Thursday,' April 2s, 1923. Matrimonial Adventures Driftwood BY ! Courtney Ryley Cooper Anther of "The Cron (ht." ••The White Deoert.” "Dear folk* at Home,” “The Basic's Karo," eta. Copyright by United Feature Syndicate COURTNEY RYLEY COOPER Courtney Ryley Cooper, author, lecturer, circus man and expert on Jungle animals, began life as a clown in a small circus. Mr. Coop er says that he ran away from home for the first time to Join the Buffalo Bill Wild West show at the age of five, and that after that, regularly two or three times a year, the rest of the Cooper family •pent most of Its time dragging him home whenever a circus catne ' to his town, Kansas City. When 1 he was fifteen he made the final breakaway, becoming a clown at the magnificent salary of five dol lars a week. After about five years of this he began to mix the circus business with that of the newspa per and left the "white tops" to become a reporter for the Kansas City Star. He then successively was a special writer for the Star, the Chicago Tribune, the New Tork World and the Denver Post, when he again went back to the circus to become press agent of the Soils-Kioto circus, and personal representative for Col. William F. Cody, "Buffalo Bill." still he became general manager of the Sells-Floto circus. Following this he turned his at tention to telling the rest of the world what he had learned of the land of the sawdust ring and his stories and articles began to appear In all the large magazines or the United Statea. Mary stewart cutting, jr. It was six-fifteen o’clock. In the kitchen the last touches had been given a meal which was a bit more ex travagant than was customary In the household of Mr. and Mrs. John Car rington. The sliver candlesticks were on the dining room table Instead of the usual glass ones; the service had been polished with extra care that morning. At the side of each at the two alatap was a sprig of orange blossoms, which had arrived, special delivery, from California, that morning. Just beyond the French doors loading to the living room naa a large basket of roses. It was thus every yeur. In the fireplace of the living room, the flames leaped In blue and green and violet colorings, the offglvlngs of driftwood, sending their colorations Into the big, comfortable shadowy room and upon the woman who sat. Just within the range of warmth, gag ing Into the flames. Mrs. John Car rington was watting for her husband to come home to dinner In honor of their tenth anniversary. Not that there was any doubt as to the time or manner of his arrival. Mr. and Mrs. John Carrington had a repu tation —they were known as the hap piest married couple of all their set— a set, incidentally, which Included every worth-while name In the direc tory. In five minutes, Mrs. Carrington knew, there would sound the throb bing of a familiar engine from down the street and the squeaking of brake bands which always announced the homecoming of the best husband in town. John never failed, just as he never failed to telephone her precisely at eleven o’clock each morning, just as he never failed to remember her birth day, or to send the biggest basket of roses which he could afford, on their anniversary. Just as he never failed to take her to the theater on Thursday night, to the Country dub for the Fri day night dances, or—but the list Is too long. John was the Ideal husband. He never failed In anything. Nor did she. For Medalne Carring ton also had her place in the matrimo nial sun. Even her enemies admitted that she was a perfect wife. The se renity of the Carrington home was something which could not be denied. Everyone knew of it, everyone spoke of It. John Carrington and his wife never had even quarreled! Yet, as Mrs. Carrington watched the Are, It seemed that an expression, al most of utter fear, was in her eyes; the tapping of a shoe upon the soft rug gave evidence of nervousness, the quick knitting of her hands em phasized It. Now and then she turned her head toward the window —as though fearful of hts coming, yet anx ious that he be here. Then she would resume her former position, her eyes fraught with presentment, gazing Into the big fireplace where the driftwood crackled and the flames leaped and scurried In vagrant colorings. The min utes passed. A car stopped protesttngl.v. A step sounded. The door opened. She turned with her usual amlle. "How lire you, Dearest?" “Same as tisunl, Sweetheart.” He was hanging up his hat and overcoat ▲ moment more nnd he came behind her, to lay Uia hands on her shoulders for an Instant. “How’s my Sweetheart tonight?’’ “Happy us always, John.” She turned and kissed him lightly. "You were a dour to send me tboso roses. Yen never forget. John." •Why should I? Pretty ft**" l "Yes—driftwood. I’ve been sitting befe watching it, while I waked for you.” For a moment he, too, looked Into the blaze. “Beautiful. Driftwood, eh? Rmher hard to get Isn’t It?” She smiled. “Yes—but then, this Is onr aanlver **ry.” “Thai's right. That’s right. 1 sup pose the dinner's waiting?” It was a useless question—asked Merely for the sound of It. John knew that dinner was ready. It always was ready. The home of Mr. and Mrs. John Carrington was one in which nothing ever waspwry. He went on: “Yes, of course, it's waiting. Just a moment, Sweetheart, until I tidy up a bit and I’ll be with you. Only a mo ment—” He hurried up the stairs, while again the gaze of Medalne Carrington sought the flames, the gaze of one whose mind Is peopled with anguish. But jn a mo ment more, it had vanished. John was beside her, bowing in mock overpolite ness. and offering his arm In an ex travagant invitation to the table.. "Many congratulations today,” he said as they seated themselves. “Four or five of the boys dropped In to tell < me their troubles, and incidentally to ! say how much they envied us. Strange what n few little numbers will do, Isn’t It?” “Marvelous.” Her self-possession had returned; with him before her she was again the usual Medalne Carring ton. “This is the tenth year, without a quarrel.” John laughed. “And our idea may spread. Bentley’s married you know—Just last week. Catne 'into the office today. Told him all about our system, and how It's worked out. 'All that you need for happiness. Bent,’ I said, ‘is to lenrn to count to a hundred.’ Then, I went on and told how it find worked with us, how we simply schooled ourselves into the habit of counting to a hundred be fore we said an unkind word, how, If one of us was nervous or Irritable, It became the duty of the other to hold tn, and the wonderful result that we’ve attnlned. After nil, dearest, It’s all very simple, isn’t It?” “Extremely so.” For Just an instant her eyes clouded—only to brighten again. “I’ve never seen prettier roses thnn the ones you sent today, John." “Dint's what you’re always good enough to say. By the way, this roust Is done to a turn. I never tasted bet ter.” The meal progressed to a perfect conclusion—as It always did. Once more, they were before the driftwood tfljme. took l>ls hand inciters. “AfteraTk nAremarkable that two t persons could go through ten years of married life without a quarrel, Isn’t It, John?” He nodded. Then: “Yes—ln away. Thpn again, all that It necessary Is tommori sense.” “I suppose so. But haven’t there been times when I have tried you ter ribly, when I’ve made you so angry that you couldn't hold your temper?” “No, not once, dearest. One simply, couldn’t lose his temper with you.” j “There—you mustn’t say that. Be- j sides, the main point, I suppose, Is the j fact that It’s been accomplished. Ten j years of married life, without even a quarrel!” She rose then, and moved slowly Into the shadows. Again her hands knitted unconsciously. An expression, as of acute pain came Into her eyes. John did not see—he was gazing into the flames and watching the colorings as they came and went. “Ten years without a quarrel! It’s something to be proud of, something to boast about to your friends and—” “Yes, I suppose so." There was something in her tone which caused him to look up quickly, to glance toward her as though she had uttered a desecration. The flick ering of the fireplace caught her fea tures, to display them as singularly pale, singularly drnwn and Indicative of suffering. He half rose—but she motioned him back. “Please sit there, John, I’ve —some- thing to tell you.” “Why. dearest? Yon seem so—" "Don’t—please.” She gripped the back of a chair as though for support. “I—want to say It as quickly as pos sible. I’m going away, John.” The voice was faint. He was silent for a moment. At la at: “Well, if you feel that you should— It course, it would be better from a financial point’ If you waited a while, but If you really want to—” “I don’t mean that way, John. I’m Hot coining back.” “Not—” He stared at her In non plussed fashion for a long time before he rose. “Why t I don’t —1" “I didn’t think you’d understand.” “Not coming back? Why—” “Not coming back, John," she re peated, and this time the voice bore a certain note of harshness. “We’re through I” "Medalne!” "Please!”! She motioned him back. “I know what I’m doing. I’m perfectly clear and sane. I’ve simply put up with yon as long as I can stand It, and now I’m going away. You’ve become unbearable to me, and when a thing like that happens, the best thing to do Is to get away. So I'm going." She said it with more coolness than ever, and with an tnclslveness that cut d*ep. There was the slightest twitch ing of John’s lingers—then he turned away, and for a long moment was si lent. At last, as though eased In mind, he moved again to hts chair. “You’re tired, sweetheart. Tired out—norvoc.is. Don’t worry. Every thin'll be all right. If you’ll Just tell I mm what’s wrong, well find away to remedy It. Nothing tn the world that ,* can’t he remedied, you know —” l “Except this, l’nt tired of you. John. * Sick of you.’’ - “Sick? Tired?” He ngnin faced * her. "Sick of —” Then for a long time he was silent again. “There, sweetheart, don’t mind me. Os course /' you’re tired. 111, too. We’ll talk It J Over in the morning—” S “There isn’t going to he any mom- 4 ing. John. At least, not with you.” 1 She laughed. “Ten years is enough. ' I want someone else now." 1 “You?" He was on his feet in an 4 instunt, his fingers stretching wide, ” his brow working convulsively, “you— 1 M edit hie?" “Exactly what I said.” J “A man?” | "You don’t suppose It would be any- * one else? “But Medalne—” 1 “And I have your permission to go?” J It seemed that there was a little snr- ‘ casm in her tone. “Os course, you know, I’d do nothing without your * permission. I want to be frank with you. you know. You’ve supported me 1 for ten years. You’ve given me every- " thing in the world I could ask for, 1 you’ve supplied me with all the money that anyone in my circumstances could 1 wish for, nnd you’ve really made It 1 possible for me to have the money to 1 do what I wanted to do when the time 1 enme, and so I really should ask your 1 permission. Especially when another 1 man is involved.” "Do you mean—” coldness had come 1 into his voice, “that you’re going to tnke tlie money that you've saved ns 1 my wife to go to some other man?” t “I’ve said nothing like that, John. Merely frankness and fairness to let 1 you know.” “Who is he?” i “A friend of yours. We needn’t ’ mention names." “No?" There were no long pauses between John Carrington's words now. The whiteness of his cheeks, the lack of color in his lips, turning them ghastly blue In the light of the drift wood, (he glazed yet flaming appear ance of his eyes all gave evidence that temper had go'ne beyond control. ! “No? We needn’t mention names. Diat's what you say, Mrs. John Car- | rington. but I’ve a different idea!” “Your privilege! But the informa tion won't come from me.” “I don’t expect It. I can find out for myself, without the necessity of ! running down any lies which you might tell me. I’ll find out—” “I expect you to.” “I will!" John Carrington, the per fect husband, swung past his chair to face her, his hands gripped, the muscles of his Jaws bulging as his teeth gritted. “Don't worry for an in- 1 stant about that end of it! I’ll find out.’’ i “And then?” A peculiar glint had come into her eyes. “When you've 1 found out? Murder, I suppose?” i “Murder?” he laughed at her. “Mur* | der, over you? Over a woman who has no more sense of honor than to do the tiling you’ve done? Murder? 1 Hardly! Merely the satisfaction of I knowing the kind of a person that would take up with a conscienceless woman. Nothing more.” “Very good excuses, John.” “For what?" “The lack of backbone enough to even face a man who could steal your own wife from you. You wouldn't even have the strength to face him." “No?” His hands worked as with a sudden spasm. “When I face some body. it will be for stealing some thing—do you understand what 1 mean? When I face a man It will be because he's taken something from me that's worth while, and not ridded me of a blank featured Incubus, a thing that’s hung onto me like a leech, given Into me at every twist and turn merely that she could rob me, someone so sweet and gushing that she’s sickening, that herself hasn’t any more strength than to take the word of the first man who flat ters her and who Is willing to run away with him simply because he tells her any mass of lies that happens to j come into his head! That’s when I’ll face a thief, when he’s stolen some j thing—do you understand thsrt? “And as for you—” he nodded to ward the doorway—“you can go when and where you choose, and the sooner the better. I thought you were a woman when I married you. I’ve found out in the ten years that we’ve been living together that you’re mere- j ly a spineless, resistless, shapeless mass of human putty. I didn’t expect a thing like this —bnt I should have known that it would come. It was the only end possible, the only thing pos sible—from a person like you. Resist ance? You haven’t, any? Strength of character? It doesn't exist. Spine less? It’s the only word I can think; of for you—the only— ’’ Then he halted, gasping. A warm,! ! Impulsive little form was close to him, her nrms tight about his neck, her lips ( seeking his, and kissing him again nnd again. ! “Oh, John, you’re wonderful!" came all in a breath, “Just simply wonder ful! I—” He strove to push her away, nnd failing, merely gasped the more. For she was talking again, her words streaming excitedly, delightedly. “That’s Just what I’ve thought about you, John—what you’ve said about me —that you were spineless, resistless. But you’re not, are you. John? You’re—” “Flense— 1 ” He strove to break from her, but she held him tight, and a sud den pleading, happiness In her tone, “I don’t have to go away now, John. My ‘other man’ has come to me. Don’t you understand, dearest—don’t you understand?” “Huh?” It was the only word he could utter, aa be stood there staring iflE ccncoftD dailt TfcreyHß at ha, his arms flat at his silos, his Ups open, his expression one of com bined anger, dismay and wonderment. The soft arms tightened still more about his neck. , “Kiss me, John —please!” “Hardly.” “But don’t you understand? I was just trying to make you say the things 1 you di her shoulder, where it hung a moment, then dropped limply. But he did not resist her now, as he had done a moment before. “Tell me, John | —ls this the first time you’ve ever thought me spineless?” He shook his head, saying silently 1 what lie would not say in words. It seemed to please her. She kissed him. “.And haven’t you wondered often how on earth you ever married me? Haven't you wondered if I really had enough spirit to even have a quarrel with a tradesman? Haven’t you, John? I’ve thought that about you—wondered how on earth you managed to trans- , act your business, ltow you ever got the backbone even to discharge an employee. You’ve never shown it at j home. I’ve tried to nettle you, anger I you—and till you did was count to a . hundred.” ’Dint was our bargain.” He said It somewhat grudgingly. “Just the trouble—just what hurt ’ me, that you’d stay by a silly bargain like that. John,” she looked at him quickly, “during the time we’ve been married, have you really been happy?” | “I?” lie-paused. His lips pressed tight for' an instant. Then: “If you want the frank truth —I haven’t.” | “Why?” Again a pause. Then; "Oh, never mind.” “But I want to know, is it for the | same reason that I haven’t been happy f 5 —because everything has been Just the same, Just the regular monotony of sugar, sugar, sugar all the time and jnever a hit of bitter-sweet? Is that the reason, John? And I have been ‘unhappy, John. I’ve known every mtn jute what you were going to do. I knew the minute you were going to leave home, the minute you would tel ephone me, the minute you’d get here jat night, and what you’d talk about |at the dinner table. I knew to a dot jwhat you’d do and say and how you’d isct. And, John—a woman may say | she wants that, but she doesn’t. She [wants a husband who’ll be good to flier most of the time, but who now and then—well, who won’t. We can’t be superhuman, John, j -It isn’t in us. You've been on time to dinner for ten years. I haven’t even had the excite ment of scolding you for being late. I —" Then, as if with an inspiration, she looked at him —“John, did you ever notice liow an electrical storm clears the air? And how sultry it has been beforehand? We’ve never even had the chance to know how beautiful things can be after the clouds have gone. We’ve had nothing but sun shine—until It’s blinded us and we haven’t been able to see anything!” Then she hatted — beaming. A light of understanding had come In to the eyes of John Carrington. The tired expression faded, to give way to one which Medaine had not seen in years. Slowly his arms raised and (clasped about the form of his wife. He ; kissed her—slowly, as one who tastes long at n sweet he is loath to leave. I Ten years seemed to have rolled laway, ten drab uneventful years which now bore no more importance In retro jspect than the flatness of monotonous (plains. A soft hand touched his tem ; pie and lingered there. II "We’ve just been driftwood, John." ) H[e nodded and kissed her again. jThen, like a streak, he turned from her (and bounded up the stairs; Wonder ling, she heard him fumbling about in an upper room, banging at drawers land uttering strange things under his breath. A grunt. Another. Louder. Then: “Medalne,” came in bellowing tones, ; yet 1 ones which seemed strangely ; fraught with happiness, “where In thunder are my pongee shirts?" ' ; In the room below, Medaine smiled i —the smile of a woman who has ' fought and won. She whirled toward the stairs and called snapplly, yet with a glint of merriment In her eyes. “Right where they've always been," came her explosive announcement, "right In the third drawer of the chiff robe, if you’ll only tnke the time to look for them!” Five minutes later a caller stepped on the veranda of the Carrington home. It was Inevitable that he should Iglance through the window, to see (within the living room two persons sit ting before a driftwood blaze, bands 'together, arms about each others’ shoulders, two radiant sweethearts watching the flickering of the flames. The caller sighed In envy. "They’ve got the system,” he an nouncod to himself as he rang the bell. "Happiest darned couple la IflßVßj* The Cotton Outlook. Klrniinghnm Age-Herald. According to nn official statement of ilte department of agriculture the cotton market will be able to absorb at fair prices it eotton crop ol' (hir teen million bales. li i . not likely that tbe South will produce tbiiieen million bales this yetr. It is certain though, that it will pay every planter to* take most excellent care ol’ bis crop. This means n„: only that lie fight the boll weevil in accordance with file most approved methods, but that he pay especial attention to thorough and regular cultivation. The farmer who makes money cm cotton is the farmer who raises (lie .mis: cot ion to the aero. There is many a farmer, who with proper m« thuds, could raise as much on fifteen .acres ns he now raises on twenty. It Is such an excellent chance of receiving .. 'T**r • I ■ ■ ■wifi , , ..... ’. . - _____ - j.. | 'j [ Walls of Beauty M fp'lH 1 and Economy l’c \ J | trend of interior decoration in ! I J*- modern homes is simplicity and har %i A 'c3t\ 7 "' j Walls and ceilings should biend perfectly ffj | TLe Modem, Durable. Sanitary Flat Oil Finish I - It II It comes in White and 24 rich, velvety colors «H . :: -w\ \\ |1 j which tend themselves admirably to the most charming p j yd l_—-t Y-l combinations. Pee Gee Fiaticoatt is an ei ono- 'icaS ji.™ A . .. \\\ lei fint-rJi, because its colors remain bright and berxutiful for SI I • -f' '/■.\\ \\ J years and if soiled are easily cleaned with a moi, * sponge. || | . \W, rH—For House Exvpriors use Pee tlee Masttc Paint—it contains i.igr? per- bl -j - . \ \C^*^rfw' " ccntage of ZINC, last longest, looks best and gives lasting satistav tion fi|p’ n '' an ' T ’^‘' T *f ‘ \ \ \T at .lowest cost c AjK to for ‘Paint liocfa: 40 The Modem Method of aim g and Home jr and Hotu. tv Paint Them/* o* write dir£c%,to Peaslee-iSaulbtrt Co,. Inearserctia, £ GuuDitte, Ky. j|£ssS / Wherever motor cars are discussed, The name was selected because com- \®|| Ss* j and that’s nearly everywhere, somebody parative tests against all kinds of cars \ jjgjaj is sure to remark —“That Studebaker made this car stand out as something In aBS Special-Six is a regular automobile.” special and apart from the ordinary ran \ Hgig The Studebaker Special-Six has been of automobiles. _lt requites special merit |pt possible. Today there are more than Count the “ Special-Sixes” that have |B| ||l one hundred and twenty-five thousand appeared since the arrival of the Stude- fj|| .jH in every-day service and we don’t be- baker Special-Six. That’s the props of ;|||| yf j Sedan 1550 Sedan 2050 Sedan... 2750 X^S^K:'■: evident rhai -the cost of earing for lift, ( ii acres will, he less than i lit- cost ■ cf earing tor twenty. There i» n» 1,-lan for a ml notion in acreage for i '.the purpose of reducing the yield, but rather such a reduction in acreage as will give opportunity for better" cate of fit cup and for the. production of mote pounds to the acre. Ti c c is ; i stimnitsa to planter.- this. scfiSOi. nut only iti the prospect of a gc-J (Ifinaml for eotton, hut also in the fact that oty: tnlzed ginning grad ing, storing and marketing will biiirt a higher ■ average pritc to tin* gror; than lie would otherwise be able to ohliiin. Tlier<‘ in ay he seasonal -ml other dc'iiwhacks. Imi; the farmer is iucusnuue] to and not nniiervcd I»y tlicia. Such obstacles he lias to meet in one form or another every yctr. 'Kin not until recently has he stood tfie fui! value of his protect. . PAGE THREE Children Wr.ik From Hickory to Tfn .Fohnpon Cit. Tenn. , Ab'il 113. I'har-ty and Leon Hale, li and 13 years of age, reached here today after a tramp of ids aiil.-s across. -the Ap pahihiuu mountains. following the (teaill of their father their only rela tive. at Hickory. N. C. They state they have been cm the trip three weeks, •cf.ping cuc ide every night, hat were tarn shed ample f.ud by people living alms: the route, and cisirn to be en route to an aunt living in Lynchburg, Tlic-y n cached Johnson City tired ud ravged anil applied fur direction in poiic. lieadtiuortei):. Police otii -! change and two big hoxca of food.