PAGE SIX 8,199 Added To Old Age Beneficiaries Raleigh, July 21. —North Carolina’s 34.113 people receiving old age as sistance on June 30 included 3.199 new cases accepted during the fiscal year. Nathan H. Yelton. director of the division oi public assistance ol the State Board of Charities anl Pub lic Welfare, announced today. Year-end figures compiled by J. S. Kirk, department statistician, showed the 3.199 new cases to oe composed of 5.321 white, 2,329 Negio and 49 Indian, with men accounting for 3,093 and women for 4.506 of the number. Os the additions to the rolls. 9iL ■were living alone, the majority re ceiving from S 3 to $11; while 4.360 with the majority getting grants ranging from $5 to SlO. were living with relatives. At the time of investi gation, 6.876 were receiving no aid. Listed as having no income other were 5,821 persons, while of the 2.378 receiving a small income, 515 were doing so by means of their o\\ n earnings, 505 from the sale ot farm produce, and 1.007 from contribu tions from relatives or friends. Four hundred and ninety-four of the new cases were bedridden, 2.142 required considerable care, and 5,563 were able to care for themselves. Os the 8.199 total. 3.011 were under the care of a physician at the time of in vestigation. The eighteen new cases listed as being 100 years or more in age were composed of four white men, seven white women, one Negro man and six Negro women. Ages of the vast majority of the new cases ranged between 65 and 85 years, while as to sex the 8,199 \\ r ere divided: white —2,571 men. 3.250 women; Negro—l.loo men, 1,229 women: Indian —22 men, 27 women. Only 17 new recipients were for eign born, two of them listing Asia as their birthplace. Urban residence was allotted to 1.936 people, with 1,629 living in towns less than 2.500 population, and 4.634 living on farms. More men were listed among the 2.613 , married recipients, while women predominated in the 4,618 widowed and the 572 single persons. Sixty-eight were divorced and 228 were separated from their former mates. - BAND LEADERS WILL MEET AT DAVIDSON Davidson, July 21.—Bandmasters and music students of high school age from three states will mass on the Davidson campus Tuesday, July 25, to attend a mid-summer band clinic being staged by the college music department. Hundreds of invitations have been extended to high school band direc tors throughout North and South Carolina and Tenness to this day of musical discussion and. instruction at Davidson. Prof. James Christian Pfohl, college music head, announ ced today that special demonstra tions of the State and regional music contest numbers will be given by the Davidson summer school camp band of over fifty pieces. The clinic will defeat “old man temperature” by holding all classes and demon strations in special out-of-door con cert stands on the campus. CASCADE $J |^lsp> !^as&vsss« l^iiXHcisy.vrNTUf^^l 90 PROOP 3m. a. Did' J Distilling Co„ Irjc., lextopton, Kent«el». W/ngsf^l/out/i --(Sjh WRITTEN FOR AND RELEASED BY /Bu HELEN WELSH/MEH CENTRAL TRESS ASSOCIATION / CHAPTER FORTY-TWO “WHAT IS IT, Sarah Anne? We •were going to be friends, you know,” Robert 4 Kennedy’s voice, deep and haunting with its over tones of something too strong for music, yet richly melodic, spoke again from the deep chair where he sat, in the bay window of the little southerr hotel. Across the street, in the court house, the clock chimed four. Sarah Anne thought of another clock, one in an old church tower this time, and an hour it had struck in the moonlight just before the dawn one summer’s night. She and Bob had discovered something important that night. Discovered it, and de cided it was nothing, nothing. One couldn’t go back. The only road went on. She couldn’t see him, except when the lightning flashed. But she knew he was near, for his voice came and went. She would have known anyway, for his presence reached out and drew her closer. But when she answered his ques tion she spoke lightly so he would not know how fast her heart was beating: “Do you recall the night when you rescued the letters and me ?” “I’d like to forget it.” Five sim ple words. Yet the door that was opening swung shut. “Then why don’t you?” Oh, it was no effort now to be light. “One should toss useless memories into a mental waste paper basket and empty the basket every night be fore bedtime.” “Why don’t you like me?” he persisted stubbornly. “Because all the debutantes, do, and I never agree with the glamor girls! No, really, I think you’re nice, ever so nice. But it’s late —and I must go—” She stood up. Something which might have righted her world had back-fired, and she was more con fused than she had been. He did not detain her. He stood, too, and held out a strong, browned hand. % “Good night, Sarah Anne. If I never seen you again, I’ll remem ber your white face and your tou sled hair and your pink dress in the window of an old hotel on a stormy autumn night. . . . I’ll remember them always.” Then he let her go, and she went to bed, but it was light in the streets before she slept. At noon she arose, bathed and dressed and went into a sodden, dreary dining room where the small candle on her table made the only oasis of com fort. » “Rains are worse in the middle west and near the Ohio,” the waitress said. “Tiresome, isn’t it?” Coffee, iced orange juice, but tered toast and jam, and crisp ba con came and went away almost untouched. This afternoon, tonight, all day tomorrow, most of Monday, she must be alone here. Alone! The word became terrifying. All of her life she had had her family, her friends, her church, and this last year her school. She had had more than that. She had cherished the memory of Jack who would be back some day, somehow. She did not mind the loss of Jack. She did not want him. But his going had destroyed a hope, and nothing had taken its place. No, that was not true. Bob had taught her that Jack had been a girlish hero, symbolic of her dreams, never coinciding with any definite pattern. He had measured up to the requirements she set, and then he had told her she wasn’t worthy. And sne hated him! Bitterly, cruelly, terribly. She hated him, and she loved him! She would go home for a day. She would hear the church clock strike and sleep in her own bed under the eaves. She would put on a new girdle of strength and faith for the next week and the next. Yes, that’s what she would do. She could arrange to meet Judith in the next town where they had an en gagement. It was late that evening when she left the train. Her father was waiting for her, and his eyes searched her face. “You’re tired, child.” “No, just so glad to be home!” "Let’s drop into a coffee shop "Welcome Home, Daddy!” jack Dempsey, ex-heavyweight champion, gets a warm welcome from his daughters, £? an . a ?^ : Barbara, as he returns home in New York after convalescing from an appendicitis operation toiiowea by attack of peritonitis. Jack took a walk around the block with the aid of a cane, then called a halt to *!1 ’’ ' further roadwork for the day, HENDERSON, (N. C.) DAILY DISPATCH FRIDAY, JULY 21, 1939 “Rains are worse in the middle west,” the waitress said. and get something to eat. Everyone at the parsonage is sound asleep. By the way, your two namers are back. They can’t stay away since they brought this turmoil on us. They especially want to see you.” “Miss Sarah and Miss Anne?” “Both of them. Here’s a place where we can get some food.” They talked as they ate ham burgers and drank coffee and pres ently the minister said: “Bread is coming back buttered these days. The spinsters gave the church a thousand dollars and gave me a personal check for a thousand, too, today. They want to see you. I think they have some more gifts to bestow. You know, people are mighty good, Sarah Anne. We’ve received another gift at the church —one for five thousand dollars for new pews and a new pulpit and car pet. Toward them, I mean. I wish I could reveal the name of donor.” “You don’t need to. I can guess.” Her voice became bitter. Bob Ken nedy could do this sort of thing and never miss it. She wished that her father had returned the check to him. “He told you?” the minister querried, puzzled. “That’s funny. He especially asked that it be a se cret. Made the check out to me per sonally so I could cash it without letting the church treasurer know. He wanted the gift to be strictly anonymous.” “Probably didn’t want the world to know he gave it,” Sarah Anne answered. The man laughed. “You don’t bear the giver any love, do you? Maybe he just didn’t want his right hand to know what his left was do ing.” Sarah Anne laughed, too, at that, and the conversation drifte toward Corrinne. The rain of the night before had not stopped and it made a screen that created pri vacy and encouraged confidences. She found herself telling her father about Corrinne. "But Bob’s got himself out on a crooked limb,” Reverend Melton said. “The youngster will come out of it all right. It’s nonsense.” “I think his father’s planted some doubts. Goodness knows, the man tried hard enough, but Bob wouldn’t listen before—left home and got a job. Are all men sort of crazy, really?” “Most of them,” the minister re plied, then his voice became seri ous again. “Ransom, senior, is sorry for his influence. That’s why he sent the church that check. He’s not had anything to do with this new upset. It’s probably boy-and girl trouble ...” “Mr. Ransom sent that check?” Sarah Anne was asking in amaze ment. Her father raised his eyes and then laughed. “Now let me ask you a question. Are all women incon sistent? Didn’t you just say you knew who sent that check?” ' “Yes, yes, of course, only I thought it was someone else! I’m beginning to understand a little. Mr. Ransom gave that as an atone ment. He’s sorry about something, he’s done. You know, the way ai little boy fights another and then gives him all his marbles.” Back with Judy, a radiant, starry-eyed Judy, she kept this thought in her mind. Mr. Ransom had played false in some way. He had won back his son. Hadn’t he said he would at any cost? And he thought he could be a hypocriti cal Pharisee whose money would be as good as a prayer to bring for giveness! Now, the next move would be to see Rob Ransom and discover what he had heard that could be so presented he would believe it. If it had anything to do with those foolish letters, that could be right ed. She would take the blame for Corrinne. Yet, how could that en ter in? The letters had been de stroyed and the one man who knew about them believed Corrinne was guiltless. Corrinne, at hefc college, went listlessly into cfesses. She rejected a part in a play because she could not enter a make-believe world with this worry on her mind. She practiced diligently in the gymn*- sium, made the girls’ basketba® team, and went on long walk* along the river which bordered the campus. It was a wide river. * tributary of the Ohio, and some times in the spring and the fall it was so powerful it left the campus under water for several days. Never deep water, just a nice coat ing. She found herself wishing it would become a raging, powerful stream and then was sorry. Too many small wooden houses stood on ! the far side, to risk such a danger. One evening she was called to the telephone in her dormitory. “Hi, Corrinne, this is Bob,” a friendly voice greeted her. A faint voice, speaking over a bad line from far away. Bob! The bitterness and pain went out on a mighty wave. But being young and being independent, she did not slip into a smooth, well-going con versation: “One minute, sweetheart!” He mustn’t know she had worried. “Why am I forgiven, and for what? Better polish up your alibis!” “Hey, wait a minute!” That voice was stronger now. wasn’t Bob Ransom’s. “This is the other one, Bob Kennedy! I’m up in the city. It’s thirty minutes away. How about running in for dinner?” (To Be Continued) < Win ns ijn l/ouT/T ©) WRITTEN FOR AND RELEASED BY g HELEN WELSH/MER f CENTRAL PRESS ASSOCIATION CHAPTER FORTY-THREE IF ROBERT KENNEDY hadn’t happened to have three hours to wait over, as he went back East after that hasty marriage of Jack and Judith’s, he would not have called C'orrinne. He did so on the spur of the moment. She was Sarah Anne’s sister. She might know about the wall of reserve that had shut him away from her sister. Sure, that was good reasoning! She might know, but she wouldn’t tell. And he, of course, never would ask. But something had gone wrong. Anyway, he had three hours to kill and if dormitory meals still followed the conventional menus, Corrinne might enjoy some caviar and a steak and a banana split. It was natural when he and Cor rinne were seated at a small, can dle-lighted table, in the best din ing room in the city hotel, that she mentioned the mistaken telephone identity. “Bob and 1 are throwing brick bats at each other again. It’s a game we play. I thought maybe he wanted a truce and I wanted the terms of peace. This is a gorgeous melon. When I get rich, I’m never going to eat anything that’s in sea son. Just special imports.” Corrinne had lost five pounds. She knew it because her brown skirt had been too big and she had fastened it with safety pins, under the yellow angora sweater which she wore beneath her short brown jacket. Her eyes were more purple than blue in their weariness and her long, sooty lashes rested on her cheeks, as though she seldom looked up any more. When she did, the intensity of her gaze was a lit tle frightening. Though she talked a great deal, she reminded Bob of Sarah Anne, who had dark eyes and hair and her chin never lowered its an gle by a half degree. But the same hurt was in her face, the same won derment and worry. Because he saw that it would do Corrinne good to talk, he said: “Why brick-bats for the combat? Why not bouquets?” “I’ve lost favor again. Don’t ask me why.” She put down her spoon and leaned forward. The man no ticed how little she had eaten of the melon which she had praised. “Do you think I did something so unforgiveable when I—went through that ceremony with Lynn Rhodes? I was hurt, you see . . . Skip it. I want to finish this melon.” She attacked it vigorously and this time did not stop until only the thin green shell remained. “You’re worrying about some thing which isn’t worth a nickle, in all probability,” Bob answered. “How about some turtle soup next?” “I’d rather save room for the steak and mushrooms.” She frowned at the candle which shiv ered in a sudden draught from the rainy night. “Bob, if a girl wrote some letters just because she thought the situation demanded trti a lave r/Ate I SifW&N PMHPS- I Jg RECORDS PROVE OLOSMOBiIE ORE Os AMER/CAS IEABMO ECONOMY CARS/ YOU’D NEVER think a car as big and powerful as I §h|»-^ Olds would be a gas miser. Yet, that’s just what / ffj-y- As I Oldsmobile is—-a fuel saver if there ever was one. I JTMPfiAa I With Olds, you spend less time (and money) in / t£*VßHOstc*, gas stations and more on the open road. The big / savin , wha t ou r / I Over * aro 90 H. P. 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