THE SILVER LINING.

Franklin Times, Volume XXII, Issue 58, 20 May 1932, Page 2 (Supplement)

THE SILVER LINING.

SERIAL STORY.

CHAPTER I. The sterling silver cocktail shaker, actuated by a pair of bejewelled white hands, described arcs in rhythm with the strains of whoopee music in a pent house atop one of Manhattan’s more rococo apartment buildings. Its gyrations were in keeping with the spirit of the evening, one of Joyce Moore’s informal evenings for her intimates, known mirthfully among themselves as the Younger Hot-Cha Set. These evenings were dedicated to three select Muses —Euterpe, Terpsichore, and Bacardi. To demonstrate that this evening would be strictly minus Dull Care and his adopted brother, Depression, its vivacious hostess herself presided at the bar. “ Line up, you ‘uns,” the Moore heiress carolled, “ and sip yo’ moonshine right from the gourd.” Gay laughter and somewhat unseemly crowding followed this behest. There was moonshine without, also —heaven’s moonshine —that seemed to temper with its calm light the wane of a hot summer’s day. It brought out with three-dimensional shadows the towered main canyons of the*city and modified the glare of their myriad lamps. Farther to the east lay. a lower and comparatively sombre line of roofs—the East Side, refuge of the sweltering Million. Yet farther on was a boundary of black with faint glints in it—the ..river. Opulence, Unhappiness, and Oblivion strangely close' together. Patrick Moore, who left his fortune to Joyce, had interests in all three zones, the river having harboured his sand barges, the slums his rows of tenements, and the avenues his giltedged investments. Over all these his sway had been tyrannical, save only the tenements. To these he had granted mercy, maintaining them as model housing in so far as their age permitted. He believed in sanitation and upkeep and welfare. He did hot reap much wealth from his tenements, but their inmates rose up and called him: blessed. But now, since six years, old Patrick was dead, and it was different. The tenements were worse, but the net rents were better. At her party Joyce Moore was not only the hostess but the belle. She had at her side Jerry, her. fiance, man-about-town; on the other, Tom, a spruce young aviator, with whom she flirted assiduously, rather enjoying the mutterings of Jerry. “ Oh,, don’t bother about Jerry,” she whispered to Tom in the dance, “ I never do.” Overhearing which, Jerry gritted his teeth with the comment, “ But you will. Some day, baby, you will.” On the side-lines a wallflower blonde and her foil, a brunette, sneered at the situation.

" Joyce is running true to form tonight: just a one-man girl." "Yes—just one at a time," the brunette seconded.

At that moment bad news was galloping toward the penthouse from a forgotten quarter. The torch-bearer was none other than Larry Clark, a brisk young lawyer who.had been handling unsuccessfully the. grievances of several tenants in an' effort to have their decrepit quarters repaired. Now something had happened more serious than leaky roofs, broken plaster, and clogged drains. In eagerness to reach a ginger-cake brought him by Kate Flynn, an angel of the tenements, little Bobby O'Brien leaned against a rotten banister and hurtled to the floor three stories below. Bobby was still alive, but at best had the prospect of being crippled for life. Always impulsive and human Larry waited not for morning, but stormed the Moore penthouse, -clamouring for immediate redress for Bobby and his widowed mother.

Never in his previous negotiations had Larry contacted Joyce Moore in person, and his chances of appealing to her directly at this unconventional hour were as remote as those of the proverbial snowball in the incandescent surroundings of the nether {regions. However, Michael Moore,, an uncle of Joyce, met him and listened to his statement.

Frankly, Uncle Michael's hands were tied. He could advisei, or palaver, but no more. Joyce had been left in full control of her estate by her father. But here was a case that might well waken the girl to her responsibilities. He ventured to intrude upon the party and present the matter to Joyce. CHAPTER 11. Wassail went on without interruption at Joyce's penthouse party in spite of Larry Clark's Impetuous but

(To be continued.)

The Screen Adaptation being in the United Artists Picture shortly for Release in New Zealand. (By HAL CONKLIN.)

abortive attempt to interest the heiress in the accident to little BobbyO'Brien at her neglected tenement property. That is to say, it went on without interruption save for ensuing incidents more calculated to upset the spirit of the heiress than anyone's appeal for relief or mercy.

Her first disquiet came upon overhearing an exchange between Tom, her philandering aviator, and some of the company. They were huddled over the punch-bowl as Joyce passed them.

A girl simpered, " Joyce is ready to fall for you, Tom. You could pick her like a ripe peach." " Don't I know It! " Tom replied with a smirk.

This hurt. It was too nearly true. She had devoted herself to him ostentatiously, although it was more to satisfy herself of the power to fascinate than with any lasting intention. She went over to where her fiance, disgruntled, was brooding in a corner at a table upon which rested a bottle of French brandy, his solace. If Joyce expected a best boy friend's welcome she was due to be disillusioned.

" Why aren't you zooming around with your pretty airman ? " the swain snarled.

Which was just what was needed to start a lovers' quarrel of major proportions. On heir, side it was egotistic, shrewish, and flippant. On his, it was devastating in its bluntness. His bluntness spared nothing of her worldliness, her heartlessness, and her folly. It was a master effort to get things off his chest, lit all led to this:

" Too bad ! " she flung at him. " You wanted this poisonous creature to marry you." " Thanks for the cancellation ! " he retorted.

Joyce managed to conceal her discomfitune behind a gay demeanour and numerous cocktails until she was left alone in the drawing-room with a litter of empty glasses and contorted cigarette ends as sole relics of a " jolly good time, dears." Then, her knees rather weak, what with hooch and heart-break, she sought Uncle Michael in his study for a little consolation.

"D'you know whash, they shaying 'bout me, Uncle ? They shay I'm my own Worsh Mistake."

Uncle Mike happened to be primed with plain words, too. He did not condole. He said:

," Youai crowd is telling you that ? What pals ! Anyhow, Joyce, it's true. You've been a selfish, conceited spendthrift and reveller; and in a broader sense the world sees you absolutely a traitor to your heritage. When your father died he meant you to carry on in a decent and humane manner. You have sapped his estate to the very limit, regardless of whom it injures. The poor people who helped to make him rich, and loved hfrn, positively hate you." " Ish a lie ! " Joyce said stubborn-

ly. " Furthermore," continued Uncle Michael, " at this moment a little boy lies crippled because you refused to repair the stair railing where he lived. Now there's a 100,000-dollar suit pending against you, charging wilful, deliberate neglect; and you will be bled for those because this man, Jerry Clark, warned you long ago in writing that something like this might happen. It's not much to say that if this child dies you'll be as guilty as if you had killed him." Joyce momentarily was shaken. Already miserable,' she now became sick and giddy. She left the room unsteadily, hardly knowing where she went, nor caring. In a few minutes she was dimly aware of being in a neighbouring park. A man and a woman, both of the night-prowler type, observed her lurch along. When she sank upon a bench those birlds of prey disposed themselves alongside. They had her ermine cape and the rings off her fingers, and might have taken her shoes, too, when the approach of a man in blue sent them off into the shadows. The man in blue came up to< Joyce and shook her by the shoulder. " Wake up, sister. Scram ! " Joyce Woke up, only to stagger about maudlin and dizzy. She was not conscious of much more until she found herself in a sotrtl of nightmare, the Nighjt Court. Together with her were many other women, some in the same sort of liquor-stained gowns, some in rags, some refinedappearing, some not at all, but every one the worse for what was just too bad for them. Although it seemed to speak for itself, her arresting officer testified as to her condition, in a terse, impersonal way that was more effective than a harangue; and to her added chagrin Joyce heard herself identified as one Mary Kane because of a card found in a cheap purse on the park bench, a tawdry purse that Joyce had never seen in her life before.

" Thirty days. . Next case ! " silenced her sputtering, unintelligible protests; and, still dazed that anything like this could happen to her, the heiress to the M'oore fortune was bundled into the van.