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
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them, never meaning them, could
it hurt a man so terribly to find out
about it?”
Bob was remembering the night
he had seen Sarah Anne in the al
cove of the lodge, the missives in
her hand. He was thinking of the
curious shock he had felt. That
sense of faith going out. So he
said: “Yes, it could, for the mo
ment, Corrinne. But any sort of a
man would come to his senses and
realize it’s none of his business. We
all do silly things. Why expect
perfection ?”
“But doesn’t love have a right to
demand it?" She leaned forward
again, her large eyes searching
his.
“No right, my child, but it thinks
it has. Love’s not reasonable. You
see—” He drew his brows together,
thoughtfully, then smiled and his
face lighted up. “It’s this way, take
it from Dorothy Dix’s favorite
nephew! A smart woman tries to
keep a man from knowing she’s
had a foolish impulse or two. Some
women get the breaks. They can
get away with murder. Others get
caught the first offense.”
“Like me.” Very quietly.
When he didn’t answer, she went
on: “And ye 4- , I don’t see how Bob
Ransom could have known about
those few letters I wrote. Sarah
Anne got them out of the safe—l
told her how and she didn’t have
any trouble—and she destroyed
them without anyone catching on.
But there’s nothing—nothing else
that '•-••’d make that silly nutmeg
act like this.”
Corrinne was so interested In
her own speculations she did not
see the amazement that came into
Robert Kennedy’s eyes, or the deep
relief that followed. When he
spoke, he held his voice under con
trol.
“You mean you wrote some let
ters and Sarah Anne rescued them
for you?”
“Yes, you grasp things fast, my
bright young man.” Now Corrinne
glanced at him curiously.
Sarah Anne had not written the
letters. What a colossal fool he had
been! She had kept her faith with
Corrinne. Not by a word had she
betrayed her sister. What a wife
she would make! He must get to a
telephone in a hurry and talk to
her.
In his sudden sense of exultation,
he spoke impulsively to Corrinne.
“See here, youngster, your Bob is
at school not far from Ne\y York,
and I’m going in that direction
now. I’ll give the lad a ring. We’ll
find out what’s up. I bet you an
other steak that it’s nothing."
There was rapture in the glance
she gave him. “Robert, you are
Santa Claus and St Valentine and
Bank Night and the spring hop all
in one. In other words, you are
tops!” j
Alone, Robert Kennedy hurried
to a telephone. But he could not get
Sarah Anne. She and Judith were
not at any of the hotels in the
town where Corrinne said they
were. He had the operator make
circuit. Apparently they had eo nl
on to their next destination and h!
had no idea where that was
Anyway, this call might' be ra
ther dumb. Sarah Anne had turned
all offers of friendship aside What
would she want with somethin?
deeper? Because he had found that
she never had stooped would mean
nothing to her. All of the time she
knew she hadn’t. And she had
hated him for his lack o t faith
She had cared a little that night
in the churchyard. He knew that
And she’d care again. He’d
to it! 6
But first he had work to do bank
in New York. Thus, it happened
that it was several days later that
he found time to ask the younger
Robert to meet him at the Cornell
club for lunch' one noon. They
chatted of the situation in Europe
Cornell’s football chances against
Harvard, a musical comedy and the
weather. Young Robert brought un
the subject of Corrinne. He did not
want to discuss it. He merely said
“ That’s ended. Washed up for ail
time. I’ve a date tonight with a
girl in "Sparkle, Sparkle, Sparkle”
a new show that’s rocking the
town. Seen it?”
“Don’t get me wrong. That’s
your business. But our fraternity
happens to be the same, and as one
old brother to another, what in the
dickens is it all about?”
The younger boy’s face was seri
ous and composed. “I got taken in,
that’s all—by a minister s pretty
blue-eyed daughter. This isn’t pub.
lie information, so you haven’t
heard it, but she took my father
for a five-thousand-dollar ride.’’
“I don’t believe it,” the older Bob
said instantly.
“Neither did I, until dad showed
me the check, made out to her fa
ther and nicely signed. Oh, they’re
slick. Nothing could be proved
against her That way. The old man
could say he spent the money for
hymnals or plush-lined offering
plates. So that’s that.”
The man across the tabic stared
back incredulously. “You mean you
believe that stuff?”
“Didn’t I see the check?”
“That’s still not proof!”
“You’d take her word against my
father’s?” Bob Ransom’s eyes glit
tered angrily. “You mean you dare
to say dad’s trying to put some
thing over on me?”
“I’m not saying anything, but i
think you’re not showing much
faith.” He stopped short He was
remembering that he hadn’t either.
But he couldn’t tell the boy that
Yet his own lack of trust in Sarah
Anne'had been based on just such
circumstantial evidence.
“Oh, I’ll own up. I loved Cor
rinne, but I can get over it,” Bob
Ransom was saying. “Meantime,
I’m going out tonight and get
drunk, blotto, with that girl from
'Sparkle, Sparkle, Sparkle.’ I’ve
never drank before—but, oh, what
a woman can do to your morals!”i
(To Be Continued)