Radio and television mirror (July-Dec 1942)

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QUICK RELIEF SUMMER TEETHING EXPERIENCED Mothers know that summer teething must not be trifled with — that summer upsets due to teething may seriously interfere with Baby's progress. Relieve your Baby's teething Sains this summer by rubbing on >r. Hand's Teething Lotion — the actual prescription of a famous Baby specialist. It is effective and economical, and has been used and recommended by millions of Mothers. Your druggist has it. DR. HAND'S TEETHING LOTION Just rub it on the gums Buy it from your druggist today "Of course." "It'd be swell if you would. It'd — It's like this. Just having somebody back here — somebody to hang on to. . . . I don't know, it's hard to explain. There's my father and kid brother at home, of course, but somehow they're not what I mean. . . ." "You don't have to explain, George. I understand." And I did. I'd suddenly seen, in my mind, a picture of him standing by when mail was given out, watching, waiting . . . finally getting only one letter, from his father or brother. I wouldn't let that happen to him, I thought. No matter what the consequences might be in the future. And I thought — later, when this war was over and he came home, that would be time enough to tell him I didn't love him, never could love him. Right now he had to have "somebody to hang on to." I was glad, and very proud, that it should be me. Aloud I said: "It's very late, George, and I must go home. You have to leave too, or you won't get back to camp in time to get any sleep." "Sleep!" He laughed. "I don't need any — I'll doze in the milk-train." "Well — " I glanced at my wrist watch. "What time does your milktrain leave?" "Three o'clock." "Then we'll stay here another hour, and you can take me home in a cab and then go on in it to the station." I couldn't bear the thought of him sitting in the dreary early-morning desert of that station, alone, waiting for the train to leave. So for an hour we sat there on the bench, talking. What did we talk about? Nothing very important, I suppose. He told me about the farm where he was born, and about his dead mother, and how he'd studied at the State Agricultural College; and I sketched in an account of myself — New York childhood, a walk-on in a Broadway play, a better part in another, radio. When the hour was nearly up I said, because I knew this was what ^e wanted and had not dared to ask, "Wouldn't you like to kiss me, George?" "Ohhh . . ." he said. "Sure." It was awkward, that kiss, and young, but it was also very tender. It did not make the blood run any the' faster in my veins. All I felt was sadness and a tremendous wish that some day this boy might find the girl who would return that ten I derness. We walked back to the street almost in silence, and in silence found a cab and drove to my apartment house on I Lexington Avenue. George tried to j get out of the cab when it stopped, j but I said quickly, "Don't bother." The apartment-house doorman, who had started toward us, turned and went back when he saw I had an escort, and I breathed more freely. "Good-by, George dear," I said. "Write as soon as you're settled, and I'll answer. You've got the address?" "Oh — yes, that's right." He produced a pencil and slip of paper and jotted it down — glad, I thought, to have something to do to bridge the gap of farewells. "Good-by." I leaned toward him and kissed him once more, not caring whether or not the doorman was watching, and then there was the slam of the taxi's door and its tail light dwindled away down the street. "Good evening, Mrs. Agnew," the doorman said as I passed him on my way inside, and I answered, "Good evening, Tom," very calmly, because now of course it did not matter if he called me that. I went up in the elevator, unlocked the door of my apartment, and went inside without switching on the light. It was so high up in the building I wasn't supposed to have a light anyway, because of the dim-out, but even if that hadn't been the case I wouldn't have wanted one. I didn't want to see the empty look that was always in that apartment these days. I had kept Lane's pipe stand on the end table, and his hats and overcoat were still in the closet, but these reminders of him didn't always seem to help. For a minute, before going to bed, I stood by the window. It faced west — toward New Jersey and Fort Dix, where Lane was. When Lane came to New York on leave I would be there to meet him, to kiss him and be in his arms. Lane had, every minute of the day or night, "somebody to hang on to." I probably wouldn't tell him about Private George Blakely — not because he wouldn't understand; I was sure he would — but because it wouldn't be fair to George. But whether I told him or not, I was glad George had somebody too, now, at least for the duration. I was glad it hadn't occurred to him, the dear innocent, to think that all actresses are called "Miss," whether they're married or not. John B. Hughes, Mutual' s West Coast news commentator, receives the "True Friend of China" award from Mrs. Wellington Koo, wife of Great Britain's Chinese Ambassador. That's Dave Driscoll at left. 76 RADIO AND TELEVISION MIRROR