The old farmhouse had undergone several changes. The shutters had been blown down or else had been torn off. The house stood sadly in need of paint. The barn was gone. The stables were gone. There was nothing about this unattractive dwelling to remind him of the home he once knew and still loved. Was his father also dead ? If not, would his father recognize him and welcome him , who had been everything but a dutiful and loving son?
Impelled by a desire he did not encourage, the Prodigal Son went to the front door, knocked, and waited. Failing to get a response, he knocked agatn He heard the scraping of a chair, the approach of footsteps, and the grate of a key in the lock. The door opened. The Prodigal Son gasped. For facing him was a man , old and bent, a stranger.
"Evenin ' sir," was the old man ' s greeting
The Prodigal Son at a loss for words nodded.
"An ' who be ye lookin' fer? " the old man insisted .
"Does Jason Harper live here?" the Prodigal managed to ask.
" Laws no! He moved out six-no-lessee-seven years ago. Ye must be a stranger in these parts not to know where ole Jason lives."
"I am." Young Harper smiled wanly. " Could you give me a few minutes of your time, please?"
"Why shore. Just step in , won ' t ye. The 'skeeters are suthin fierce out here. "
The Prodigal Son entered. This was not the house he left fourteen years ago. The room was scantily furnished; the paper on the wall was dirty ( 9 )
and greasy; the floor was half covered with a rug almost in the threadbare state. He decided the old man's wife must be dead; nothing in this house denoted the feminine touch.
"Wontcha take a chair, sir? That's right. Jest make yourself comfortable. P'tu." An enormous wad of tobacco juice went in search of the spittoon.
"I know ole Jason Harper well. Me an' him had many a good time together. We was as wild critters as ever grew up. I'd hev been dead if I hadn't of joined the church. Take it from me, mister, a wild life don't pay. It don't pay. P'tu. Henley's my name. Bob's the front part.
"Ole Jason quit his wildness after he got married. I was away at the time on a whalin' schooner. Never seen Jason ag'in fer twenty years. Doggone these skeeters." Henley brought his hand down upon his arm with considerable vigor, thus ending the career of an overbold mosquito.
"Is Mr. Harper's wife dead?" asked the Prodigal Son tremulously. He knew what the answer would be.
"Yep. After she died, Jason sold this place to me. I've been living here-lessee--seven years. Be you any kin to Jason, mister?"
"Jason Harper and I are dear friends."
"P'tu. Ye can afford to bet your boots ole Jason an' I are the same. And mister-" Henley paused to deal sudden destruction to another mosquito.
"The skeeters are tryin' theirselves lately. It's been rainin' fer the last month off an' on. An' the steetistics around here is sixteen skeeters to a drop of water. Are they bitin' you, mister?"
Harper smiled mirthlessly.
"I should say so."
"Ain't use to them are ye?"
"No."
"Nor I nuther. They have me lookin' like a porous plaster, yet I ain't use to them."
"Jason Harper had a son, hadn't he?"
"P'tu. Yep. This boy ran away and wasn't heard of until a few years ago. Ole Jason moved heaven an' earth to get the kid back ag'in. But no use. Then report came he got killed in France."
"Killed in France?"
"So the report said. Ole Jason got it out of a newspaper. But he didn't get no official report from the government. So Jason's doubtful. He says he don't know but what his boy might still be alive." Swack.
"What did he say?" Harper prompted eagerly.
"Said he'd ruther his son be lyin' some 'ers in France, a hero, than be walkin' the streets of some city, a slacker."
The Prodigal Son's heart leaped. These words had the same effect upon him a blow would have had.
"How did the boy's death affect the old man?" Harper asked huskily.
"Upset him a good deal. Although he don't know fer sure, the old man has persuaded hisself to believe his son is dead-a hero."
Harper thought swiftly. Old Jason must never know his son was a slacker, must never know his son was alive. There was but one thing the Prodigal could do--assure Harper his boy died heroically in France.
"I can tell you about Harper's son Argie," offered the Prodigal Son. "We were Buddies Over There. He was the closest friend I ever had, except my parents-" Sobs choked him. Then silence.
For a full minute the silence was so profound as to be ominous. The only sounds to break it were the ticks of the clock on the mantle and the occasional whine of a mosquito and the labored breathing of Harper.
Finally Henley ejected his tobacco; took out his pipe and lit it; once more relaxed. Then he encouraged Harper to continue.
"Davis is my name," went on Harper, "Fred Davis. I come from New Hampshire. Argie and I met in a camp on this side. We became friends immediately. When I first saw him, I didn't know that Argie would save my life and pay for it witl1 his."
"Go on, son," prompted the older man.
"I was wounded. I was barely conscious. Everywhere guns were booming. Men were falling like tenpins. Argie picked me up, and started toward our trench. The poor fellow was killed and-" Harper buried his face in his hands.
"Go on, son."
"Dying, Argie told me the story of his life. Between sobs he begged me to find his father and tell his father how he died. This I promised to do.
"I am afraid, Mr. Henley, I haven't time to see Mr. Harper. Will you kindly tell him what I have told you?"
"I shore will, son. The news will make ole Jason feel like a boy ag'in. Let me thank ye fer him." Henley held out his hand, which the younger man quickly and firmly clasped.
[ 10 J
"Argie' s father is well, is he?''.
"Yep. Ole Jason's nearly rich in the bargain. He's got the finest house in these parts." Henley lowered his voice. "Son, you're Jason's friend an' so am I. I'd like to tell ye somethin' confidentiallike. Jason's gettin' old now. It's time he stopped thinkin' about the women. But a pretty actress from Noo York is gettin' him to think she likes him. An' Jason's goin' crazy over her. Wal, son, between you an' me, this woman don't care a thing fer him. What she's after is his money."
"What's her name?"
"Dunno. It's a queer name."
"Where can I find her?"
"Probably at the Commercial Hotel."
The Prodigal Son arose, went slowly toward the door, and, without a word of thanks or of parting, left the house.
Harper did not know what to do nor just how to do it. His mind was in a quandary. Should he go to the hotel and have an interview with the actress? But such an interview would call for the disclosure of his identity. He felt it was his duty never to let his father know the truth. Still was it not also his duty to save his father from a grafter? He realized he must be careful in evolving a plan and executing it.
Five minutes hard walking and thinking did not improve the perplexing situation. Harper clenched and unclenched his hands in his agitation. He lit a cigarette to steady his nerves.
All of a sudden he found himself in the glare of an automobile light. The car was parked. He discerned a feminine form bending over the hood, evidently trying to get the engine in working order. Coming nearer, he thought he heard the driver say "Damn." A few seconds later there followed a repetition of this rather trite but ever used and useful colorful expletive.
"Can-er may I be of some assistance?" the Prodigal Son volunteered.
"Indeed yes!" The woman stepped aside. "The engine's gone crazy, I think. I'm certainly glad you happened along."
Harper laugher.
"You thought some one was approaching, so you turned the lights on to make sure."
Her rich mellow laugh joined in "My predicament made it imperative that I resort to some desperate measure."
The Prodigal Son gasped. Where had he heard
that familiar voice before? He peered into the woman's face. He gasped again. And at that moment she recognized him.
"Flo Conway!"
"Denny Dawson!"
She was the first to recover. She laughed.
"Denny, surely you' re a sight for sore eyes. Cheer up, old boy, I'm not a ghost. I'm very much alive. Your old pal Flo never felt much better."
"Flo, you here?" asked Harper m a strained whisper.
"Looks like it, doesn't it." She held out her hand. Harper appeared not to notice it. She frowned and continued, "Denny, I never expected to find you in these parts. Reformed, eh? Living a better and saner life, I suppose?"
"Still at your old game, Flo?"
"Sure Denny. One must make a living, mustn't one?''
"It wouldn't do much good if I'd ask you to come clean, Flo?" The Prodigal' s voice rang with sincerity.
She pouted her lips in her pretended displeasure. "Denny," she chided, "how many times have I told you not to talk on such disagreeable subjects?"
"Flo, can't you see I'm serious?"
"What! Denny Dawson, the crook Romeo, serious! Unbelievable!"
"What kind of game are you up to around here?" rasped Harper savagely.
The woman leisurely produced her vanity bag from somewhere. This done, she proceeded to powder her nose and give her alluring lips an extra coating. She countered suavely, 'TH put the same question to you, Denny boy."
''I've come clean. I came here to get away from you and your kind, Flo Conway. The life I've lived among the gang has seared my mind, branded my soul. I'll never forget. But I can begin again ."
"Nobly spoken," she mocked. "My friend, Denny the crook, still has his outbursts of poetry. He-"
"Cut that stuff." Denny roughly seized her wrist in a grip that hurt. She slapped him with her free hand.
"Keep your paws off me, Denny Dawson. Reprimand me all you please, but don't resort to physical violence. You may have cause to regret it if you do."
The Prodigal released her.
11 J
"You haven't answered my question, Flo?" he insisted quietly.
"Repeat it."
"What is your game in this town?"
"Very well, I'll relieve you of your suspense," she came quite close to him. Her voice weakened into a confidential whisper. "You remember, Denny, that last conversation we had, when you told me you had quit the game and offered me sound advice. Then it was I told you I was working for big stakes. I told you about that rich old beezer I met in a cabaret." She laughed. "You remember, Denny?"
"Go on," he commanded impatiently.
'Tm still working for the big stakes. But my goal is now in sight. The old bird is like clay in the hands of the potter. He thinks I'm an actress of international reputation. He's under the impression my name is Pola Marovitch, and that ten thousand dollars will-"
"Don't go any farther, Flo. I know the rest. Still at your old game of breaking men's hearts and wrecking their lives."
"One must make a living, mustn't one?" she repeated.
"Come, Flo, begin at the beginning. Try some honest method of making your living."
"Too late," she said with finality. "Too late. I'll never be anything but a grafter. Please see what you can do with my car. The mosquitoes are trying to devour me. Besides, I'm in a hurry."
"Plenty of time. The old man can wait. The longer you keep him waiting, the longer he'll cling to his ten thousand. Lord, Flo, you' re hard to resist. Your artificial charms would tempt the devil."
"They never had much effect on you, Denny dear."
"No, thank God. I kflew you too well. I know too many men whose hearts you've broken, whose lives you've destroyed."
Her mocking laugh echoed in his ears.
"Poor fool, you think you know me, but you don't. You don't. Can't you tell when a woman's in earnest. I loved you as I have never loved before or since."
"Bah!" he snorted.
"It's true. I swear it's true,• Mock me if you wish. Humiliate me all you please;But when you refused me, you killed every desire I had to be respectable."
"Bah!" he repeated.
" 'Bah' to your heart's content, damn you. Believe me or not, I loved you once as much as-asas I hate you now."
"Woman, don't talk to me of love. Love is tcio sacred, too elemental a thing to be polluted by your lips. I know you too well to believe a word you' re tell_ingme. Pull that stuff on rich old men who are unacquainted with your kind."
His brutal words made her wince. But she stood their attack bravely. The only reply she had was,
"Please try to find the cause of my engine trouble, Denny."
"Very well." He peeled off his coat. He fumbled with the wires and plugs. Presently he looked up.
"Don't see anything wrong, Flo. How long did you have car trouble before you parked?"
"The darn thing ran perfectly until I had my gasoline tank filled."
Harper laughed.
"You may know men's hearts but you know little about machines," he declared.
"Well, machinist, what's the trouble?"
"The bird that sold you the gasoline tipped you a little water. Result: Your carburetor has water in it. It has to be cleaned."
He undertook the arduous task. Twenty minutes later, sweating, grimacing, he informed her her engine was in working order.
Thanking him, she climbed into the car.
''I've something of importance to say to you, Denny," she said, in a cold professional manner.
"I've something just as important to say to you," he returned grimly. "Say your say first."
"I know you hate me. I'm just as certain I hate you. It's only natural for crooks to hate one another." She modulated her voice. "Once a crook, always a crook. Denny, that's my motto. You can't reform. You're a fool to try. I'll tell you what I'll do: I'll split the ten thousand with you, Denny, if you go back to New York with me."
"Thanks." This with fine sarcasm. "But I can't accept your liberal offer. When I said I was going to take the straight and narrow I meant it."
"Oh, well," she said resignedly.
"Now I'll have my say," Harper's voice was low, hoarse, menacing. "Quit this neighborhood, Flo Conway. If you don't, I'll go to the old man and spill the beans."
Laughingly she started the motor.
"Oh no you won't, dear," she mocked.
[ 12}
"Why not?" he demand(:d raucously.
"Because I'd also spill the beans, and give you a chance to do your reforming in prison."
Before the Prodigal could collect his wits, the car had gone.
Jason Harper and Flo Conway were seated in the semi-darkness of Harper's richly furnished parlor.
Harper's eyes gleamed fire. His husky voice, rising scarcely above a whisper, was hoarse with exultation. His heavy hands, which stroked the woman's hair and patted her shoulders, shook. He had but to want a thing to get it. He took great pride in his possessions a~d in his capacity for securing them. As soon as he desired anything, his desire immediately became a fancied reality. Already this woman, with whom he was infatuated, was his, his !
Flo Conway, clothed in a sleeveless gown which showed her form with sharp distinctness and which revealed a far more generous view of her bosom than modesty or decency allowed, spoke to him softly, her voice having a musical and mellow quality. Occasionally her flow of honeyed words was interrupted by a rippling laugh. She was a born actress, a schemer, a beautiful woman possessing that desirable gift and magnetic charm called personality. She secretly rejoiced over her power of taking men's hearts into captivity.
Safely hidden behind the portiere that divided the living room and the parlor, a disgruntled spectator of the proceedings, the Prodigal Son promptly breathed an oath. He did not approve of swearing; but swear he did whenever the occasion seemed to fit the demand. The scene he beheld was shocking, repulsive. He was possessed of an impulse to rush forward and denounce the grafter. But immediately he checked that impulse.
His predicament was grimly humorous. There was his father, whom he had not seen in fourteen years, whom he loved dearly, being deceived by a grafter, and he was powerless to prevent it. Should he come out of his concealment, his father would not believe him. Flo would bitterly denounce him, ridicule him. His frenzied mind was already depicting the scene with convincing clearness:
His father would give an involuntary start. Flo would slightly arch her eyebrows and smile her sardonic, mirthless smile.
"Who are you?" Old Jason would demand, leaping to his feet.
"Your son Argie."
"What! Was not Argie killed in F ranee?"
Then Flo would laugh and say, "Don't listen to this fellow. He's a crook. His name is Denny Dawson. He's never been any nearer France than Brooklyn. Why he's a slacker, a crook, an imposter."
At bay, the Prodigal would cry, "Dad! Dad, part of what she says is true. I've never been to France. I'm a slacker. I was a crook. But, thank God, I've reformed. I want to warn you against this woman who--"
But Flo would not let him finish. She would tell Mr. Harper in her suave persuading way of acertain crime he committed that would send him to the penitentiary.
No, he must not denounce Flo. She was too formidable an enemy. But he must think! think! There must be some way to save his father.
"You' re the ideal type of womanhood," Old Jason, whimsically poetical, was declaring. "You're irresistible-wonderful-a pearl of great price-to be longed for, worshipped, even idolized-but never to be possessed."
He made an effort to embrace her, but she adroitly eluded him. Then she moved quite close to him, until her artificially ripened lips were within a few inches of his; and one of her bare arms crept around his neck. His massive arms encircled her, crushed her to him, his lips found hers. The shackles of age had dropped off Harper's shoulders; elasticity had returned to his wasted muscles; the dying spark of romance within him had kindled into a consuming flame!
The Prodical Son looked on with mingled pity for his father and hatred for the woman. Samson and Delilah! How big and strong his father looked. How easily he could crush the woman with his huge hands. But he was at her mercy. The Prodigal clenched his hands and ground his teeth in impotent wrath.
Suddenly Jason Harper thrust the woman from him, gained his feet with a leap.
"You vixen! I'm helpless, helpless. What kind of spell have you cast over me? I love you-love you madly. My infatuation has dethroned my reason," he cried huskily.
The woman rose. She placed her arm upon his shoulder. He removed it. Involuntarily she threw both arms around his neck. [ 13]
"Jason, you mean the world to me," she assured him.
"Child, this can't go on. I'd be mad if I thought it. I'm old enough to be your father."
"Hush, Jason," she reproved him, as if he were a child. "Hush. Love makes the old young. Tonight you are in your prime. And I love you Jason. I love you."
"Pola," he whispered. "Pola."
"Jason," came her musical response. "Jason ." "Pola, you'll be a great actress some day."
"Then my Jason will be proud of me. He'll be glad he gave me ten thousand. Ten thousand is such a small amount when one considers the welfare of someone one loves."
"But ten thousand dollars is a great deal of money, Pola-"
"You'll hardly miss it, Jason. Think! Think what my success on the stage will mean to both of us."
"For you I'd make any sacrifice, my darling."
"I knew you wouldn't go back on your promise. You' re the dearest man in the world."
The Prodigal promptly breathed another oath But this oath expressed more reverence than profanity. He must act-act quickly. He prayed for inspiration. Of a sudden the inspiration came.
Taking a final look at the stalwart figure of his father, he left his position, crept to the window he left hoisted after he had entered, and climbed out. He made his way to Flo's car, clambered in, and waited.
He was confident of his success. Surely Flo did not really hate him. He found himself pitying her more than he hated her. Both were crooks; therefore, they distrusted and disliked each other. If they would reform, would not their attitude toward each other change?
Eternity checked off one slowly passing hour. No Flo. The Prodigal, cramped and tired and chilly, shifted his position, and lit his fifth cigarette Then he relaxed once more and fell in a doze.
A gasp awoke him. Looking up, he saw Flo bending over him. She laughed when he gave a start.
"What's the game now?" There was iciness in her voice.
"Flo, be seated please," he said softly.
Wondering, she obeyed.
"Girl, we are Children of Destiny, aren't we?"
She gazed at him quizzically, but did not answer.
"Flo, life hasn't been fair to us. We've sunk deep in crime. But can't we begin again?"
"Denny," she interposed angrily, "How many times have I given you my answer? How many times must I give it?"
"Think, Flo. Think. You do not want to do wrong. There is something deep within you that condemns every evil thought you have, every evil deed you commit. This spark divine we may call the soul."
She laughed disdainfully.
"So now you've entered the ministry, have you?"
"Although you mock me, you know I speak the truth. There is a better side to every one of us. I know it. You know it. I believe in God, Flo, don't you?"
"Denny!"
"Sure you do. When we remove God from our lives we kill every sense of moral obligation. Manhood and womanhood degenerate into mere animalism."
"Denny, what in-"
"Girl, you know you have noble impulses. Why not obey them? Give up this life for my sake."
"For your sake, Denny?"
"Flo, you once said you loved me. Try to revive a little of that love. If you can that's proof that good lives in you yet. It's proof sufficient that you can once more be spotless, honest."
"Could you expect me to love you now, Denny?" she asked in a humble pathetic voice that was not Flo's.
"Try, girlie, try. Let both of us give up our past, go to some town where no one will know us, and build a little cottage."
Her whole being responded to a violent vibration. But she said nothing.
"We'll buy a farm, raise co~s and geese and chickens. Haven't you ever pictured such a future? Haven't you prayed and hoped for such a time to come? Then I can spend my days doing an honest man's work. Then every evening we'll stroll down the path, hand in hand, and watch the reflection of the setting sun on the brook. Don't you think that we, amid those rustic peaceful surroundings, where the air is pure and everything is beautiful, can learn to love each other?"
Flo was crying softly.
"Denny, you've taught me to have interest in humanity, faith in God, and respect for the better things of life."
[ 14]
"You' re really honest with me when you say that, Flo?"
"Yes, Denny dear, this is one time I'm on the level. And I'm happy."
"If you're happy, then what do you think I am?"
He leaned over and kissed her.
"How many chickens shall I raise my first year, Denny dear?"
"As many as you like, my darling."
They kissed again.
His eyes were grim-but his heart was glad. Tomorrow they would be miles away-and his father would be safe from the girl beside him. ., ., .,
Diary in Wartime
(Continued from page 5)
Then we came to the spring. I've written already how still and yet how alive the woods were, how the breezes whispered of new life, and the whole world around me quivered with the stirring of a power that lives and lives and lives. In the stillness I knew that I could carry the best of the past with me without sadness and with a calm awful joy that would lessen and yet strengthen through time lessen in pain grow great as a memory that comes to cheer and not to sadden. I had a date with my husband today. I shall always remember it. For though his grave may be in the hot sands of Africa, he spoke to me in the cool woods. I shall teach my son to live to the
fullest, and to die if life demands it, for dying is living. I shall go on to win from life its pleasures and its pain, for-I had a date with my husband today.
., ., .,
Our Profs
(Continued from page 7) when he determined to take some form of exercise to strengthen his back which had been giving him no end of trouble.
His charming wife is known by all the girls at Westhampton as the efficient librarian of their Reading Room .
For three years prior to his marriage in September 1941, he was an occupant of D-4 Jeter Hall, where he gained the reputation of being "just one of the boys." A passionate enthusiast for hunting and fishing, it is a little-suspected fact that he is an expert rifle and pistol marksman, his favorite being the .45 Colt. In previous years he was a member of the National Riflemen's Association.
He not only teaches German but he has also mastered the enviable art of making one really enjoy learning a subject which at first appears to be dull and uninteresting. It can truly be said that he has been a great contributor to the cultural life of our institution.
With deepest admiration and every good wish for the future, we proudly present to Uncle Sam, N. Wilford Skinner, OUR PROF-
Poem
No tears must spill for us, for we Were through quite long ago. Before the storm had broke, the skies Were grey-this well you know. It is not for the you I left That tears must gently flow.
But for the image in my heart
Of one that I once knew, Times that we met, here in these halls, The warmth that slowly grew, Born of our laughter and our dreamsThere lies my loss of you.
-FELICITY JEANNE APPERLY, '45 [ 15}
