Main Street

Lady in Distress

Poor "Toots!" She was terribly embarrassed when it happened and some fellows in the "Y" lobby just stood or sat there looking about as hot-pink as possible under the circumstances. The circumstances? Oh, but it happened like this. She was coming through the lobby after her dip and workout and those intimate little thingmabobs known as accessories to Milady's bawth were in a little bag that she swung carelessly. That was probably the cause of the trouble -- she swung it too carelessly. But, before she or her sister or Prof. Huston were aware of what had happened the cute little bathing suit (one of those modern ones that even a moth can't get into), shorts, socks, washcloth -- oh, well, why be so personal? -- were spilled over the lobby floor.

Prof. took one hasty look and kept going as he muttered something out her not being with him. Wondering eyes peered over the tops of drinks held by young men in deeply leathered armchairs. But they disappeared again as quickly as they had popped up. This was no sight for unsophisticated eyes. And so there was nothing for the victim to do but to get down and hastily scramble the personal effects together and drop them into the naughty bag that had caused all the trouble. Nary a young man moved to assist her -- not even a word of sympathy. Oh for the old-time chivalry, no more of which is left than what remains of the Victorian bathing suit.


Lucky for Floyd Houghton that he stopped in the Mohican Market before starting for New York to take in the big fight tonight. When the truckman breezed in there this morning looking for someone willing to drop down to the Metropolis for a few hours, the boys thought he was trying to kid them. Finding he was serious, they tried to convince him that he wouldn't have time to get there.

"Florida? How do you get that way," he inquired. "The fight is going to be in Madison Square Garden and I know where that is."

The straw hat crew had to produce the evidence in a morning paper before he would believe them. Miami, too, has a garden by that name, it was shown.


It is called "Little Good Luck Lake" and that's what the outlook is at the present time -- little good luck. A large party of local sportsmen went up to this Hamilton County section one week-end ago and the taking along of bait seemed to indicate that some fishing through ice was planned. The bringing along of a few decks of cards also indicated that there might be a little poker, too. Early reports confirmed the impression that the trip was uneventful, except for the card games. Later versions, however, concern one lone fish that causes a bit of worry.

Far be it from me to say that these boys (including some of the other sportsmen in town) didn't throw back the trout that was taken from its icy home in the lake. The few members of the party who have been inclined to discuss the affair say that it was thrown back and, of course, that ought to settle the matter. But there seems to be such meanness that some others in the know are wondering if the group wouldn't get together again for rehearsal. Suppose subpoenas should be sent out? There's little good luck in those things.


Another sign of Spring is reported by commuters who drive to this city from that part of Schenectady County lying due south. According to their version of the happening, the new highway completed last Fall between the Scotch Bush-Mariaville road and Esperance has been opened. This graveled artery is straight, eliminating the many curves of the old dirt road. But for some strange reason, it was the old road they plowed all Winter up to the present, in spite of the fact that one large drift was the only barrier along the new route. It's open now, however, and local motorists seeking an easy route to the South are welcome to the information.


On very good authority comes the information that Ray Gilston is gone and done it. Done what? -- you are wondering, as I wondered when I first heard about it. Well, it's a long story and not easy to tell in a sentence or two. For years now he has been an omnivorous reader of mystery tales. Yarns that give the ordinary person the heebegeebies are devoured without the tremor of an eyelash. Books with dividing panels that mysteriously open have been his special favorites and finally he has broken down under the stress of excitement.

They tell me that the evidence is plain to be seen right up there in a funeral home. That is, the evidence can be seen if the proprietor is in one of his mysterious moods. Now you see him; now you don't. And the next moment he steps forth from the wall that apparently has an opening. Yet, built it himself, too. Local writers of mystery stories who have completed a correspondence school course in the craft are invited to call when in quest of atmosphere. It is suggested, however, that the name and address, as well as due notice of the intended visit to the house of mystery, be left at police headquarters.

This was originally published March 1, 1934.