Radio age (Jan 1927-Jan 1928)

RADIO AGE for July-August, 192; determined courage in her eyes, and perhaps a i "Because when I sawyou in that local room 1 1 ;ht you were the most adorable girl I ever lool : at. Thinking that, I couldn't make it seem right i :: ou to be there. It didn't seem to be your background, your atmosphere. Foolish, maybe, but the truth. But you didn't go. Why didn't you?" "Because when Stub Graham told me what you said I concluded that you liked me an awful lot and I was very happy over it because I had been looking at you and — and I thought you seemed so regular, somehow, such a man." Daly stood gazing at her. "Is that the whole truth; did you come to my office to thank me?" "No," said the girl. "I really was a little worried about losing the job. I wanted to te1! you that I could take care of myself and I was sure of it because I'm taking care of my mother and a kid brother. But the main thing was to come to you and see whether you would tell me — what you told Stub Graham." Daly took her two hands within his own and held them close. Her face was lowered now. "You are the most beautiful girl in the world." Some time later she rescued her turban from the crazy angle it had taken and pushed back a wayward curl from her forehead. She straightened the folds of the sheer silk collar, which had been sadly disarranged. "Ain't truth wonderful?" she said, dabbing her eyes with a tiny handkerchief. "Devastating," he agreed. "But you must go now. Miss Sims will — . I want to meet your mother and talk this thing out. Tonight? Tomorrow? When?" "My, what a fast worker you are I'm sure we'd better have a few hours to think about it. I'll telephone you tonight." He opened the door and Amy Templeton Graves very bravely and successfully passed out into the ante room and nodded a bright farewell to Miss Sims who gave her the cool scrutiny that only one woman can give another — and get away with it. At 10 o'clock that night Amy took the train East after telephoning that she was compelled to go and that she would write. XIV Dear Daly Minimil, Philadelphia, P; July 22, 1926. When I left Fortunatus day before yesterday I was running away. I wanted time to think. For some years I had been sure that if and when I met the right man I would know just what to do if and when he began to make signs that he thought I was the right girl. Well, I was hardly prepared for such a ride on the speedway of romance as it eventually turned out to be. Hired, fired, kissed and proposed to, all in one afternoon and the same man playing the heavy lead in each sketch! 11 I am going to confess that I don't regret a minute of that afternoon. I guess I am as modern as most girls of my age, weight and class and I believe in quick decisions. But there's a speed limit to everything. You don't know a thing about me except that I am as fresh as a channel breeze and that I am the most beautiful girl in the world. You are right about the first count but all wrong on the second. You ought to see my sister. She can give me all four aces and make game in no trumps, and I don't say it hesitatingly. On the other hand I know some things about you and yours and in that way I have an advantage. Your father, for instance. I have an idea he would take it more kindly if you give him his chance to hit the ceiling before you buy the ring instead of afterward. Tell him you are in love with the world's most adorable and then go on with the story in easy installments until you come to the part where you admit that you can't remember my first name and that I was one of your girl reporters for a few uneasy minutes and that you never saw me but once in your life. That will be a basis for further parley. Maybe you haven't thought of it but Bill Rossom over there on the Clarion would walk a mile to read a society notice in his own newspaper and in half a dozen others to the general effect that Mr. Daly Minimil publisher of the Fortunatus Gazette, was engaged to marry Miss Amy Templeton Graves, a red-headed girl reporter who worked on his new newspaper for an hour or so. No, Daly it would hurt you a little. And that would hurt me a lot. They would say that you were the heir to the biggest wad in the state of Coma and that I was living in the second flat back around the corner from the tannery. If you do go to the jeweler's (and I hope and pray that you will) postpone it until you have read all the latest advertisements about skid chains and brake lining. You won't need a traffic horn. I've been a little girl reporter quite a long time now and, old dear, I know why orange blossoms wilt faster than geraniums. Do as I say about this and I'll promise to bring you the slippers and pipe ever after. I love you and I want you to love me permanently. Yours, A. T. G. P. S. This is Thursday. You will receive this letter on Saturday at the latest. There's a radio in the place and I'm going to be listening in on Sunday night. If, during the half hour of old favorite songs Sunday night, I should tune in the Voice of Fortunatus, on the roof of the Gazette building, Fortunatus, Coma, and hear your baritone Soloist sing "Beautiful Garden of Roses," I would know you had arranged it. How's that for a transcontinental secret? I'll also take it as a promise that you are looking over the brake lining and the skid chains. Love. A. T. G. (To Be Continued.)