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Perfect Honeymoon
By
ROBERT FENDER
mos
J
I SUPPOSE reporting is a bum business. Maybe I should feel ashamed for what I've just done and hand in my badge. Perhaps I'm a low-down something-or-other.
Still, when Bebe Daniels and Ben Lyon, freshly married, announced that no this-and-that reporter was going to horn in on their honeymoon, I simply felt it my duty to horn in. After all, here was a challenge. Here was a game. And I love games.
Now I had heard that Ben and Bebe were to become Mr. and Mrs. Ben sometime Saturday night, June 14, and were to leave for the north directly after. I had also heard that they were going to drive in their Rolls-Royce. I've never been very quick at arithmetic, but nearly everyone in these parts knows that going north for a honeymoon means going to one of two places: Santa Barbara or Del Monte. And that's where I figured they'd go. Santa Barbara would be the first stop. With their car, I figured, they should be able to make it in one or two hours. But the merest glance at my car assured me that — well — you should see my car. I left Saturday morning at dawn.
The Long, Long Trailing
^ANTA BARBARA, as I remember, hove into sight at v3 dawn of the next day. Everything possible went wrong with my flivver. It all but blew up. I asked the hotel man if Mr. and Mrs. Lyon were in town.
Carl E SrAKbiTf Vanhscr
DelMokte Cai^iforkia
3
Our Sle ut h
Alone Knows What A Good Time Ben And Bebe Had
Our deteckatif and his evidence: left to right, Mr. Fender and the unsuspecting honey mooners, Mrs. and Mr. Lyon. Above, Exhibit B
"They luere m town," he answered sleepily, "but 'pears to me they've gone. Think I heard someone say they were heading north."
I sighed. I wanted to lie down and die. Instead, I filled up the heap with gas, oil and water and pushed on. Eventually I arrived at Del Monte, just before passing out completely.
The clerk at that very exclusive resort was not encouraging. He wanted to know this. He wanted to know that. His voice wore a stiff collar. To my questions concerning the famous honeymooners he turned a deaf ear.
"Listen, Clarence," I finally said. "I don't want to have to wreck the place, but would you mind telling me if they are registered here.'"'
He turned to the baggage handler. "Herbert," he drawled, "would you please put this guy in the usual place?"
From that point on things seemed to grow dark. I came to in a bed of petunias. I was cold and tired and disgusted.
And I was sore. Lying there a second, I had the good fortune to see other reporters get the same gate. It cheered {Continued on page 86)
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